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diff --git a/.gitattributes b/.gitattributes new file mode 100644 index 0000000..6833f05 --- /dev/null +++ b/.gitattributes @@ -0,0 +1,3 @@ +* text=auto +*.txt text +*.md text diff --git a/78464-0.txt b/78464-0.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..184e828 --- /dev/null +++ b/78464-0.txt @@ -0,0 +1,9562 @@ +*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 78464 *** + + + + + Transcriber’s Note + Italic text displayed as: _italic_ + + + + + PICTURE + FRAMES + + + + +_NEW BORZOI NOVELS FALL, 1923_ + + + JANE—OUR STRANGER + _Mary Borden_ + + THE BACHELOR GIRL + _Victor Margueritte_ + + THE BLIND BOW-BOY + _Carl Van Vechten_ + + HEART’S BLOOD + _Ethel M. Kelley_ + + THE BACK SEAT + _G. B. Stern_ + + JANET MARCH + _Floyd Dell_ + + A LOST LADY + _Willa Cather_ + + LOVE DAYS + _Henrie Waste_ + + + + +[Illustration: + + PICTURE + FRAMES + + [Illustration] + + THYRA SAMTER + WINSLOW + + ALFRED A. KNOPF + NEW YORK 1923 + + [Illustration] +] + + + + + COPYRIGHT, 1923, BY ALFRED A. KNOPF, INC. + + _Published, February, 1923_ + _Second Printing, March, 1923_ + _Third Printing, April, 1923_ + _Fourth Printing, July, 1923_ + _Fifth Printing, December, 1923_ + + _Set up, electrotyped, printed and bound by the Vail-Ballou Press, + Inc., Binghamton, N. Y. + Paper furnished by W. F. Etherington & Co., New York._ + + MANUFACTURED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA + + + + +CONTENTS + + + LITTLE EMMA 3 + + GRANDMA 21 + + MAMIE CARPENTER 50 + + A CYCLE OF MANHATTAN 96 + + AMY’S STORY 174 + + CITY FOLKS 194 + + INDIAN SUMMER 213 + + A LOVE AFFAIR 237 + + BIRTHDAY 255 + + CORINNA AND HER MAN 277 + + THE END OF ANNA 298 + + + + + PICTURE + FRAMES + + + + +LITTLE EMMA + + +When little Emma Hooper, from Black Plains, Iowa, came to Chicago to +carve out her fortune, she did not leave behind her a sorrowing family +who wondered about the fate of their dear child in the city. Neither +did she sneak away from a cruel step-mother who had made life hard, +unbearable. Emma’s family was quite glad to see her go. + +Emma’s father was a member of the Knights of Pythias and worked in an +overall factory. Her mother, a lazy, whiny woman, kept house, assisted +unwillingly and incompetently by such daughters of the house as +happened to be out of work. There were three of these daughters besides +Emma and they all worked when jobs were not too difficult to get or +keep. They spent their spare time trying to get married. There was one +son. He was next in age to Emma, who was the second youngest. He smoked +cheap cigars and hung around the livery stable and garage. His name was +Ralph. + +Emma came up to Chicago because she had read and heard a lot about that +great city, and because she wanted to get away from Black Plains. She +wanted to have a good time. There was nothing doing in Black Plains, +and she knew it. She didn’t belong to “the crowd,” as fashionable +society was called there, for she lacked both money and family. She was +twenty-two and had gone with the drummers who stayed at the Palace +Hotel since she was seventeen. + +Emma had been wanting to come to Chicago for a long time, but she +didn’t have the money. She had been graduated from grade school and +finished at the Black Plains Business College. Her father liked to +refer to the fact but good jobs were few in Black Plains, and Emma +had not mastered the details of her profession, such as spelling and +punctuation, and so she never could save much. + +Emma’s money came rather unexpectedly. Clarence Avery got home from +college. He was the banker’s son and had gone to grade school with +Emma. At that time he had suffered from numerous colds in the head +and was inclined to lankiness and freckles. At twenty-two he was the +average small-town college graduate. Clarence belonged to the local +society crowd, but after several years of metropolitan living he was +bored and disappointed with the gaieties of Black Plains. When he met +Emma on the street one day he was agreeably surprised. Emma was small +and had dark hair that curled naturally and she knew how to do it +up. She and her sisters read the fashion magazines and ordered their +clothes from a Chicago mail-order house. She wasn’t afraid of a bit of +rouge or an eyebrow pencil, either, and she had a neat little figure. + +“Hello,” said Clarence, “aren’t you—why, you couldn’t be little Emma +Hooper!” + +“Well, I just am,” said Emma, and they stood and talked for a long time. + +Then Clarence began to call and, disobeying all of the rules of Black +Plains society, he escorted Emma to the Airdrome and the movies and the +most prominent ice cream parlour. This worried Avery, the banker. After +he had argued with Clarence with no apparent success, he asked Emma +to call at the bank. There he had made a proposition to her. If Miss +Hooper would leave town, over the winter, say, a check for five hundred +dollars would belong to her. It was all right, of course, he knew she +was a nice girl, not a bit of harm meant or anything like that, but +Clarence was young, oh, a fine boy, but young, and if Miss Hooper, now— + +So Emma had five hundred dollars. She didn’t like Clarence much, +anyhow. He was a silly, conceited thing, who told long tales about +himself, and hadn’t changed much, in fact, since his sniffy boyhood +days. + +The Hoopers rejoiced in Emma’s luck, gave her advice about spending the +money and called her a selfish thing, so she gave one hundred dollars +to the girls, and then with the rest and a promise to write all about +the new styles—Millie, the oldest, had nearly captured a drummer who +travelled out of Kansas City—she came up to Chicago. + +On the train she figured it all out. Country girls were always +important in a large city. She knew that. Didn’t she read about them +in the magazines every day? Always “the girl from the country,” sought +after, betrayed. Huh! But it sounded interesting, anyway. + +“For I’m rather good-looking,” mused Emma, modestly, “and if some +country girl has got to be betrayed, it might as well be me. I’ll read +the want-ads like the rest and apply for a job where they want girls +fresh from the country. I’ll try to get a job with one of those nice, +grey-haired old papas, who has a wife that misunderstands him, and some +day he’ll take me out to dinner, and, well, of course, Clarence wasn’t +a real conquest, that old thing, but if I can’t find a nice old geezer, +well, something is the matter with this girl from the country stuff, +that’s all.” + +As the train neared Chicago, a travelling man got on and sat down +beside Emma. He tried to flirt with her. He asked her where she came +from, and when she said Iowa, he said, “Oh, forget that stuff, kid; you +haven’t been out of Chi a week.” She wondered why he said it, but it +rather pleased her. She and her sisters had rather thought that they +kept up with things, watching the fashion books and the movies, but she +had been awfully afraid she would look like a rube. She resented the +travelling man, though. What kind of a fish did he think she was? Why, +even in Black Plains she wouldn’t have flirted with a cheap thing like +him. He even held one hand over his wedding ring. You couldn’t put a +thing like that over Emma. + +At seven o’clock Emma landed in the city. The lights and noises +confused her for a minute, but she liked them then—it was like a +carnival. She didn’t see a policeman, so she went up to a fairly +respectable-looking man and asked where the Y. W. C. A. was. She knew +about that and had decided to stay there until she had time to look +around. The man looked at her and smiled. “Come, now, girlie, you don’t +want to go there,” he said, “you and I’ll have something to eat and +then I’ll show you a nice place to stay.” + +“Can you beat it?” said Emma, as she went on, with a toss of her head. +“Do they really get away with that stuff in the city? Regular movie +stuff. Can you beat it?” + +She finally found the Y. W. C. A. answered a number of questions +drawled out by a peevish fat woman, and was given a room. + +Emma spent two weeks looking around. She visited all of the department +stores and watched people. Then she took an inventory of her clothes. +They looked better than she had expected. She’d spy around a bit before +getting any new clothes. By putting her hat a bit more over her right +ear and pulling her hair down over her forehead, she felt she could +look as good as the next one. + +She went to matinées and discovered restaurants and hotels and tea +rooms and little things to wear. She sent home hideously-coloured +postcards, saying what a fine time she was having, and sent each of the +girls a waist and her mother a pocketbook. She got tired of the Y. W. +C. A. and found a nice, quiet, inexpensive room on the North Side. She +liked the city. + +She flirted with one man in a tea room, but that was all. She didn’t +like that sort of thing. She was looking for the old millionaire whose +wife didn’t understand him and who liked little girls from the country. + +Finally, she found that her money was beginning to disappear. By this +time she knew the city pretty well, and so she began to look for a +position in real earnest. “They all like ’em from the country,” she +told herself. She answered want-ads, those that asked for “young, +inexperienced girls.” Maybe that was the kind the rich old men put in. +They sounded that way. + +Emma did not meet with much success. Usually, the place was filled when +she went to apply for it. Other times, men with wearied, blank faces +asked her questions—but nothing ever came of it. + +For several weeks she looked for a position, somewhat carelessly at +first, later with hard earnestness. Was it possible that there were +no millionaires hunting for little girls, no positions even? For a +week she had a job in a dirty, poorly-ventilated office, where the +proprietor chewed tobacco. It was some sort of a fake insurance place. +She was fired at the end of the week, but she would have quit anyhow. + +She looked again. It was a tiresome job. She still had over a hundred +dollars. “Not a millionaire in sight!” she sighed, as she went to bed. +“These magazines are sure putting it over people.” + +Then she applied for positions by mail. She said she was all alone in +the city, from Iowa. She had more luck. Over half of her letters were +answered, but, though she was given interviews, she wasn’t given a job. +One man, tall, lean, sneering, looked at her for a long time. + +“What made you say you were from the country?” he asked. + +“I am,” said Emma, “Iowa.” + +“Iowa. Hell!” said the man. “One look is enough to show that the White +City is the nearest the country you’ve ever been.” + +The White City is a summer amusement park, but Emma didn’t even know +it. But she had got a hint at the truth. + +A week later she met Hallie Summers. They were both applying for the +same position—“expert stenographer.” Hallie was correctly tailored, +perfectly groomed. Her black suit had a bit of fur at the throat, her +hat was a smart rough felt, trimmed with a single wing. Her white +buckskin gloves were immaculate, her shoes absolutely correct. + +Emma gave her name and answered the usual questions. Hallie listened. +She was next. As Emma waited for the elevator, Hallie joined her. + +“What,” asked Hallie, “is that gag you pulled about being from Iowa?” + +Emma smiled. She liked the looks of Hallie, straight haired, correct +looking. + +“That,” said Emma, “was the honest truth. I am from Iowa and I don’t +care who knows it. I don’t know a soul in town but a girl I roomed +with in the ‘Y. W.’ She wears cotton stockings and is studying to be a +milliner. Why?” + +“Well,” said Hallie, as she led the way into the elevator, “if that’s +the truth or if it’s a stall, you’re the worst imitation of a country +girl I ever saw.” + +“Meaning what?” + +“Why, meaning, of course, my dear child, that you don’t look the part. +Where did you get those clothes, west side of State Street?” + +“Iowa, but they are what most people up here are wearing.” + +Emma had on a blue and white striped silk, trimmed with a touch of +green and she liked it. + +“Sure,” said Hallie, “that’s what’s the matter with them.” + +“I don’t quite get you,” said Emma. + +Hallie smiled. + +“You poor thing,” she said, “I believe you really don’t, at that. Come +up to the Clover Tea and I’ll buy a sandwich, though I’m not usually +that kind of a philanthropist, and we’ll talk it over.” + +Hallie ordered tea and sandwiches and the girls talked. The only girls +Emma had talked to in Chicago had been cheap and slow and stupid. She +liked Hallie. Hallie was old, that indefinite age around thirty, and +she was wise—next to things. She knew Chicago—the way she wanted to +know it. She, too, was, in a way, looking for a millionaire, though she +had found one and lost him again. + +The two girls talked. In five minutes they had bridged the distances +more formal people would have spent years over. Emma knew all about +Hallie, who wanted sixty dollars a week—and sometimes got it, and +Hallie knew about Clarence and the five hundred dollars and the rich +old papa who hadn’t appeared. + +“Now what’s the matter with my looks?” asked Emma. + +“It’s because there isn’t, in a way,” said Hallie. “You look like the +average stenographer, the twenty-dollar-a-week kind, that’s all. Your +clothes are cheap and they are almost in style. Look at all those bits +of velvet and buttons.” + +“It said in the catalogue,” said Emma, “that it was the latest thing. +I’ve seen several in this very pattern here.” + +“Sure you have. That’s why you oughtn’t to wear it. You may not know +it, but people in cities have ideas about how country girls should +look, though Heaven knows, they don’t look that way. They think that +country girls wear ginghams and never know that styles change. You +can’t wear a sunbonnet very well in the city, but if you want to +get away with the country girl stuff you can wear plain things and +look—sunbonnety. But rouge and made-up eyes—oh, my!” + +“I’m pale without rouge, and my eyes—” + +“Sure, you’re pale. Let your eyes alone. How much money have you left?” + +Hallie looked honest. + +“A little over a hundred dollars,” said Emma. + +Hallie nodded. “You can just about do it for that.” + +“You mean?” + +“Look the part—Iowa.” + +“Frumpy and back-to-the-farm?” + +“Oh, you don’t have to overdo it. All you’ve got to do is to look like +a country girl from a city man’s viewpoint. It’s easy.” + +On the street, after lunch, Emma pointed to a girl that they passed. + +“Like her?” + +“Heavens, no. She’s just cheap. Halsted or Clark Street. Real +simplicity, I mean,” said Hallie, leading the way to Michigan Avenue. +“Cheap clothes are just like furniture—curlicues and frills and fancy +velvets and silks and things ‘in style’ come cheapest of all. It’s +simplicity that costs money. I know the shops, anyhow.” + +At an exclusive little shop, Hallie picked out a plain little frock. It +was dark blue. A tiny white collar was around the neck. In front was a +touch of silk embroidery in dull shades and a small flat black bow. + +“Old men, the kind you are looking for, fall for this stuff,” said +Hallie. “They all came from the country—once, though they have +forgotten what it looks like. Musical comedy and the magazines have +done their worst. They expect frilly white aprons on the farm instead +of Mother Hubbards. They want what they think is simplicity, so you may +as well give it to them.” + +Emma bought the little frock. It cost forty-five dollars. The +mail-order silk had cost fifteen. + +They bought a hat next, black and floppy and not too big, with a bow +on one side. It cost more than six of the stylish kind. The shoes were +stout and flat heeled and the gloves were grey. The coat was plain and +dark and had a wide belt and big pockets. + +Hallie came over the next day and helped try things on. Emma’s dark +hair was parted and drawn into a plain little knot. + +“That’s the stuff,” said Hallie. “To be a simple country girl you’ve +got to buy the stuff on the Boul’ Mich’, if you’re in Chicago, or +Fifth Avenue, if you’re in New York. I wish some one would expose this +small-town stuff. Why, every town the size of a water bug has at least +two stores where the buyers go to Chicago or New York twice a year. +With travelling and mail-order houses—huh, it’s only city people that +don’t know the girl from the country disappeared right after the Civil +War.” + +“You’ve certainly got that straight,” said Emma. “Why, Black Plains +people spend all of their time trying to look as if they just came from +the city. But if they could see me in Black Plains dressed like this!” + +Under Hallie’s directions, Emma answered a few more want-ads. She +picked out important office buildings. “Go where they are if you want +to catch them,” said Hallie, and Emma did. + +In two days she had found a job. But the owner of the firm was young +and happily married and the only other man around the office was a +young boy who received twenty a week. “Nothing doing,” said Emma and +she left. + +“Be careful, the city is full of allurements and pitfalls for country +girls,” said the happily married man. Emma thanked him for his advice. +“I wish I thought so,” she said to herself as she left. + +The next week she found her real job. It was what she had been looking +for. She applied by mail and was told to call. She dressed in her new +clothes and left off rouge and powder. + +A man of about forty-five interviewed her. He was the senior partner. +He looked old enough to suit Emma. “A nice papa,” thought she. His +younger brother was the junior partner—they sold bonds—the firm of +Fraylir and Fraylir. + +Emma cast down her eyes during the interview and murmured things about +being all alone and wanting to succeed. She got the job. Her work was +to stay in the reception-room and answer questions when people came +in. There was a little typing and stenography. The wages were twenty +dollars. + +“The position is an easy one, for the right girl,” Frederick Fraylir +had said. “Perhaps you don’t know what I mean because you are new to +the city. I’m glad there are still girls like you, wholesome and sane +looking. Now—” + +“I can start at once,” murmured Emma. She thought she noticed a funny +little glint in his eye but she wasn’t sure. She knew she could just +about live on that twenty dollars—for a while. + +“Now,” she told herself, “if Fraylir only works out according to +specifications. Rich old man, girl from the country, wife who +misunderstands—” + +At first Emma didn’t know that Frederick Fraylir was married, but she +soon deduced the fact from conversation that she heard around the +office and over the telephone. The brothers lived together in a big +apartment on Lake Shore Drive and there was a Mrs. Fraylir who rang up +rather frequently. The brothers called her Belle and she had a slow, +drawling voice. “Hope she misunderstands him,” thought Emma. + +Emma liked her job, as much as she liked any kind of work. She liked +Frederick and even his younger brother, Edward, though Edward was +colder, more distant. Frederick was friendly, but not friendly enough, +for Emma, though she sometimes caught him looking at her when the door +of his office was open. The brothers had one large private office +together. + +In a few months she was raised to twenty-five dollars, but she knew +that this wouldn’t pay for a regular supply of the new kind of simple +clothes. She had actually begun to like them. She read magazines in her +spare time and wondered how long it would be before Fraylir would arise +to the rôle of the devilish city man. At times she was almost on the +point of quitting her job—before her clothes wore out—but she always +stayed on. She did her work as well as she knew how—really tried, and +cast down her eyes when spoken to and acted the modest and retiring +country girl. + +“If they could see me act like this in Iowa,” she thought, “they’d be +wondering if I was copying some new movie star.” + +But she liked it. It was so quiet and peaceful. There were no quarrels +with her sisters, no whinings of her mother, no fights between her +father and Ralph, no drummers to keep in their places. + +Several times Mrs. Fraylir called. She was tall and stately and +dignified. “Cold as ice,” thought Emma, “just the kind to misunderstand +a husband.” She dropped her eyes when she answered Mrs. Fraylir’s +questions. “No use letting her suspect I’m even human. They make +trouble enough—these wives.” + +Then Frederick asked her out to dinner. The suddenness of the +invitation almost staggered her. It had been a rainy day and the +evening was disagreeably cold and damp. She was putting on her simple +hat and wondering if she could buy another one soon. It was getting a +bit shabby. + +“Miss Hooper,” he said, “may I—will you come to dinner with me? I have +to return to the office and look over these new papers. It’s a bit +unusual, I know, but if you don’t mind, it might be a change for you. +I thought—” + +He actually seemed embarrassed—and he had grey hair and was getting old! + +They went to a cozy, quiet restaurant. Fraylir ordered a simple, hearty +meal. Emma put on her best I’m-all-alone-in-the-city manner. But pretty +soon she began telling him her real impressions of the city and she was +surprised to find that he seemed to enjoy them. He had a lot more sense +than any other man she had ever known. + +Halfway through the meal a well-dressed young couple came into the +restaurant. As they passed, Fraylir spoke to them. Emma was introduced, +under her real name, as Fraylir’s stenographer, and at Fraylir’s +invitation, the couple sat down at their table. Emma didn’t know +things were ever done that way at all. The young couple didn’t even +seem surprised. Emma liked to hear them talk, so quiet and well bred +and clever. Emma was careful what she said. When Fraylir smiled his +approval at her, it made her quite happy. “What kind of a fish am I +getting to be?” she asked herself that night, when she got home. + +After that there were dinners and lunches and an occasional visit +to the theatre. Emma saw several dramas; she had always limited her +theatregoing to a musical comedy and vaudeville and had scoffed at +high-brow stuff. She was surprised to find that she liked them and +enjoyed discussing the problems they presented with Fraylir. Fraylir +lent her books and she read them at night because she couldn’t go +around alone very well and didn’t enjoy the other men and girls she +met—silly things. She and Fraylir went to the Art Museum and even to +a couple of private exhibitions and to musicales and she met some +interesting people. She tried to talk to Fraylir and tried to learn as +much as she could from him. After all, she had missed a lot of things +in Black Plains, stopping school at the eighth grade and running around +with a bunch of cheap, slangy travelling men. + +Winter passed. Spring came. Emma stayed at Fraylir and Fraylir’s. She +knew there were dozens of millionaires looking for innocent country +girls, but the prospect seemed less real and alluring than in the past. +She felt pretty well satisfied, somehow. She went without lunches a +couple of days and managed to get some new clothes—simple things. + +She met Hallie one day, Hallie with a new job and a new friend, more +tailored looking than ever. + +“How’s your millionaire?” asked Hallie. + +“Fine,” answered Emma, “it was great of you to tell me about clothes +and things.” + +“That’s right,” said Hallie, “I see you’re sticking to the styles I +picked out for you. I hope your millionaire is the real thing.” Emma, +for some reason, felt almost insulted. It had been, well, almost coarse +of Hallie. + +Then Mrs. Fraylir went away for the summer. Emma learned about it +when Mrs. Fraylir talked over the telephone to Edward or Frederick, +whichever one happened to be in the office when she rang up. + +“Now’s the time,” thought Emma, “when their wives go away and +they realize how misjudged they’ve been.” But she wasn’t exactly +enthusiastic about it. + +Fraylir took her out to dinner and to the summer gardens. She tried +to show him how sympathetic she could be. It surprised her to find +out that she really meant it. She was almost afraid to use all of the +little tricks that she had learned in Black Plains. It didn’t seem +honest. + +Sometimes Edward Fraylir went with them, but usually the two of them +went alone. + +She got a letter saying that Millie was married—she had finally landed +the drummer who travelled out of Kansas City. And Irma, next youngest, +was going with a Black Plains boy who kept a cigar store. Emma had to +write back that she was still working and she took the answering jokes +about her city success without a murmur. After all, there were so many +things besides getting a rich papa! + +And then, one night without warning— + +Frederick Fraylir and Emma had stayed in the office after the others +had gone. There was some work that had to be copied and they were +going to have dinner together. As Emma slipped the last page from the +typewriter, Frederick bent over her. + +“Little girl,” he said, “do you know that I care very much for you?” +Emma closed her eyes. She was afraid to say anything. Why couldn’t +things have kept on—the way they were? Her heart was beating rather +rapidly. She had never thought about that. + +“Don’t you care, a little?” Frederick went on. “You must have known, +how I felt, all these weeks.” + +“I don’t know what you mean,” said Emma. She suddenly remembered that +that was the right answer, though she was afraid that she had put it in +the wrong place. + +“Why, I mean,” said Frederick, “that I love you. I’ve cared for you +from the first. It’s hard to say—for an old fellow like me. You are so +innocent, so sweet. You are so little and alone and unprotected. I love +you, I want to—” + +Well, so it was over! “What about Mrs. Fraylir?” interrupted Emma. Mrs. +Fraylir had never been brought into their conversation before. The +words seemed to choke Emma a little. + +“Why, dear, she likes you too. She told Edward that as long as I felt +this way, she hoped you liked me. She wanted to talk to you when she +came to the office, but she was afraid she’d say the wrong thing, as +long as I hadn’t said anything to you. I know you’ll like her, though. +Edward and she will be glad they won’t have to bother with me, I guess. +Ever since they’ve been married, over seven years, I’ve lived with +them. They said they wanted me, but I guess they’ll be glad if—” he +paused. + +“Ever since they’ve been married?” repeated Emma, mechanically. “I +thought, why I thought—” + +Frederick misunderstood her. + +“Oh, yes,” he said, “seven years, and I’d like a home of my own. We can +be married whenever you say the word, if you love me a little and I’m +not too old. I’ve wanted to tell you for a long time, wanted to offer +you a real home, wanted you to stop work, but you were so young, so +unaccustomed to the world. I wanted you to know me and like me a little +first, so that I wouldn’t frighten you when I proposed. You’re the +kind of a girl I’ve always been looking for, a simple, small-town girl +with pure thoughts about things. You’ll marry me, won’t you, dear?” + +And Emma, quite overcome, put her head on his shoulder and wept a +little and said she thought she would. After all, she was all alone in +the city and only a little country girl. + + + + +GRANDMA + + +I + +Grandma awoke with a start. She gained consciousness with the feeling +that something was just about to happen. Then she sank back again on +the pillow with a comfortable sigh of remembrance. Of course—this was +the day on which she was going travelling. + +Even on usual days, Grandma could not lie in bed, idle. So much more +reason why she should be up and about, to-day, with so much to do. +Her train left at twelve o’clock—she had had her ticket and her berth +reservation for over a week, her trunk was all packed, there were just +a few necessary articles to put into her bag—but the morning would be +busy, as all mornings were at Fred’s. + +Grandma bathed and dressed hurriedly, her bent, rheumatic fingers +grasping each hook and button with a nervous haste. As usual, she was +the first one in the bathroom. This morning she was especially glad. +For at Fred’s, Grandma’s second son’s house, where she was visiting +now, there was only one bathroom and there were eight in the family +without her, if you count the two babies. If you didn’t get in the +bathroom first.... + +Grandma put on her neat housedress, as was her wont. She could change +her dress later, and stuff the housedress into her bag. She arranged +her thin grey hair in neat waves around her face—she could smooth that +again, too. + +From a room at the other end of the house Grandma heard a baby commence +to cry. It was Ruthie, Nell’s youngest baby, just a year old, one of +Grandma’s two great-grandchildren. Grandma loved little Ruthie a great +deal, a fine baby—still, it did seem good that she wouldn’t have to +take care of her any more for a long time. Not that Grandma minded +work—she had always worked, she liked something to do—but here at +Fred’s house there were so few moments when she wasn’t working. Not +that Fred’s family were mean to her! Grandma would have been indignant +if you had suggested that. Didn’t they work as hard as she did, and +harder? At seventy-three, Grandma was still strong and capable; no +wonder they expected her to do her share and accepted it without +comment. + +Fred was a good son and a good husband and a good father. Could you +expect much more? But Fred never had much of a business head. Here he +was, at forty-nine, just about where he had been fifteen years before, +bookkeeper at the Harper Feed Store, a good enough position when times +were better, but, with everything so high, Fred’s salary didn’t go very +far. Still, no use complaining or worrying him about it, it was the +best he could do. Fred never had had much ambition or “get up.” It was +a good thing he had bought the house, years before. It had seemed too +big and rambling then. It was just about the right size now, though not +so awfully modern—and quite hard to keep clean. + +Emma, Fred’s wife, was a good woman and a good housekeeper. She wasn’t +like the average daughter-in-law, either. She never quarrelled with +Grandma about things—in fact, she was awfully kind, in her hurried, +brusque way. Grandma sometimes wished she wasn’t so quick about things, +and decided—still, when one is as busy as Emma.... + +Emma was nearly Fred’s age. They had been married twenty-five years and +she had always been a good wife to him. They had three children, all +girls. Grandma had been sorry there couldn’t have been a son to help +Fred share the burden of supporting the family. But things seemed going +all right now—a little better than they had been, or so the family +seemed to think—and, as long as they were satisfied.... + +Nell, Fred’s oldest daughter, had married, four years before, and had +gone to housekeeping. But Homer Billingsley, the boy she had married, +had been sick for almost a year, so they had given up their little +cottage and were living “with the old folks.” They had two children +now, Freddie and Ruthie, nice good children, too. Grandma liked Homer, +Nell’s husband, though she was sorry he was so much like Fred in his +lack of ambition and power. Now that Homer was able to work again he +had his old job at Malton’s Hardware Store. There didn’t seem much +chance of his getting ahead there. Still, he was a good boy and awfully +fond of Nell and the children. + +Edna, Fred’s second daughter, was stenographer at the First National +Bank and made fifteen dollars a week. Edna was fine looking, really the +beauty of the family. She paid her board every week, but never had +much left over because she bought Alice’s clothes, too, and, of course, +being in the bank, she had to look nice herself. Alice, the youngest +daughter, was seventeen and in High School. Grandma loved Alice, too. +Of course the child was thoughtless, she could have helped her mother +a little more with the housework or Nell with the babies, but Grandma +knew that, at seventeen, it’s pretty hard to sweep floors or take +babies out. After all, Alice was young, and she ought to have a good +time. + +While she stayed at Fred’s house, Grandma did her share of the work. +Even this last morning she followed her usual routine. + +She hurried to the room where Ruthie lay and soon had her quieted. +When Ruthie had her bottle—Grandma had learned all about sterilizing, +though she hadn’t known there was such a thing when she brought up +her own children—Grandma set the table, a plate, knife and spoon for +each, salt and pepper castors that had been a wedding present to Emma +and Fred, a butter dish with an uneven piece of butter in it, a sugar +bowl containing rather lumpy sugar and a fluted sugar spoon, a dish of +home-made plum preserves. She had the table all set when Emma hurried +into the kitchen with a cheery, abrupt “Morning, Ma,” and started the +coffee. + +At half-past seven all but Alice were ready for breakfast. Grandma had +got the oatmeal out of the fireless cooker and boiled the eggs for +Homer, who was rather delicate and needed eggs for breakfast. When the +family sat down to their meal, Grandma put milk and sugar on little +Freddie’s oatmeal and saw that he ate it—Freddie didn’t like oatmeal +much. + +“Well, Ma,” said big Fred, who sat comfortably coatless, “so to-day’s +the day you go travelling.” + +“Yes, it is,” said Grandma and smiled. + +“You got a good day for it. Let’s see, you leave Lexington to-day at +noon and get to New York to-morrow at two, don’t you?” + +“Yes, Fred,” said Grandma. + +“You know,” he went on, munching toast as he talked, “I believe you +enjoy travelling, going places. Never saw anything like it. Seems to +me a woman your age would want to settle down, quiet. You could stay +here all the time if you wanted to, you know that. Got a room all to +yourself—more than you get at Mary’s—and yet, off you go, after four or +five months. Here you’ve got a good home and all that.” + +“Well,” said Grandma, in her gentle, even tones, “you know you aren’t +the only child I’ve got, Fred. There’s Albert and Mary.” + +“Yes,” Fred frowned. He disliked even hearing the name of Albert. It +was the one thing that made him angry. “But we really want you, honest +we do, Ma. Emma and the girls always miss you after you’re gone.” + +“You bet,” said Emma. + +Grandma smiled. At least at Fred’s home she was welcome and helpful. If +she were only younger and stronger! At Mary’s and Albert’s, there was a +wordless agreement that her visits end, almost mechanically, at the end +of four months. Only mere surface invitations of further hospitality +were extended “for politeness.” + +Fred and Homer finished eating and hurried off to business. Alice came +down, then, and Grandma served her, bringing in hot coffee and oatmeal, +as Emma started to clear away the dishes. + +Alice ate rapidly, then kissed Grandma good-bye—she didn’t come home +at noon—and skipped off. Grandma and her daughter-in-law washed the +dishes and, when the dishes were done, they made the beds, one standing +on each side, straightening the sheets and pulling up the covers +simultaneously. + +“Sure will miss you, Ma,” said Emma. “Nell’s no help at all. Don’t +blame her. Freddie tagging at her heels and the baby crying.” + +While Emma straightened up the downstairs rooms, Grandma helped Nell +bathe and dress the babies. Then the expressman rang and Grandma +hurried to the door, saw that he took her trunk and put the check in +her purse. Then Grandma cleaned up the room she had occupied. It was +time, then, for Grandma to get ready for her journey. Usually, she +helped prepare dinner after these tasks were done, peeling potatoes, +setting the table, for at Fred’s one ate dinner in the middle of the +day. + +Grandma put on her travelling dress. It was her best dress, of soft +grey silk crêpe, trimmed with a bit of fine cream lace at the throat. +Albert had given it to her on her birthday, two years before. Over this +she put her best coat of black ribbed silk, also a gift of Albert. She +adjusted her neat bonnet—five years old but made over every year and +you’d never guess it. + +Emma and Nell were too busy with dinner and the babies to go to the +station with Grandma, but the street-car that passed the corner went +right to the station, and Homer and Fred would be there to tell her +good-bye. At eleven—Grandma believed in taking plenty of time, you +never could tell what might happen on the way to the station—Grandma +kissed Emma and Nell and Freddie and Ruthie, giving Ruthie a very +tender hug and Freddie a hearty kiss, in spite of much stickiness from +the penny lollypop he had been eating. She took her bag and hurrying as +fast as she could—Grandma took little, slow rheumatic steps—she caught +the surface car. + +In the railway station Grandma sat down gingerly on one of the long +brown benches, carefully pulling her skirts away from suspicious +tobaccoy-looking spots on the floor, and waited for Fred and Homer and +the train. + +Fred and Homer came up, together, puffing, just before the train was +due. Homer presented Grandma with a half-pound box of candy and Fred +gave her a paper bag filled with fruit. + +When the train came in, Fred and Homer both assisted Grandma in getting +on, took her to her seat and kissed her, loudly, before their hurried +exit—the Limited stops for only a minute at Lexington. + +Then, as the train moved away, Grandma waved a fluttering good-bye to +the two men and sighed again, with happiness. She was travelling! + + +II + +Not consciously, of course, for she never would have admitted such a +terrible fact, Grandma looked forward, all year, to her days of travel. +Usually, each year contained three trips, each of about the same +length, and these days were Grandma’s golden milestones. Not that she +wasn’t happy the rest of the time—of course she was—but this—well, this +was different. + +At Fred’s now—Grandma was happy at Fred’s, of course, every one was +friendly and pleasant, though her feet and head and sometimes her back +ached at the end of the day. One isn’t so young at seventy-three and +younger people are apt to forget how tired seventy-three becomes, after +innumerable answerings of the door, step-climbing and dish-washing. +Grandma loved being useful, of course, but she did wish that there +was a little more leisure, a little time to sit down and rest—if only +Fred’s and Albert’s homes could be combined, in some way! + +Grandma had three children. When they were young there had never been +much money, but Grandma had tried to do her best for them. They had +lived in Lexington then, and the three had been brought up just alike +and yet how differently they had turned out! There was Fred, quite poor +but happy, still in Lexington, where he was born. Mary had married John +Falconer when she was twenty-four and had gone to St. Louis to live, +and Albert, the ambitious one of the family, had gone to New York in +search of fortune and had found part of it, at least. + +If only Fred and Albert hadn’t been so foolish and quarrelled, years +ago! But they had. Albert had tried to give Fred advice and Fred had +resented it. They had made up the quarrel, but there was nothing that +Fred would let Albert do for him, even if Albert had wanted to do +something. Fred liked to refer, in scorn, to his elder brother as +“that New York millionaire,” and say things about being “just as well +off if I haven’t got his money.” But then, Albert probably forgot, +most of the time, that he had a younger brother. Outside of a polite +inquiry, when Grandma arrived, he never referred to Fred at all. It +worried Grandma to think that her children weren’t good friends, but +she knew she could never do anything to make them feel differently. +Years and circumstances had taken them too far apart. + +Grandma had no favorite child, unless it was a slight, natural leaning +toward her only daughter. She liked Albert and was glad she was on her +way to visit him. She just wished that Albert wasn’t so—well, so cold. +He didn’t mean anything, of course. When one is busy all day on the +Stock Exchange one hasn’t time for other things. And, when one is as +rich as Albert, there are so many things to take up one’s time. Albert +was awfully good to Grandma. She told herself that many times. He asked +her if she needed anything, whenever she visited him. He frequently +gave her expensive presents. She wouldn’t take any more money from him +than she had to, and her wants were simple, for that wouldn’t have been +right, though she let him give her some on her last visit and had given +it to Nell for Homer—he had been sick then—without letting Fred find +out. + +Grandma liked it all right at Albert’s. How could there be anything to +complain of? At seventy-three, Grandma had learned to make the best of +things. Albert was Grandma’s oldest child and now he was fifty-two. His +ménage consisted of his wife, Florence; their two children, Albert, +junior, who, at twenty-four, was being taught the business of Wall +Street; their daughter, Arlene, twenty, and six servants. + +The Albert Cunninghams lived in a very large apartment in Park Avenue. +Mrs. Cunningham was of rather a good New York family. Albert had met +her after his first taste of success and had been greatly impressed +with her and her antecedents. Even then Albert had learned to look +ahead. The family had had some years of social strivings, but now lived +rather quietly. Arlene had made her début the year before and now +entertained and went out quite a little. Albert, junior, was rather a +serious fellow, though he, too, enjoyed the social life that was open +to him. Altogether, they were fairly sensible, decent people, a bit +snobbish, perhaps, very self-centred, but with no really objectionable +features. + +The thing that Grandma couldn’t understand nor enjoy in the Albert +Cunninghams’ family life was the, to her, great coldness and formality. +Grandma’s idea of how a family ought to live was the way Fred’s family +lived, only with more money and more leisure and more pleasure and a +servant or two, friendly, jolly, intimate. At Albert’s, the life was +strangely lonely and distant. Grandma never felt quite at ease nor at +home. She had no definite place in the family life. She had the fear, +constantly, that she was doing something wrong, much more so than at +Mary’s, where her acts were criticized and commented on. No one ever +gave Grandma a harsh word at Albert’s. Albert, dignified; Florence, +courteous, calm; Junior, a young edition of his father; Arlene, gentle, +distant, quiet,—were all kind to Grandma. But most of the time they +unthinkingly ignored her. She didn’t fit in, she knew that. + +At Albert’s, Grandma had her own room and her own bath, as did each +member of the family. There was no regular “family breakfast.” Albert +and Junior breakfasted about nine, going to the office in the closed +car. Florence and Arlene breakfasted in their rooms. Grandma had gone +to the dining-room for breakfast, on her first visit there eight years +ago, after Grandpa died and her own modest home had been broken up. +But Florence decided that it would be more comfortable for Grandma if +she breakfasted in her room. So each morning, about nine, Grandma’s +tray was brought up to her by Florence’s own maid, Terry, who asked, +each time, “if there is anything I can do?” Grandma rather resented a +personal maid. Wasn’t she able to bathe and dress herself, even if she +was seventy-three? Grandma was always dressed when Terry knocked. + +All day there was nothing for Grandma to do at Albert’s. She couldn’t +help at all around the house. She found that out, at her first visit. +There was no darning nor mending to be done—a sewing woman came in +regularly to do the things that Terry could not do. Albert didn’t care +for the home dishes that had once delighted him and the cook didn’t +want any one bothering around the kitchen. Grandma had luncheon at one, +with Florence and Arlene, when they were at home, which was seldom +enough. In the afternoon, on nice days, Grandma went for a drive, +unless the cars were being used. Usually Grandma went alone, getting +real pleasure out of the things she saw; sometimes Florence went with +her. Florence, too, occasionally took Grandma to teas and receptions +and musicales, most of which bored Grandma and at none of which did she +feel at home. + +Grandma wondered where all of the old ladies were in New York. She +seldom saw any. At the theatre, where she was taken once in a while, +she would see white-haired old dowagers, carefully marcelled and +massaged, in evening gowns with very low-cut bodices. Grandma didn’t +mean that kind of old lady. She was always looking for comfortable old +ladies, with neatly parted hair, ample old ladies with little rheumatic +hands and wrinkles, but she never found them. + +Dinner, at Albert’s, was at seven. When the family dined alone, at +home, the meals were about the same, good things to eat, but everything +so cold and distant. It was hard for Grandma to remember just what to +do, so that Florence and Arlene wouldn’t think she didn’t know, though +they were always polite and gracious. Grandma was constantly afraid she +would spill things when the maid presented the silver dishes to her or +that she’d take too large a portion for politeness. Grandma was served +first—she couldn’t watch to see the way the others did. + +When the family was having a real dinner party Grandma found that it +was easier for every one if she had a tray in her room. She really +liked that just as well—it was nice, seated at the little table in +her room, comfortably unannoyed by manners. About half of the time +the Albert Cunninghams did not dine at home—Arlene and Junior went to +numerous dinners and even Florence and Albert had frequent engagements. +Then Grandma usually dined alone in the big empty dining-room, a +little, lonely figure amid empty chairs, silver and glass. She would +have preferred a tray in her room, then, but didn’t like to mention +it—this arrangement seemed to suit Florence. Grandma’s meals were +always excellently prepared and served, but eating alone in a big, +still room isn’t very jolly. + +After dinner, Grandma was occasionally included in some social affair, +but nearly always she was supposed to sit in the library until about +nine or ten and then retire, as the other members of the family +sometimes did when they were at home. The family saw that Grandma was +given interesting light fiction and magazines full of stories and +current events, but Grandma had never had enough leisure in her youth +to find time to learn to enjoy reading. She could read only a short +time without falling asleep. + +Grandma knitted, too, so she was glad when the fad came back so she +could be modern in something. Albert’s family approved of knitting, +and on the last visit her old fingers had made many pairs of socks +and sweaters for charity. Now she was glad to be able to get to +knitting—she had had no time for it since she had been there before. + +Yes—Albert and his family were awfully nice—of course they didn’t mean +anything, when they paid no attention to Grandma, when their days went +on as serenely undisturbed as if she were not there. They asked her how +she felt, nearly every day, a cool “trust you are well this morning, +Mother,” and gave her presents. But thinking of the lonely hours in +her room, the tiresome evenings, the long, useless, dragged-out days, +Grandma wasn’t enthusiastic over her visit with Albert. + + +III + +Mary, Mrs. John Falconer, Grandma’s youngest child, had always been +a bit her favourite. Mary still lived in St. Louis, where she had +gone after her marriage. The Falconers had four children, two sons +of eighteen and fourteen, two daughters, sixteen and eleven. John +Falconer, a lawyer of moderate means, was quite stingy in family +matters. Although he had a great deal more money than Fred, the +family occupied a much smaller house, though it was modern and in +a good neighbourhood, and Grandma had to share the bedroom of the +two daughters. Mary’s family had an advantage over Fred’s in having +one maid, who did all of the cooking and washing and some of the +cleaning, so there was not so much for Grandma to do. Grandma felt +that she should have been very happy with the Falconers. But they were +disagreeable people to live with. Grandma tried not to see their faults +but it was not easy for her to be contented during her visits there. + +The Falconers had the habit of criticism. Nothing was ever just +right with them. Mary always told Grandma that if it hadn’t been for +Grandma’s encouragement she would never have married John Falconer—if +she had waited she probably could have done much better. John Falconer +was a former Lexington boy whom Mary had met when he was visiting +his old home. Grandma didn’t remember that she had encouraged the +match except to tell Mary that John was a nice boy and would probably +make a good husband—Mary had been the one who seemed enthusiastic. +But, somehow, Grandma was blamed whenever John showed disagreeable +characteristics. + +Mary was dissatisfied with her social position, with the amount of +money John gave her to spend, with her children. She spoke slurringly +of Albert and “his rich family who are in society.” Mary would ask +Grandma innumerable questions about the way the Albert Cunninghams +lived, copy them when circumstances permitted and later bring the +unused bits of information into the conversation, with disagreeable +slurs. + +“I guess Albert wouldn’t call this dinner good enough for him, would +he? It’s a wonder you are satisfied here, Mamma, without a butler to +answer the door or a maid to bring breakfast to your room,” or “It’s a +wonder Albert and Florence wouldn’t do something for Irene. I bet she’s +a lot smarter and better looking than their stuck-up daughter. But not +a thing does he do for her, except send a little box on Christmas—gave +Irene a cheap wrist watch last year—you could buy the same kind right +here in St. Louis. He could keep it for all I’d care.” + +The four Falconer children were badly brought up and noisy. They +interrupted each other or all talked at once. At meals they reached +across the table for dishes of food. The one maid had had no training +and, as she did the cooking, her waitress duties consisted of putting +bowls and platters of food on the table. Then John Falconer made a +pretence of serving, always, after one or two plates, he’d “pass the +things around so you can all help yourselves.” + +As there was no attempt to show Grandma any special favour—she was +never served first, the first plate going to the person in the greatest +hurry to get away, frequently Tom the eldest son—usually when the bowl +or platter reached Grandma there was little left for her. Grandma +didn’t mind this, unless the food happened to be a favourite—she had +become accustomed to little sacrifices while raising her family. There +was always enough bread and butter. + +What Grandma did object to at Mary’s was the spirit of unrest, the +unkindness, the disagreeable taunts of the family, the noise and +disorder. Every one criticized Grandma, calling her attention to +the way she held her fork, though their own manners were frequently +insufferable. They criticized, too, Grandma’s pronunciation of words, +idioms of Lexington, and errors in grammar. These were made much of and +repeated, with laughter. Then, too, if Grandma showed ignorance of any +modern appliance or invention, this was thought to be a great joke and +was introduced as a titbit in the table conversation. + +Grandma darned all of the stockings at Mary’s—there always seemed to be +a basketful—and took care of the bedroom in which she slept, relieving +the two girls of an unwelcome duty. She straightened the living-room, +for Mary hated housework and grumbled about it and the overworked maid +never quite got through her round of duties. But Grandma was not too +busy at Mary’s. She liked having something to do. It was the taunts +that made her unhappy, the little barbed things the family said. John +Falconer made Grandma feel that she was an actual expense, that the +amount of food she ate was a real item in the household budget. Mary +came to her with little whines about the relatives—though they lived in +other cities and paid little attention to her—about her husband, how +stingy he was, how much better she could have done, had she not taken +her mother’s advice in her marriage, about the children, how much money +they spent, how they quarrelled with each other, how disobedient they +were. Grandma always went from Mary’s home to Fred’s, and though she +knew the work that awaited her, the tired hours in store, she actually +looked forward to the next visit. + + +IV + +So now, Grandma was travelling again. And, as the train covered the +miles away from Lexington, Grandma put aside the worries of the visit +she had just had, the memories of the unpleasantness of the visit +with Mary, the apprehensions of the visit that awaited her. Grandma +shed, all at once, all of these things and emerged, a wonderful, new +personality, a dear, happy little old lady, travelling. Grandma became, +as she always became, three days of each year, the woman she would have +liked to have been, the old lady she sometimes dreamed she was. + +First, Grandma rang for the porter. She was well supplied with money +for Albert always sent her a check for travelling expenses. She loved +feeling independent, a personality. When the porter came, Grandma +demanded, in the gentle, well-bred tone Florence might have used, that +the porter bring her an envelope for her bonnet, a pillow for her head, +a stool for her feet. She tipped him generously enough to make him +grin his thanks and hurry to her whenever she rang. There were even +porters who said, “Yes’m, you travelled on my car before,” when they +saw Grandma. + +From her bag, Grandma took out a small black lace cap, with a bit of +perky lavender ribbon on it and adjusted it on her thinning hair. At +Mary’s house they were always telling her how thin her hair looked, the +young boy even hinting something about old people who ought to wear +wigs. Albert had sent her the cap in her last Christmas box, and, as +usual, she had saved it for travelling. Grandma put on, too, a pair of +gold-rimmed spectacles. She had needed them for years, but at first a +sort of pride in her good eyes had kept her from getting them. Then, at +Fred’s, she had been too busy; at Albert’s, no one paid much attention +to her needs; at Mary’s they had laughed at her near-sightedness +without offering a corrective. When she was at Albert’s, last year, she +had told him, finally, her need of glasses and the next day Florence +had driven her to an oculist. But she felt that she had annoyed and +disturbed Florence, that getting glasses for an old lady wasn’t just in +Florence’s pattern of things. + +Grandma put the cheap candy and the fruit from Fred and Homer into +her bag. It had been awfully kind and good of them. She took out her +knitting and added row after row, as the minutes passed. + +Then Grandma rang for the porter again. But, before he came, she looked +around at her fellow passengers, as she always looked at them when she +travelled. Two seats in front of her sat a tired-looking woman of about +forty, with a thin, drawn face. Knitting in hand, Grandma took slow, +careful little steps up the train to her. + +“How do you do?” said Grandma, with her sweetest smile, “I wonder if +you won’t have tea with me, keep an old lady company? It seems so—so +unsocial, having tea alone.” + +The woman gasped and looked at Grandma. She saw the well-dressed, +comfortable little old lady, with the frill of soft lace at throat and +wrists, a tiny black cap on her grey hair, grey knitting in her gnarled +hands, a picture-book Grandma for all the world. + +“Why, yes, I—that would be delightful,” she said. + +Grandma led the way back to her own seat. When the porter came she +ordered tea and toast and little cakes and sandwiches, “and some of +that good orange marmalade you always have on this road.” + +Grandma hadn’t had any lunch but she didn’t say so. When the little +table was adjusted and the tea things brought in, Grandma poured tea, +as if, every day, in her own home, the routine included the serving of +tea at a dear little tea table. + +Grandma listened sympathetically to the other woman’s story. Grandma +knew that each woman who was travelling had a story and would tell it, +if encouraged at all, but she wasn’t much interested—she had heard so +many stories during the past years. Then, when her guest had finished, +Grandma talked. + +Grandma didn’t say much, really. She told about her visits, about her +two wonderful sons and her splendid daughter. As Grandma told these +things, they, too, emerged into beauty, the journey threw a magic over +them as it did over Grandma. The things she told were so real that +Grandma believed them, herself, because she wanted to. + +“I have three children, so, of course, I spend four months of the year +with each of them. Each of them wanted me all the time—they are such +good children—so the best way seemed to be to divide the time. I’m +on my way to visit my older son, now. Maybe, as you’ve lived in New +York, you’ve heard of him—he has a seat on the Stock Exchange and is +a director in so many things—Albert Morrell Cunningham. His wife was +a Mornington, and they have two such wonderful children, a boy and a +girl. Arlene made her début last year, so you can imagine what a good +time she’s having and what fun it is to be there with her, she’s so +popular and pretty. I’ll show you her picture, later. Each day I’m +there, nearly, they do something for me, a drive in the park, theatres +and concerts. I really get too gay in the city—it’s wonderful. + +“Then I go to see Mary, my only daughter, and you know how a mother +feels toward a daughter. She is married to a lawyer in St. Louis and +they have four of the dearest children. The oldest, a boy, is eighteen +and the youngest, a girl, is eleven. Quite an ideal family, isn’t it? +Mary’s husband is quite well-to-do, but they live so comfortably and +simply, no airs at all. Mary doesn’t care a great deal for society, +just wrapped up in her husband and children, but she goes with such +nice people. + +“I’ve just come from my second son, Fred. And there—perhaps you’d never +guess it, people have flattered me so long about looking youthful that +I believe them—but I’ve two great-grandchildren, the older three years +old, the younger just a year, the dearest things. Nell, the children’s +mother and her husband and the children are all living right at home. +Fred and his wife won’t hear of them going away. They were housekeeping +for a while, but the family didn’t like it—they are all so devoted to +the children. There are two other girls in the family besides Nell and +they have a great big old-fashioned home, set way back in a broad lawn, +lots of trees and flowers. Yes, it’s Fred’s own home. It’s a good thing +he bought such a big one, years ago, he needs it with so many young +people. They do have such good times together—and, of course, it’s +young people who keep us all young, these days.” + +Then, from her bag, Grandma drew a bundle of photographs. The +photographers, from the maker of the shiny products of Lexington to the +creator of the soft sepias of Fifth Avenue, had, with their usual skill +at disguise, smoothed away the lines of discontent on Mary’s face, +the bold impudence of her children, had added a little kindness and +humanness to Florence and Albert, had made Fred’s family look placid, +undisturbed and prosperous. The pictures showed Grandma’s family to be +all she had said of them, even to the dimpled little Ruthie, taken just +a few weeks before, on a post-card by a neighbourhood photographer. + +It didn’t sound like bragging, as Grandma told things. It was just the +simple, contented story of an old lady of seventy-three, who spent her +days satisfied and serene, travelling from one loving and beloved set +of relatives to another. + +When tea was finished, Grandma allowed the other woman to return to +her seat with a gentle nod and a “thank you for keeping an old woman +company.” Then Grandma knitted and looked at the passengers again. +Always, whenever she travelled, out of the set that presented itself, +Grandma was able to find those she needed. + +A tiny, plump little woman with a too-fat baby was seated just a seat +or so back of Grandma, on the left. It was to her that Grandma went, +now. + +“May I hold the baby?” she asked. “I know how tired you must get, +holding him all day, on a day like this. I’ve two great-grandchildren. +Your baby is just about in between them, in age, I think. Sometimes, I +hold them for just a little while and I know how heavy babies can be.” + +Deftly, Grandma took the child in her arms and settled him comfortably. + +“When dinner is announced,” said Grandma, “you go in and eat. I’ll +take care of the baby. It will be a rest for you—it is so difficult +travelling with a baby—you’ll enjoy your dinner more, alone. Sometimes, +when we go on picnics with my great-grandchildren....” + +Grandma told about the babies, about their mother, about her own +grown-up children, whom she visited. She even told little things about +their childhood, as mothers tell to mothers, but, always, she came back +to the present, telling of her visits, encased in the rose colour of +her journey. Not that Grandma told deliberate falsehoods. She didn’t +claim servants or wealth for Fred nor jollity for Albert. But each fact +she brought forth was broidered with the romance that travel brought +to Grandma—the stories all showed Grandma welcome, beloved, happy, made +her children kind, considerate, affectionate, successful, capable. +Grandma helped her listeners, too, for she spread some of this haze +over them. You can’t envy, you must enter into the pleasure of it, when +an old lady of seventy-three shows you the treasures that a lifetime +has handed to her. + +Grandma smiled as she sat with the little mother and her baby. And she +smiled as she held the heavy, squirming bundle, while the mother ate +dinner. + +“It’s a real pleasure to help you even a little,” said Grandma, as the +woman came back from the dining car to claim her baby and thank Grandma. + +Grandma washed her face carefully before she went in to her own dinner. +She took a clean handkerchief from her bag, dainty, lavender-bordered, +the present that Edna, Fred’s second daughter, had given her last +Christmas. On it she sprinkled a bit of perfume, a gift from Alice, two +years before. She smoothed her hair, brushed the dust from her waist. A +new adventure always awaited her in the dining car. + +She walked with stiff little steps the length of the three cars, +holding tight to the seats as she passed. And, through the cars, she +smiled at the children and to grown-ups, smiles a bit patronizing, +perhaps, as smiles should be from such a distinguished, contented old +lady. + +In the diner, Grandma was seated across from a stout, middle-aged +man, who was eating an enormous meal. She smiled at him. He couldn’t +misjudge her—one doesn’t flirt that way at seventy-three. + +“It’s a wonderful day for travelling, isn’t it?” she said. “Last time I +travelled, four months ago...” + +Grandma was telling of her children, of her journeys. + +Grandma ordered carefully—a steak, you are really safe about steaks +when you travel, a fresh vegetable, a green salad, a bit of pastry, +black coffee. Grandma ordered as if the ordering of a dinner were a +usual but precious rite. She felt correct, prosperous, a woman of the +world. The man across the table, pleased with his meal and moved a +bit by Grandma’s story of her happy and fortunate life, her devoted +children, saw in Grandma the things that made this devotion. He even +grew a bit gallant. + +“I can see why your children are so good to you, ma’am. It makes me +wish I had a grandma or mother like you myself.” This during mouthfuls. + +Grandma was equal to it. + +“Why me, I’m just what my children have made me. Just think of you, +making such lovely speeches to an old lady. You’re deserving of the +best mother a man ever had, I’m sure.” + +There were more pretty speeches. The man became almost flowery. Grandma +actually blushed, before she paid her check, adding her usual generous +tip—the stranger had offered to pay but Grandma wouldn’t have that, +of course. Then, as Grandma arose, the man opposite rose, too, and +courteously escorted her through the cars and to her seat, stopping for +a moment to talk. + +Grandma couldn’t knit at night. The motion of the car and the electric +lights were not a good combination for her old eyes. She put her +knitting into her bag and extracted a deck of cards, flamboyant, with +green and gold gift-looking backs. She chose now two young women and a +good-looking young man in his early thirties. She approached them all +with the same question. + +“Wouldn’t you like a game of bridge? It seems so lonely, an evening +alone, in a sleeper—” + +Strangely, all three did play bridge and would like a game. The porter +brought a little table, again, and they played, rather indifferently, +to be sure—Grandma was no expert and one of the young women played even +a poorer game than she did—but several hours passed pleasantly. Then, +after they stopped playing, Grandma brought the fruit from her bag. +Grandma told them about Fred bringing the fruit to her, and, as they +ate, she told, too, of her visits, of her children, her grandchildren, +and the two little great-grand ones. The three card-players really +seemed interested, so of course the photographs were brought out for a +round of approval. + +After the guests had gone to their seats, Grandma had her berth made +up. She was rather particular about this—she wanted it made with her +feet to the engine. Grandma thought this knowing about head and foot +gave her a travelled air. Besides, she really didn’t like to feel that +she was travelling backwards. + +In the dressing-room she put on her violet silk dressing gown, a +gift from Florence three years before, which she kept carefully +for travelling, and a frivolous little cap of cream lace, to keep +the dust out of her hair while she slept. She spread her ivory +travelling articles in their leather case—five years old on her last +birthday—before her, and, as she prepared for sleep, talked pleasantly +with the woman who happened to come into the dressing-room while she +was there. + +Grandma slept fairly well for travelling, waking up frequently to pull +up the shade and look out on the hurrying landscape, the occasional +lights, the little towns. She thought it was mighty pleasant travelling. + +She was up at seven and dressed swiftly. A new woman had got on during +the night and now occupied the seat opposite Grandma, a well-gowned +woman in her late thirties, with a smart, city-like air. + +Grandma nodded a pleasant good morning. + +“We seem to be making good time,” she said. + +“Yes, indeed,” the woman smiled, “pleasant day for travelling.” + +With the air of one born traveller to another, Grandma talked a bit, +then motioned the woman to sit beside her. The pleasant conversation +gave Grandma a warm feeling of well-being. She suggested breakfast and +the two of them went in together, the younger woman steadying Grandma +just a bit when the train swayed around a curve. + +It was a pleasant breakfast. Grandma ordered three-minute eggs. They +were the way she liked eggs best, but she seldom had them. At Albert’s +it seemed so self-assertive to ask for things like that, special +directions and everything—and at Fred’s and Mary’s! + +Grandma and her new friend talked about New York, about plays they +had both seen the year before. They discussed food and the cost of +living, servants, the usual things that two hardly acquainted women +talk of, when circumstance throws them together. There was nothing +condescending in the new acquaintance’s attitude. Why should there +have been? Grandma was neither an unnecessary member of a cool, +indifferent household nor an overworked old woman—she was the ideal +Grandma, cultured, clever, kindly. It was no wonder, then, that, after +breakfast, the two of them should loiter in Grandma’s seat and Grandma +should show a few family photographs and dwell, pleasantly, on how +fortunate she was in having such splendid sons, such a lovely daughter +and such wonders of grandchildren, to say nothing of the two babies. + +Then the woman suggested that she and Grandma go to the observation +car, and, before long, Grandma was seated in a big chair, knitting +again, and glancing at the flying scenery. + +All the morning Grandma’s former acquaintances came to talk to her. +The thin woman with the sad face offered her some candy. Grandma had +a little chat with the plump mother and the baby and held the baby +again while his mother ate luncheon. The stout man, reading a magazine, +dropped it long enough to come over and ask Grandma how she was feeling +and if there was anything he could do for her. Grandma’s bridge +companions, now well acquainted, with the sudden friendship that travel +brings, gathered around Grandma for a chat, laughing at everything. +Several others, coming into the car, stopped for a word with Grandma. + +Grandma and her latest acquaintance had luncheon together, too. Then, +after luncheon, Grandma prepared, a whole hour ahead, as she always +did, for the end of her journey. She washed off as much of the soot as +she could. She took off the little lace cap and replaced it with her +decent old bonnet, which had been resting in its bag all this time. +She slipped on her black travelling coat over her grey crêpe dress. +She took out a clean handkerchief, sprinkling a bit of perfume on it. +Before closing her bag, Grandma took out the cheap candy that Homer had +brought to the station and gave it, with a gracious smile, to the woman +with the baby. It was good to be able to give something—and, besides, +what could she do with the candy at Albert’s? She didn’t care for candy +and even the servants would have laughed at it. + +Grandma closed her bag then and sat waiting. Her chance acquaintances +passed, nodded, smiled and talked. Grandma was a real person of +importance, a dear, happy old lady, with a devoted family, spending +her life contentedly divided among them. Didn’t all these people know +about Grandma? Hadn’t they heard of her children and her grandchildren +and her great-grandchildren? Hadn’t they seen their photographs, even? +Didn’t they know that, after four pleasant months with Fred and his +happy, jovial family, she was on her way to visit Albert, rich and +prominent and kind? + + +V + +The train drew into the Grand Central Station. Grandma, trembling a +little—for the excitement of travelling is apt to make one tremble at +seventy-three—allowed the porter to brush her coat, bade farewell to +her train acquaintances, followed her bag down the aisle and into the +station. + +A man in a chauffeur’s uniform took Grandma’s bag and addressing +Grandma politely, gravely, told her that Mr. and Mrs. Cunningham were +sorry, but engagements prevented them from meeting her. They would see +her at dinner at seven. + +Grandma, with short, unsteady little steps, went out to the waiting +car. There was something very near a tear in her eye. After all, +travelling has its difficulties when one is seventy-three. The shell +of radiance, of smiling independence, of being cared for, important, +loved, fell away. Grandma was just a little, tired, lonely old lady +again. Another of Grandma’s romantic journeys was over. + + + + +MAMIE CARPENTER + + +I + +Millersville, Missouri, was the usual small town. It boasted, according +to the Millersville _Eagle_ and the annual leaflet of the Chamber of +Commerce, a population of twenty thousand souls. There were, perhaps, +ten thousand actual human beings in Millersville, including the farmers +within a radius of five miles, the few Italians and Slavs down near the +railroad tracks, and the negroes. + +Millersville’s main street extended nearly the full length of the +town, footed by the Sulpulpa River and the Union Depot, and headed by +the Brick Church. On Hill Street were the Grand Hotel—five stories +high; the Bon Marché and the New York Store, whose buyers went to New +York—or anyhow Chicago—twice each year; the Busy Bee, candy fresh +every day, always two kinds of ice cream, with marble topped tables in +the back half of it for sodas and ice creams; an assortment of drug +stores and cigar stores; garages, still carrying the outward semblance +of the stables from which they had sprung; “gents’ furnishings,” with +clerks who copied, in their fashion, the styles in the men’s clothing +advertisements, always standing near the doors where they could most +easily ogle the feminine passerby; groceries displaying the season’s +best potatoes and onions, with sawdust floors and clerks in white +aprons and pencils behind their ears; and two furniture stores with +windows brimming with golden oak rockers. + +On either side of Hill Street, the streets stretched out in a regular +checkerboard, the first blocks of them devoted to the lesser business +establishments that had overflowed Hill Street, and the remaining +blocks given over to residences. The majority of these streets, a few +blocks out, were full of neat houses—old houses with mansard roofs and +cupolas; new houses in atrocious, too-low bungalow effects, with awful, +protruding roofs; simple white cottages, each with its green lawn and +over half with a red swing in front and a small, one-car garage in +back. Then came a turning into tumbledown negro quarters or the homes +of the neighbourhood “white trash.” + +There was a difference in streets, too. Up near the Brick Church the +streets were respectable for all their length, the houses were bigger, +and the lawns were better cared for. Maple Street, the last to enter +Hill, was the best of all, turning into Maple Road, later on, when it +became even more select until, when it reached Burton Addition—the old +Burton farm—it burst forth into a spasm of country homes, a dozen of +them, with pretentiously landscaped “grounds.” + +Each house showed an attempt at grandeur in architecture. Some aped +Southern Colonial, with white clapboards or brick; others aimed at +English styles, with stucco or half-timber. Each house, too, had +a peculiar, inappropriate and ineffectual name: “The Elms,” “The +Lonesome Pine,” “Pleasure,” “Crestwood,” “Hilltop.” Miss Drewsy, of the +Millersville _Eagle_, whose rich cousins, the Horns, lived in Maple +Street, which gave her social standing, mentioned the names of these +houses in her society column, whenever possible. + +On the other side of town, toward Union Station and the river, the +streets became gradually less pleasing and less important, until, +when one reached Gillen Row, the neat houses had given way to grey +ramshackle affairs, a bit tipsy as to roof or wall or chimney, with a +porch awry, a baluster missing and an occasional broken window patched +with papers or rags. These houses were surrounded by grey lawns tufted +with weeds, and around them were unpainted picket fences with half the +pickets missing. + +Mamie Carpenter lived in Gillen Row, in the least pleasing block of it. +Her home was a one-story cottage which had, in its adolescence, showed +the spruce yellow and white of a poached egg, but in its senility one +could barely see the remains of this glory. The porch which ran across +the front sagged. One of the posts was missing. The bottom of the three +steps leading up to the porch was loose, the wood breaking into long +brown slivers under one’s foot. One went directly from the unevenly +floored porch, which held two once-green rockers and a bench of slatted +wood, into the living room, papered in what had formerly been gold and +green but was now a more fortunate, though dirty, tan. + +The living room held a figured red rug, a table and half a dozen +unmatched chairs, mostly rockers, of uncertain wood and construction. +Back of this was the dining-room, with a table and four chairs and a +huge, golden oak, mirrored sideboard. Next came a narrow hallway, +leading on one side to a dark green kitchen, and on the other to the +small and incomplete bath. Beyond were the two bedrooms, one occupied +by Mr. and Mrs. Carpenter, who slept in a large bed of yellow wood, +with high head and foot board, new when they were married, twenty-two +years before, and the other, with its iron and brass bed and rickety +dresser of imitation mahogany, occupied by their daughter Mamie. + + +II + +Mamie Carpenter was twenty-one. She could have passed for eighteen; +she knew it and, when meeting new acquaintances, she often did. She +was small and had blonde hair, not white and faded-looking, but real +blonde, which needed only an occasional touching up with peroxide to be +a lovely, gleaming mass of gold. Her hair was not especially thick nor +long, but it waved naturally and Mamie had acquired the knack of doing +it high on her head so that it looked pleasantly mussed and fresh. + +Her nose was short and well chiselled. Her eyes were round and blue +and she pencilled them just a little, which gave the necessary accent. +Her mouth was perhaps a bit too full, but her complexion was creamy +and her cheeks pleasantly pink and plump. She had learned that if you +can’t afford many things, it’s better to stick to plain things—if your +figure is good enough. Mamie’s figure was trim and softly curved, with +a roundness that hinted of fat at thirty. + +Mamie clerked at the Busy Bee candy store. She had left school in her +second year of High School when, after a series of small accidents at +the yards, her father, a “railroad man,” found himself more frequently +out of work than usual. + +She had become tired of school, anyhow, but had kept on going until +then, partly out of habit and partly because she felt superior to her +parents and her neighbours and wanted the further superiority of a +higher education. Her mother could do nothing but housework, and that +but poorly, and would not consider the indignity of doing menial labour +for others, so Mamie, not knowing where to turn at first, and being +untrained, went into the overall factory, one of Millersville’s few +industries. She found the work monotonous and disagreeable. A doctor’s +reception room and a cashier’s cage next claimed her in turn. Both +bored her. + +Then she heard that the Busy Bee was enlarging the store and wanted +pretty saleswomen. Mamie knew she was pretty. She applied for and +got the job and had been there ever since. Mamie daily disproved the +theories that, if you give a girl enough candy to eat she soon tires +of it, that candy-shop girls do not care for sweets, and that sugar +ruins the complexion. She nibbled at chocolates at intervals all day +long, and, except that perhaps her cheeks were a bit pinker, her hair a +trifle more blonde, she remained just the same. + +To the mere buyer of candy, Mamie was one of the pretty, polite +little girls in big white aprons who waited on you at the Busy Bee. +To her acquaintances and the dwellers in Gillen Row she was old +Joe Carpenter’s girl, a reproach in itself—rather a wild piece. To +Millersville, socially, she was, of course, nothing at all. She did +not exist to Millersville’s smartest circle except as a purveyor of +sweets. She was below even the least important members of the church +societies, who occasionally got into the end paragraphs in Miss +Drewsy’s society column. + +Mamie knew how Millersville felt about her, and her liking for +Millersville was shaped accordingly. She especially disliked the +“society girls,” the ones who lived in Maple Road, because they had +good times and did the sort of things she would like to have done. They +could flirt and not get talked about. The girls in the Busy Bee looked +up to them, whispered about them when they came in. + +The rest of Millersville Mamie didn’t mind, but she despised those +girls with a keen, sharp, unbelievable hate. She was better looking +than any of them. She knew that. Society? Good blood? Family? What did +they mean, in Millersville? + +Mamie scorned Millersville’s social pretensions. She knew that in some +cities, London and New York, maybe, there was society, real people +with generations of good blood back of them, and money and breeding. +People like that Mamie could look up to. But she knew Millersville. In +Millersville, what did society amount to? A joke; that’s what it was. +No one really came to anything, did anything. + +The Elwood Simpsons, the leaders of Millersville society—look at them! +There was a little grave in Oakdale Cemetery that Mamie knew all +about—and it was closely connected with the girlhood of Mrs. Elwood +Simpson—and there were other babies who did not die but who arrived at +equally inopportune times. The Coakleys were one of Millersville’s +oldest and best families—and Frank Coakley’s half-brother spent most of +his time in jail, and his other half-brother, Bill, was half-witted, +went around with his tongue hanging out and saying silly things. The +Binghams—ugh—they had to get their servants out of town, and sometimes +at the last minute had to break engagements because some one in their +third floor would cry and scream—their oldest daughter, some said it +was. + +Mamie knew other things about Millersville society. The rich Ruckers +made their money getting land away from ignorant farmers. The Bilcamps +made theirs selling fake oil stocks in Oklahoma. There was some sort of +a misrun bank in the Grantly family. It wouldn’t do to look too closely +into the histories of any of them. Yet they were “society” and had a +Country Club—and lots of good times. + +Mamie knew she was as good as any of them—better than most. Her family +had moved to Millersville from Lexington when she was thirteen. Her +father had got into some sort of a scrape over a woman—or a girl—she +had never known much about it, but anyhow, it was enough to make them +move. Of course the news of it had seeped to Millersville, made the +Carpenters a bit more outcast than they would have been, though they +wouldn’t have been anything, in any case, without money or connections. + +Coming to Millersville hadn’t made any difference to Mamie. The new +house was just as unpleasant as the old. She had had just as good a +time playing with the boys of the neighbourhood, catching on wagons +for rides, in Millersville as in Lexington. She had liked Millersville +all right. She had gone to school rather unevenly, staying at home for +frequent imaginary ills. But a sense of herself had kept her in school +beyond the age of most of her friends. + +It was in High School that she had first felt the social barriers +of Millersville—and she had sneered at them even as they hurt her. +The teachers had all been partial to the two stupid Redding girls, +pale-haired, fat and awkward, because Samuel Redding was president +of the school board. Their essays had been praised and read aloud in +the class. Mamie had known that hers were quite as good and that she +was just as clever—and much prettier. But nobody had ever praised or +noticed her. + +On Friday nights there had been parties, which “the crowd” attended. +During the week, eating her lunches in the school lunch-room, echoes +of the glories of the parties had reached her—how Marion Smith had +let Harold Frederickson put his arm around her, how much salad Louis +Bingham had eaten. There had been clubs at school, intimate things with +secrets and pins and bows of coloured ribbon; there had been cryptic +jokes handed from one member of the selected set to another, to be +referred to, giggled over. But Mamie had been out of it all. + +There had been other sets, less desirable, the church societies, +smaller, less exclusive organizations. Mamie had not been welcomed +to these, either, though by a great effort the daughter of old Joe +Carpenter might have attained the least of them. She had not wanted to +belong. She had not wanted to go with the “society set” of her age, +either. It had been more than that. She had wanted them to want _her_. +But her father, a ne’er-do-well, had been run out of Lexington, her +mother was a slovenly woman with wispy hair, and her home was a grey +shamble in Gillen Row. + +So Mamie, as she grew up, did not improve her social position. She +remained old Joe Carpenter’s girl, from Gillen Row. + + +III + +But, if society did not recognize Mamie, the masculine element of it +did, in a hidden, stealthy way. + +Even when she had gone to High School the most desirable boys had +offered her—secretly—invitations, moonlight drives—the best people of +Millersville did not allow their daughters to drive after sundown with +masculine escorts—and other forbidden pleasures. When she was younger +Mamie accepted these invitations, but when she grew older and came +to the Busy Bee to work, she learned how unpleasant they could be. +Gradually, the men had ceased bothering about her. After all, she was +only old Carpenter’s daughter and not a good sport—no pep to her. + +In the Busy Bee, too, had come invitations from the commercial +travellers who hung around the Grand Hotel. Mamie accepted them for +a while. She wanted a good time. She flirted and laughed, went for +walks and drives. But finally she stopped going with the travelling +men—refused their invitations altogether. She didn’t know why—just no +fun any more, nothing to it. + +Not that these refusals helped her reputation in Millersville. A girl +as pretty as Mamie and coming from such a neighbourhood as Gillen Row +and with Joe Carpenter as a father had no reputation to lose. + +But when she quit “running around” it left her pretty much alone. She +even refused the invitations of the girls who worked with her at the +Busy Bee. Their homes were neater than hers. She couldn’t return their +invitations. Anyhow, she didn’t care anything about them. Their beaux, +decent clerks, annoyed her. Occasionally, lately, she had allowed Will +Remmers, of the New York Store, to take her to some of Millersville’s +infrequent theatrical performances. She didn’t care for Will Remmers, a +stupid fellow who thought he was doing her a favour, but, at least, he +was decent—some one to go with. She didn’t care for any one especially. +She had learned a lot about men, being pretty and meeting them since +she was sixteen. + +Mamie had tried to think of some way to get out of Millersville, but +she never went far enough to plan anything definitely. The home in +Gillen Row took all of her money; she could barely keep out enough to +dress decently. She saw no future by the route of the drummers of the +Grand Hotel. She had no profession or training. Really, she didn’t +dislike being in Millersville. If she could have been one of the +society set she felt she would have liked it very well indeed. It was +just her position that annoyed her—having nothing, no pretty things, +being nothing—when girls like the Reddings had so much. + +The Reddings especially annoyed Mamie. + +There were two Redding girls: Sophie, the older, rather fat and white +with colourless hair, and Esther, a bit more presentable, but a trifle +more stupid, if anything. The Redding girls giggled, holding their +heads on one side. They tossed their light curls. They snuggled up to +their young men. They were always coming into the Busy Bee, the head +of a little group, laughing and chatting, selecting tables with great +care, ordering elaborate sundaes or sodas. They always had new little +tricks, new clothes. If they recognized Mamie as one of their old +schoolmates, they gave no sign. They had each had a year at the Craig +School, a second-rate boarding school that New York maintained for rich +Westerners, and liked to forget that they had ever attended any other +institution. + +When Marlin Embury came into the Busy Bee to make a purchase, Mamie +might have paid no attention to him at all if Rose Martin hadn’t nudged +her. + +“That’s William E. Embury’s son,” she said. “He’s back in town. Do +you know him? I read in the _Eagle_ he’s gone in with his father in +business. He goes with Sophie Redding. They say he is going to marry +her, though they haven’t announced the engagement.” + +Mamie looked at Embury and liked him. That nice-looking fellow—for +Sophie Redding! Not nearly as handsome as the man who had played +in the stock company in Millersville the month before, but not +bad-looking—didn’t compare with Wallace Reid or John Barrymore, but +then they were only on the screen—pictures as far as she was concerned, +and married—she’d read that in a magazine—and Embury was right here. + +She knew who Embury was, had seen him, years ago, before he went away +to college, had sort of kept track of him through the papers. She had +read, several months before, that he was back in Millersville, after +two years as manager of some of his father’s oil wells in Oklahoma. + +And now he was going with Sophie Redding! Good-looking and rich—the +only son of rich parents—and Sophie Redding would get him! He had +a good face, was young, couldn’t be more than twenty-four. That +young kind is easy—falls for anything. Mamie knew that. He had +gone to a boys’ preparatory school, then to a college that was not +co-educational, then two years in a little town. Why he didn’t +know anything about girls. He’d be easy even for Sophie Redding to +capture—Sophie, with her home, “Crestwood,” out in Maple Road, her +father, grey-haired and pompous, and her mother, fat and smiling—always +giving parties—good times. + +No wonder Sophie could get him, even if she was fat and white and +silly! Sophie had everything. What chance had she against Sophie? + +Until then it hadn’t occurred to Mamie that she was entitled to a +chance—that there was even the possibility of her and Sophie having +aims in the same direction. And yet— + +She looked at Embury. + +He had bought a huge box of candy. It was being wrapped up for him. He +was a nice boy with sleek black hair, not especially tall, but then she +herself was small and didn’t like tall men. He had nice shoulders, a +slim figure, a good head, just a boy. Fat Sophie Redding, with her pale +eyes and giggles—why, she _knew_ she was prettier—smarter than Sophie! +And yet—Sophie—! + +Why not do something about it? _Do_ something? Get Embury? Why not? +Wasn’t his father about the richest man in Millersville? Wasn’t he the +most eligible man in town, now that Bliss Bingham had gone to Chicago +and Harold Richardson was married? + +There were other men, of course, but either they were old bachelors +who knew too much about her, old and snobbish, or poor or too young. +Embury had already made good in Oklahoma. Now his father had taken him +into business, wouldn’t disinherit him—if he married her. Wasn’t it +rumoured that Mrs. Embury—stately and dignified enough now—had before +her marriage “worked out”? She wouldn’t dare object too strenuously to +Joe Carpenter’s daughter as her daughter-in-law. + +After all, Mamie had always wondered if she could do something clever +if she had a chance. Here was her chance—she’d never have a better +one, she knew that. After all, no one would help her—all she had was +herself. Maybe, if she tried hard enough.... + +Embury took his package and went out of the store. He had not noticed +Mamie Carpenter. + + +IV + +Embury was glad to get home again. He thought Millersville a jolly +place to live in after Sorgo, Oklahoma, with its constant smell and +feel of oil. He enjoyed his old room again and the new car and being +with the crowd. + +He was not an especially brilliant fellow, nor a rapid thinker, nor +much of a reader. He liked a good time, in a quiet way. He wore good +clothes and liked to be with others who did. He thought girls were +awfully jolly, but hard to get acquainted with. He found the girls in +Millersville unusually pleasant. But, of course, that was as it should +be; they were home-town girls. + +Sophie Redding—she was jolly and cute and had a way of making him feel +awfully at home. It was pleasant at the Reddings, sitting out on the +big porch and drinking lemonade, with Sophie ready to laugh at his +jokes and some of the others of the crowd likely to drop in at any +time. Yes, Sophie was a pretty fine girl. His folks liked her, too, +always awfully glad when he called on her, kept telling him what a fine +girl she was and how much they liked the family. Now, if he showed her +a good time all summer and autumn, did all he could for her, maybe +Sophie would care for him. + +Embury was driving down Hill Street four or five days later when a +pretty girl nodded to him, just a formal, pleasant little nod. + +Embury couldn’t place her, exactly, but he spoke, of course. He even +took his eyes off the road ahead long enough to glance back at her. +She was pretty, and he liked little girls who wore plain blue dresses +in summer. Some one, probably, he’d met out at the Country Club and +didn’t remember. Still, she seemed prettier than most of the girls he +had met there. Maybe some one he used to know. He tried to conjure up a +childhood acquaintance who might have blossomed into this little blonde +girl, but he couldn’t. Anyhow, she was pretty. + +Two weeks later, walking up Elm Street after leaving the office—he +frequently walked home and always went that way when he did—the same +little figure overtook him, passed ahead. His heart palpitated quite +pleasantly. But this time the nod was even cooler, more formal. He +returned it as cordially as he could. That night there was a dance +at the club and Embury watched each new arrival, but there was no +pretty little blonde with big eyes and radiant hair. Sophie found him +preoccupied and told him so. He tried his best to be more courteous to +her. After all, why worry about a strange girl? You couldn’t tell who +she might turn out to be. + +He saw her again, a week later, when he was driving. Again he received +a cool little nod. He’d ask some of the boys about her—she might be +good fun—evidently wasn’t one of the crowd. Millersville was a slow +place, not much to do, a little affair on the side—by another year he +might be married and settled down—might as well have a good time while +he could. + +He didn’t have to ask any of the boys, for the very next day, on Elm +Street, the little figure in blue held out her hand as he overtook her. + +“I don’t believe you know me,” she laughed prettily, shyly. “You’ve +looked—so amazed, when I’ve spoken. Don’t tell me your years out of +town have made you forget old acquaintances altogether. I’m Mamie +Carpenter.” + +“Why, of course, Miss Carpenter, I’m delighted,” he stammered. + +“Oh, I’m so ashamed,” she said, then hurriedly, with embarrassed little +pauses between the words: “Here, I’ve stopped you to tell you how—how +glad Millersville is to have you back—and—I’m afraid you don’t remember +me, after all. I don’t blame you—I was such a little girl when you +left—and I’m not—important. But I remember when I went to Grant School, +and you were in High, I used to stop every day and watch you practise +football. You wore a red sweater, I remember. You—you were one of my +youthful heroes, you see.” + +He thought, then, that he did remember her, and said so. Little girls +change—he knew that. It was pleasant for him to think that, after all +these years, she remembered him. He had worn a red sweater—still, +wasn’t the school colour red; hadn’t all the other boys worn them, too? +Well, anyhow, he had played football. No one else had said anything +about those days. How pretty she was—a wonderful complexion! Why, in +comparison, it made Sophie’s seem almost pasty. Of course, Sophie was a +Redding—that was different—a serious thing, a bully girl, too. Mamie—he +liked the name—it was like her, simple, plain, pretty. She might be +great fun. To think of her remembering him all these years! What a +plain little dress she wore! Poor people, evidently. Oh, well— + +Two weeks later, in Elm Street—it was a quiet street, tree-lined—he met +Mamie again. She was walking ahead of him, as he turned up from Hill. +He caught up with her. + +“You live near here?” he asked. + +She told him, very seriously, that she lived in Gillen Row and that her +parents were awfully poor. + +“I—I work, you know—in the Busy Bee, the candy store. It makes things +a little easier for mother—and my father. I stopped school before my +junior year—to—to help them. Of course I’ve kept up with reading—but—I +didn’t mind stopping—my father had an accident and they needed me. It +isn’t bad—it’s rather pleasant at the Busy Bee—interesting to watch +people.” + +“I’m sure you’re the sweetest thing there,” said Embury, and was +surprised at his own boldness and a bit ashamed when he saw how Mamie +blushed and dropped her eyes. What a dear little thing she was, leaving +school to help her folks and not even complaining about it—and not +ashamed, either, didn’t try to conceal it. It never occurred to him +that he probably would have seen her in the Busy Bee any day and so +discovered her position for himself. + +“You always walk home in Elm Street?” he asked, to cover her +confusion—she was still blushing. + +“Yes, it’s so quiet and peaceful, the trees and all.” + +“That’s funny. That’s why _I_ go this way, when I don’t take the car to +the office.” + +“You do?” Mamie showed great surprise. “Isn’t it funny, our tastes in +streets?” + +Perhaps even more remarkable, if she had mentioned it, would have been +the fact that Mamie had never honoured Elm Street with her presence +until—investigating by little scurries after leaving the shop in the +evening—she had found that Embury usually chose it when walking home. + + +V + +Two days later, Embury walked up Elm Street with Mamie again. He had +looked for her the day before, and had been disappointed when he did +not see her. Hadn’t she said she walked there every day? + +“I didn’t see you yesterday,” he said with a smile, as he joined her. + +Mamie explained—not the real fact, that she had taken her old route +home so as not to appear too eager for his acquaintance—but that she +had gone a shorter way so that she could hurry home to cook dinner—her +mother wasn’t well. + +“Poor little girl,” thought Embury, “working all day and then cooking +dinner at night, too.” + +“I missed you,” he said. + +Mamie blushed again. She was rather good at it. Many people are. + +“Are you going to stay here in Millersville?” Mamie asked. + +No use getting excited, working hard over him, if he wasn’t. Embury was +the first real opportunity she had had—if she could only get him before +the others poisoned his mind against her or before the Reddings made +his escape impossible—if he were going to leave Millersville, there +wouldn’t be any use bothering about him. + +Embury told her that he was to stay in town, and she showed pleasure +and blushed again. She asked him about his work and his plans. + +To his surprise, Embury found himself telling her about himself. Here +was a girl, intelligent, interesting. The other girls didn’t know +anything about business. But, of course, thrown on her own resources +as she had been, she’d learned to take a real interest in the business +world. + +They walked together until a block before the street down which Embury +usually turned. + +“I go this way,” said Mamie. + +She could have continued on Elm Street, but she thought it best to be +the first to break their walk together. + +“Wait a minute; don’t go away so quickly,” said Embury. + +He felt as if he were on a delightful adventure. + +Quietly, Mamie waited. + +“When am I going to see you again?” he asked. + +She started to say something, blushed then; “Why, I don’t know—I mean, +any evening, walking home this way. I’m at the Busy Bee all day, you +know.” + +“At night. Can’t I call? Can’t you go for a drive?” + +Mamie knew how her home would look to Embury, the porch with its +sagging floor, the living-room with its clutter of ugly chairs, her +parents quarrelling, more than likely. She couldn’t receive him at +home. It didn’t seem fair—she had to fight against so many odds—and +Sophie Redding had the whole Redding home, with its great porches, +its big living rooms for entertaining. How she hated Sophie Redding +with her giggles, her light stringy hair. Still, if she were smart +enough—there might be ways.... + +“I’m afraid I can’t let you call at all,” she said, modestly. “You +see, I’m not one of the society girls. It—it wouldn’t look right, I’m +afraid. You know how—how careful a girl has got to be.” + +What a dear little thing she was! Modest and shy and good. Each second +Embury felt himself more and more a man of the world. This little +thing, so fragile and dainty—and awfully pretty. Of course she was +right. People would talk—and yet.... + +He didn’t know that Millersville would not talk about Mamie, no matter +how many men called on her, that they had talked when she was a little +girl and dismissed her, carelessly, as “Joe Carpenter’s daughter, a bad +egg.” Mamie knew. It didn’t make her feel any happier. Still, this was +no time to worry about it. + +“Couldn’t we go for a ride some evening?” he asked. “No one would see +us, honestly they wouldn’t.” + +“I really couldn’t. Really. You know how it is. I’d love to—but—it +wouldn’t be right. I can’t go.” + +She appeared to want to yield to him. She knew how society in +Millersville regarded girls who went automobiling with young men, +alone. Embury would find out, if he didn’t know already, and his +opinions would be moulded by the others. + +“You’re the funniest girl I ever saw,” he smiled at her. + +She was just small enough so that he looked down into her face when he +stood close to her. Embury liked little girls. He was glad Mamie was +small. + +“Other girls would go with me, honestly they would.” + +“You’d better take them, then,” she pouted, prettily. + +“I don’t mean that. I don’t want to sound conceited. Only I would like +to take you, honestly I would. I know a little road house, ‘Under Two +Flags,’ where they make awfully good things to eat, French cooking. We +could ride out there some night, if you’ll go.” + +Mamie knew the road house. She used to think it great fun. She had +slapped the faces of six commercial travellers driving home from it and +finally had given it up as a dangerous place. It was, nevertheless, +a fairly decent resort, with only a slightly sporty reputation, but, +after all, the ride there and the supper weren’t worth the trouble of +keeping her escort in his place all the way back. Why did men expect +such big rewards for a ride and a bite to eat? + +Mamie smiled wistfully. + +“I’m afraid not,” she said. “I wish you wouldn’t—tempt me so. You see, +I never go driving—I—I don’t have many good times.” + +Embury’s conscience hurt him. She was such a dear. Of course she +shouldn’t go. He felt more wicked than ever. + +“But look here,” he said, “can’t I see you at all?” + +Mamie was thoughtful. + +“I don’t know,” she said; then, “next Friday I have a holiday—I work +every second Sunday, the Busy Bee is open on Sundays too.” + +Embury was supposed to be at the office every day but he knew he was +not indispensable. + +“Fine,” he told her, “that’s awfully good. Can we go in my car and make +a picnic of it?” + +Mamie thought that would be a lot of fun. They made plans for the +meeting. That was Wednesday. On Thursday, Mamie avoided Elm Street. + + +VI + +Friday she was a few minutes late. She had appointed the corner of Elm +and East streets as the meeting place. From a distance she saw Embury’s +car waiting at the curb near the corner. He sprang out when he saw her. + +“This is jolly,” he said. + +She looked charming and she knew it. She had on a thin little dress of +white, flecked with little rosebuds. It was plain and not new, but very +fresh. A floppy leghorn hat was tied under her chin with a pale pink +and yellow ribbon. She had trimmed the hat, herself, after a picture +she had seen in a copy of Vogue that some one had left in the Busy Bee. +She knew it suited her. The night before she had had a quarrel with her +father because she had not “turned in” enough money. She had purchased +a tiny bottle of her favourite perfume, rather an expensive brand. + +It was a perfect day, not too warm nor too sunny. Mamie did not snuggle +close, as she felt Sophie would have done. She did not talk too much. +But she took off her hat and let the wind blow her hair back—she had +washed it the night before and it blew in soft waves. She sat near +enough for Embury to smell the perfume of it. + +They drove to a small near-by town where Embury attended to some +business his father had asked him to look after the week before. At +noon he suggested eating in the town’s one hotel. Mamie shuddered +prettily, then had an idea. + +“Can’t we have a picnic—a real out-of-doors picnic?” she begged. “I’m +shut away from the sunshine so much of the time.” + +Embury thought the idea delightful. With much laughter, they bought +things at the little stores, bread and pickles and olives, tinned meats +and cakes and a piece of ice in a bucket and lemons and sugar for +lemonade. They rode, then, until a bit of woods attracted them. They +soon had the improvised luncheon spread out under a tree. + +Embury was surprised at his enjoyment. He watched Mamie’s little white +hands arranging the things to eat. He tramped to a near-by farm for +water and returned with an extra pail containing fresh, cool milk. It +all seemed decidedly pure and rural to him. The food tasted remarkably +good and, when they had finished, he leaned against a tree and smoked, +smiled as he looked at Mamie, still cool in the sprigged lawn. + +“Having a good time?” he asked. + +“Wonderful,” she told him, “this is the best time I’ve ever had, I +think. It’s different. You’re not like the other men I’ve known. I +can—talk with you, tell you things. This seems sort of—of a magic day.” + +Embury thought so, too. He told her so. He told her other things, about +his business, his thoughts, what he was going to do. Finally, he was +telling her about his two years in Oklahoma. + +“That was prison,” he said. “It was smoky and oily—you could feel the +oil, taste it in your food. It hung over you, all day, like a cloud. +Still, it was worth going through—for this.” + +“You are—nice,” said Mamie, very softly. + +“Let’s keep this day for a secret,” she said. “Just the two of us will +know about it. Let’s keep all of our times together as secrets—if we +ever see each other again.” + +Embury agreed that secrets were very nice things to have. + +They were silent for a while. + +Finally, he got up, walked over to her. Mamie got to her feet, too. He +came close and put his hand on her shoulder, started to put his arms +around her. + +“You’re a dear little girl,” he said. + +Mamie lifted big eyes to him. + +“Please don’t,” she moved away, ever so slightly. “Please let me keep +to-day perfect—as a memory. We—may never see each other again. I want +to remember to-day as it is now. I—” + +She broke off, embarrassed. Embury felt suddenly bad, ashamed. How +innocent she was! If he were going to be a man of the world, he’d have +to think of another way. He couldn’t break the silken wings of her +innocence by spoiling her day—her perfect day—she worked so hard and +was so good. It had been a pleasant day for him, too. Later—he could +see her other times, of course. + +“I wanted to make the day more beautiful,” he said, but he did not try +to touch her again. + +They rode home almost in silence. When she told him good-bye, in Elm +Street, she let her hand lie in his a moment. How small it seemed. Why, +actually, it trembled. + +“When am I going to see you again?” he asked. + +“I don’t know,” said Mamie. Then, “I walk up Elm Street every day, you +know. I—I had a wonderful time.” She smiled a bit sadly, and was gone. + +That night there was a party at the Country Club and Embury took Sophie +Redding. + +For the first time since he knew her he noticed how fat her hands were, +a trifle red, too—and how she took possession of him, as if they were +already married—and he’d never proposed to her. She giggled too much. +It made him nervous. He knew a dainty, pretty girl, a simple little +girl, who didn’t go to Country Club dances nor roll her eyes nor put +her hands on fellows’ shoulders. Of course, Sophie was the sort of girl +that a fellow married—position and all that—his mother kept hinting +things—what a fine family the Reddings were, what a nice wife Sophie +would make.... + +Still, he was young yet. Too young to settle down. He’d have his fling +first, anyhow. + +For five days Embury walked home on Elm Street. He did not see Mamie. +On the sixth day he went into the Busy Bee. There she was, the blonde +hair more golden and beautiful than ever. She smiled a quick greeting +at him. He had been afraid to go in, ashamed almost. What if it would +embarrass her—what if she didn’t want to see him? Of course, he wasn’t +going in to see her—he really had a purchase to make, still.... + +Should he let her wait on him or get some one else? He saw her speak to +another girl. Then she walked back of the counter to meet him. + +“Hello,” she said, very low, but gaily. + +“How have you been?” he asked. “I haven’t seen you for days.” + +She laughed. + +“It’s good of you to bother. My mother has been ill again. I wasn’t +down at all yesterday. You wanted to buy some candy? May—I wait on you?” + +She was so modest, didn’t think he had come in especially to see her. +He bought a box of chocolates and took it away under his arm. + +That evening he met her in Elm Street. + +“The candy is for you,” he told her. + +She accepted it, with as seeming a gratitude as if she didn’t get all +the candy she could eat all day long. + +“You bought my favourite chocolates,” she told him. “I wondered—” + +She broke off, blushing. + +“Whom they were for?” + +“I—I mean I didn’t think they were for me. You know how girls in—in +stores gossip. I heard—some one said that you were attentive to—I mean +that you liked—some one here in Millersville.” + +“I do,” said Embury boldly, and caught her eye. + +She blushed again, prettily. + +“It was Miss Redding they meant,” she said. + +So—people were saying things about him and Sophie Redding. Embury +didn’t like it. He was too young to get married. He felt that. That’s +the trouble with a small town, no sooner you start going with a girl +than the town has you engaged and married. Mrs. Redding, too—she was +being too nice to him—too affectionate. + +“Miss Redding is an awfully nice girl,” he told her. “We’ve been to a +few parties together, but that’s all. You know how Millersville is.” + +“I know. I went to High School with the Redding girls. They’re just +a few years older than I am. I’m sorry I said anything. I guess I +just listened to gossip. You know how you hear things. Just to show +how wrong people can be—why, what I heard was that—that Miss Redding +herself had said that you were—were going together. Millersville is +awfully gossipy, isn’t it?” + +So, Sophie had been talking about his going with her. But it was just +the thing she would do. A few weeks ago he had felt that if he could +win Sophie it would be a very desirable thing. But lately he’d been +annoyed at her. She’d shown him too many attentions—or too many pointed +slights to pique him. He felt himself falling into a sort of net she +was spreading. Why, even this little girl, so far away from the set in +which Sophie moved, had heard things. He’d be careful—he wasn’t engaged +to Sophie, yet. + +He admitted that Millersville was gossipy but that there was “nothing +to” the gossip about him. He and Mamie had a pleasant walk up Elm +Street. + +After that, for several weeks, he met Mamie every day. He tried to make +other engagements, but she wouldn’t go for picnics or drives, even on +her days off. She told Embury that she had to help her mother, who +wasn’t strong and needed her. But she consented to the evening walks +home. + +How sweet and simple she was, Embury felt. Other girls would have +playfully avoided him, teased him, tried to make him more eager by +their indifference. Mamie was always admittedly glad to be with him. +Excepting when she had to hurry home a shorter way, she was always +walking up the street when he overtook her. He began to look forward +to these little walks, down the quiet, tree-shaded way. Mamie, on the +warmest days seemed to remain cool and fresh-looking, her blonde hair +soft and fluffy. In the shade she would take off her hat and turn her +face up to catch any stray breeze. She’d have jolly little stories to +tell him and be interested in everything that he was doing. + +Walking next to her he could watch the soft curve of her body, smell +the pleasant fragrance of the perfume she used. Later, when he was +alone, he contrasted her; gentle of voice, sweet, simple, sensible; +with Sophie and Esther, the other girls of the crowd, their giggles and +affectations, their attempts at intimacies, pressing close to him while +they danced, overheated after dancing, their hair moist, their voices +loud, their behaviour foolish. This little girl had more refinement +than any of them—knew how to keep her self-respect, too. These walks +were the pleasantest part of his day. + +Then, one evening Mamie was standing at the corner of Elm and East +Street waiting for him, her eyes wide and frightened. From a distance +he had seen her dainty figure, the plain straw hat, the simple frock. + +“What’s the matter?” he asked. + +“It’s really nothing,” she said, but her eyes held tears. + +“Tell me. Is it serious?” + +“It’s nothing. That is, you’ll think it’s nothing at all. I—I can’t +tell you. It—spoils things—our little walks, our pleasant friendship.” + +“What do you mean?” + +“It’s awful—Millersville. I hate it—People misunderstand. I’m poor, +you know—and work. It’s so easy for people to talk about a girl in +my position. And some one told my—my father that I meet you every +evening. He—he grew awfully angry. You don’t know my father—he has a +terrible temper. I—I can’t ever meet you any more. That’s all.” + +She wiped her eyes carefully, with her small handkerchief. “Of +course—it’s nothing to you, but it’s meant so much—I’m silly, I guess, +but it’s been the pleasant part of—of my life.” She sniffled, very +gently. + +“My dear, my dear,” Embury was moved. He wanted to take her into his +arms. Such a little girl—talked about—because she went walking with +him! He danced with other girls, put his arms around them on porches, +kissed them, even. And this little girl, walked with him—and even that +was denied her. + +Suddenly, it came to him how much the walks meant—how much Mamie +meant to him. Each day he told her everything he had done, talked +over his small business difficulties with her. She was always asking +such sensible, thoughtful questions about things. None of the other +girls cared—all they cared was that he was old man Embury’s son—good +as an escort—or to bring candy or flowers. He had never taken Mamie +any place, nor spent money on her. She seemed apart from things—their +little walks up the quiet street seemed to belong to another world. + +“It’s nonsense,” he said. “I won’t stand it. It’s ridiculous. Of course +we can keep on seeing each other.” + +“I’m afraid not,” her voice was unsteady. + +“But we must. Don’t you care?” + +“I—I—told you—I don’t dare think how lonely I’ll be. Thinking about our +talks has helped me all day long.” + +Mamie wouldn’t let Embury call on her, either. Not just yet—maybe +later, when her father was no longer angry. She didn’t dare disobey +him, he was rather cross, almost cruel to her. + +They walked the rest of the way in silence. At her street Mamie held +out her hand and Embury took it and held it. It seemed a very solemn +occasion. + +Mamie’s expression was not so sad as she turned down the side street. +It was decidedly pleasant and smiling. It might have puzzled Embury if +he had seen it, but not more than the conversation would have puzzled +Joe Carpenter. For, not since Mamie was ten had her father tried to +give her advice concerning her associates. No one ever came to him with +tales of Mamie and he had never even heard that the rich Mr. Embury had +a son. + + +VII + +For weeks, then, Embury didn’t see Mamie. At first he dismissed the +whole thing with a careless, “Well, that little affair is over,” +a slight disappointment that Mamie hadn’t been a better sport. It +was just as well—Some one had told his parents, too, and they had +questioned him, rather teasingly, about the companion of his evening +walks. But they had been serious, at that. They didn’t want him to get +“mixed up” with any one. + +Then he began to miss Mamie, miss the chance to talk about himself, +miss her soft femininity. To put her out of his mind he devoted himself +more thoroughly to Sophie. + +After all, she was the girl for him, one of the Redding girls, one of +his own class. But when he talked to her he couldn’t help comparing +her to Mamie, whom he felt he knew very well. Mamie was fresh and +wholesome and innocent. She never went to parties or dances, things +like that. Sophie was full of little tricks, liked to say things with +double meanings—and giggle. If the girls had been changed around—Sophie +in Mamie’s place—he couldn’t quite understand it. + +Sophie became too affectionate when he was with her, begged to light +his cigarettes, always putting her hands on his shoulders, pinching +his arm when anything exciting happened—and then pretending she +hadn’t meant to do it. She was an awfully nice girl, of course. But +she so definitely pursued him. He got tired of hearing her praises +sung at home, too. Her tricks of breaking engagements, pretending +indifference—they were worse than her affectionate moods. Her hair was +colourless, her eyes too light. Compared with Mamie.... + +As the days passed he missed Mamie more and more. He hated himself for +his stupidity—he found himself passing the Busy Bee on all possible +occasions, looking into the windows, over the display of assorted +candy, into the store. Sometimes, above the counters, he’d see her, +in her crisp white apron, her blonde, radiant hair framing her lovely +little face. She was always busy, always cheerful. Other girls wasted +their lives having good times. Mamie worked on, day after day—gentle, +good. Sometimes Embury thought her face looked serious, a bit sad. Did +she miss him? + +Finally he couldn’t stand it any longer. He cursed himself for his +silliness—he went into the Busy Bee, bought some candy. He had promised +himself he wouldn’t annoy her—she was right—it was better that they +shouldn’t see each other any more. Yet he was shedding the dignity of +an Embury, acting the mere oaf, hanging around a candy store hoping for +a smile from a salesgirl. He should have known better, scorned such +behaviour. But there he was. + +Mamie was busy. He waited—some one called to her and she went into +the back of the shop. He felt like a fool—didn’t dare ask for her. +He bought his candy and went out. Next day he passed the shop three +times. The day after he went inside again. He watched Mamie’s slim +fingers flying among the candy trays, putting chocolates into a box for +a customer. How he loved her hands. They were too fine for such work. +Why—he did love her—of course—that was it—he loved her—no use denying +it. + +He looked at her—her lovely profile, her fair complexion. She +turned—smiled at him, rather a sad little smile—and went on packing +chocolates, an adorable colour surging over her face. She had to pack +chocolates—his girl! He loved her—and couldn’t even walk down the +street with her. He made a purchase and went out, hating himself the +rest of the day. + +He took the candy out to the Reddings that evening. Ten or twelve of +the crowd were there. They turned on the Victrola and danced, then had +lemonade. Every one was in high spirits. Some one suggested a short +drive to cool off after dancing, so they all piled into the cars that +stood waiting for them along Maple Road. Embury drove his car and +Sophie sat next to him. + +“Propose to her,” something told him. “Go on, get definitely attached, +have it over with. Then you’ll be settled, nothing to worry about. No +use thinking about Mamie—you can’t marry her.” + +But he couldn’t propose, then nor later, when he was alone with her. +Sophie chattered. The soft, pleasant night seemed marred. He thought of +Mamie, their one ride together. He was sick of Sophie, of her tricks, +her silliness, his parents’ praise of her. He wanted Mamie. + +He thought of Mamie before he fell asleep that night. He did love her. +He knew that. But he couldn’t marry her. Of course not. If he did, +though, his father would be horribly disappointed. But he’d get over +it—and his mother, too. It wasn’t that. Mamie was far prettier and +sweeter than any girl in the crowd. But she didn’t belong—it was just +that she lived in Gillen Row. The crowd would laugh at him. + +What if they did laugh? Oh, well, it was something. He didn’t want to +hurt his future. Mamie was in another set—another world—that was all. +He couldn’t marry her. Still—he could see her. There were other things +beside marriage. He had to have his fling. He hadn’t had any affairs. +He was still young. Here was an affair, that was all. After that—you +can settle such things with money—there was time enough for marriage, +then—with Sophie, of course. + +He woke up feeling quite the conquering hero, as if he had already +taken definite steps in his approach on Mamie. She was a dear, a little +innocent. He was a college man, a man of the world. Of course she was +no match for him. Still—he’d be a fool not to follow the thing up—she +was too pretty to leave—if not him, some one else then. Why not him? + +At noon, when he left the office in his car, he drove up Gillen Row. +What a street! There had been no rain for days—everything was covered +with grey dust. There was a horrible sense of rust and decay and +dirtiness. He didn’t know which house was Mamie’s, but they all looked +alike in the sunshine, a squalid, ramshackle row,—how different from +his own home—from the Redding home, with their terraced lawns, their +pleasant green bushes and flowers. This was a different life from the +life he led, from the pleasant, comfortable ways of his people. And +yet—Mamie— + + +VIII + +At half-past five he went into the Busy Bee. Mamie was not busy. She +was standing near a glass counter, listlessly leaning one elbow against +it. She looked pale, he thought, and yet dainty—dainty and sweet, and +she’d come out of Gillen Row. It had been a hot summer. He was glad +September was here. + +She smiled as she saw him. How little she was! Hadn’t she missed him +at all? She had cared a little for him—he felt that. He could make her +care again, if she’d give him a chance. + +“I must see you,” he told her. + +She looked around, rather frightened. He had forgotten that she had +to be careful about her position—that she actually was forced to sell +candy in the Busy Bee. + +“Don’t you want to see me?” he added. + +“Of course.” + +“You won’t meet me in Elm Street?” + +“I don’t dare. I told you. You don’t understand—I—can’t meet you.” + +“May I come to see you?” + +“I—I told you—” + +“But I _must_ see you. Let me call.” + +“I don’t—well, all right then, if you want to come. I shouldn’t let +you. My father—still, if you want to. I live way down in Gillen Row. We +are—are very poor, you know. If you want—” + +“Of course I do. Why didn’t you let me come, before? May I come right +away, to-night?” + +She nodded. + +“Where do you live?” + +“The third house after Birch Street, Number 530. It’s a little cottage.” + +“Go driving with me?” + +“I—I told you I couldn’t—at night—and I never have time, other times.” + +“To-night then, about eight. How’s that?” + +Mamie nodded again, smiled. Embury bought a box of candy to cover his +embarrassment. + +Going into a candy shop to make an engagement with a shopgirl—trembling +when she spoke to him, grinning and ogling over the counter! He had +never thought himself capable of that. + +As he ate his dinner the engagement became something vastly important, +a bit different, a bit devilish. He’d take her out in his car. Of +course. It would be a moonlight night. He understood girls. A simple +girl like that— + + +IX + +A few minutes before eight he drove up to the cottage where Mamie +lived. It was even more terrible than he had imagined it, a crooked +little cottage with a funny, sagging porch, the paint peeled off, the +lumber turned grey. There had been no attempt to beautify the small +grey yard. + +As he stepped out of the car Mamie came out on the porch, walked +hurriedly toward him. She had on pink, a thin, delicate pink, made very +plain. Her complexion looked quite pale, her hair softer and brighter +than ever. + +She came up to him, put her hand on his arm, drew it back again. +The gesture that had been affectation with Sophie became genuine +embarrassment here. + +“You—can’t—call,” she said nervously. “I told father at dinner. He’s +just stepped out. He’d get furious—if he found you here. He—he keeps +on harping on what that man told him—about my being seen with you—he +says—I’m not in your class—that you don’t mean—aren’t—that I shouldn’t +go with you.” + +He saw that she was trembling. How soft she was and little. He wouldn’t +be cheated out of a ride with her—this evening—hadn’t seen her for a +long, long time. How he’d missed her! + +“Jump in the car,” he said. “Hurry up, before your father gets back. +He’ll never know.” + +“I can’t. You don’t know how angry he’d be. Girls don’t ride at night, +in Millersville, this way. It will make things worse.” + +She drew back. + +“You don’t want to go?” + +“Oh, I do, I do! You don’t know how much.” + +“Then jump in.” + +“It wouldn’t be right. You wouldn’t respect me. Other girls—” + +“My dear child, you don’t know the world. Other girls go driving at +night—and do worse things than that. Only night before last I took a +girl out driving—Sophie Redding—Miss Redding and I—” + +“I know, but she’s—you know—I told you what I heard.” + +“There’s no truth in that. I told you so. Now come on, be a nice girl, +jump in. It’s too perfect an evening to waste. We’ll drive down Rock +Road. No one will see us.” + +“I don’t know—I—” + +“Please come. You’ll please me, won’t you?” + +He felt bold, masterful, put his hand on her arm. He saw that he had +done the wrong thing, been too hasty. She drew away, frightened. + +“I—maybe—I’d better not see you any more, ever. That’s what I’d +planned—” + +“Please come on, won’t you, dear? Don’t talk like that. Come on.” + +He let his voice grow tender—he was surprised to find how much he meant +the tenderness. What if she wouldn’t go? + +She hesitated a moment, then: + +“All right,” she nodded, and jumped into the car. + +She had ordered her parents to keep away from the front of the house, +but she knew them. She was eager to get away before they peered out of +the window or slouched out on the porch. + +They left Gillen Row and were soon out in the country. + +Mamie sighed, a pleasant sigh of happiness. + +“I suppose I oughtn’t to be here,” she said. “It’s wrong, I know, but +it seems right when I’m with you. I’ve been so lonely lately. It seems +wonderful.” + +“You’ve missed me a little, then?” + +“Missed you—of course.” + +The moon came out. They drove along the Sulpulpa River, and the moon +rippled a path on the water. Embury stopped the car. + +“This is great, isn’t it?” he asked. + +“Wonderful. I almost lose my breath at it. I’m that way about scenery—I +can’t say much. And to be here, now—” + +He looked at her. She seemed almost ethereal in the moonlight, the pale +pink of her dress, the soft gleam of her hair. + +He put his arm around her, very gently, drew her close to him, held up +her chin, looked at her. She was lovely, her fragrant, soft complexion, +her big eyes. He kissed her. + +She gave a little gasp. But there was no pulling away, none of the +“how-dare-yous” which he had feared. As simply as a child she put her +arms around his neck, kissed him, gave little whispers of contentment. + +“You dear, you dear!” Embury whispered over and over again. + +Then she drew away from him, turned her back, broke into a paroxysm of +sobbing. + +“What’s the matter?” Embury asked, genuinely perplexed. + +He hadn’t quite understood her kissing him, though the kisses had been +very pleasant. He understood her now least of all. + +“I—I shouldn’t have come with you,” she sobbed. “Don’t you see—I—I—let +you kiss me—I kissed you—I wanted to kiss you—I’m as much to blame as +you—more. It’s wrong. I shouldn’t have come with you—now, you can’t +respect me any more. After this you’ll think—” + +“Now, now,” he soothed, “don’t carry on this way. Honest, it’s all +right. It really is. Of course I respect you, honey. You’re the dearest +girl I know. Why—I—love you!” + +He stumbled over the word—he had never told a girl that he loved +her, before. He was quite sincere, now. Marriage—of course that was +different. He knew that. But this little girl—she was a dear—lovely, as +she lay in his arms, soft and yielding, her lips against his. Still, +now he wanted her to stop crying—he had made her cry— + +“Why, dear, kisses aren’t anything, really. Lots of girls—You don’t +know the ways of the world, that’s all. Now, cheer up—I didn’t mean to +frighten you.” + +“It—it was all my fault. I shouldn’t have come. Of course, when I +came, you thought—and I—I _wanted_ to kiss you. That’s the worst of +it. Only—I did want to come—I never have anything. I’m—only nothing +at all—and live in Gillen Row and you’re Marlin Embury—and now—I’ve +kissed you.” + +He drove her home. All the way home she sobbed softly. There was a +light in the little cottage. + +“Don’t drive me to the house,” she said. “Father’s home—it’s late—if he +saw you—I don’t know what he’d do. I’ll be all right—if I go in alone. +My mother will be waiting, too. She’ll keep him from being too angry—if +I explain to her. I—I think she’ll understand.” + +He let her out at the corner, pressing her hand as he told her good-bye. + +“Now don’t you worry,” he said. “I’ll see you to-morrow, dear. A kiss +is nothing to worry over, really it isn’t.” + +She watched his car as he drove away, sent a tiny little wave of +farewell to him as he looked back. + +Her mother had gone to bed. Her father was playing cards with three +cronies in the dining-room. + +“That’s right, come trailing in at all hours—running around with some +one else—got some one new?” he growled, as she passed them. + +“That’s my business,” she answered curtly. + +Her father might have detected a new tone in her voice if he hadn’t +been too busy seeing that he got the best of his friends before they +took advantage of him. + + +X + +Embury worried about the kisses pretty much that night after he got +home. + +After all, Mamie was such a little thing and awfully young, not more +than eighteen, probably, and not worldly, sophisticated, like the +girls he went with. He oughtn’t to have—well, taken advantage of her. +She had said she would never see him again—and then, after he had said +he’d see her to-morrow, he had seen her wave farewell. If he didn’t +see her—perhaps that would be best, after all. Still,—her kisses were +sweet—she was a dear—he remembered the touch of her soft lips. + +In the morning Embury still thought only of Mamie’s arms around his +neck, her kisses. Of course he’d see her again. Why, he loved her. She +was smarter, prettier, than Sophie. Sophie wouldn’t have cried had +he kissed her—she would have thought he had proposed and put their +engagement in the papers. She probably thought they were even now. +Wouldn’t it be a joke on Sophie if he didn’t marry her, after all? His +parents—why should they rule his life? + +Of course, marrying Mamie was out of the question—still, with pretty +clothes, she’d beat any girl in Millersville on looks and brains. Why, +she had them beat already. Hadn’t she gone to High School until she +had to stop to help out at home? Working every day, selling candy, +luxuries—to others. Dear little thing—and now she was probably worrying +because he had kissed her. Of course he’d see her—keep on seeing her.... + +At ten o’clock he peered into the windows of the Busy Bee. Mamie was +not there. At eleven he looked in again. He went to the office and +attempted to work. He looked into the shop windows both going to and +coming from luncheon. He couldn’t keep his mind on what he was trying +to do in the afternoon. Before three, he left for the day and went to +the Busy Bee, looked in, went inside. It was almost a relief not to +see Mamie—a relief, and yet it worried him. + +A brown-haired girl he had never seen asked for his order. Embarrassed, +he told her he wanted to speak to Miss Carpenter. What a fool he was. +What else could he do? + +Miss Carpenter hadn’t been down all day—no, she didn’t know what was +the matter. Something she could do for him? Mechanically he ordered a +box of candy. + +He was glad he hadn’t found Mamie there. After last night he didn’t +like to think of her clerking—waiting on people. He’d take her +away—some place. Where? That was it—take her away. Still, he had to +stay in Millersville—a town like Millersville! And she—why she cried +when he kissed her—she was such a fragile, dainty little thing—like a +lily—that was it—a lily, who had grown up in the muck of Gillen Row. +Even too dainty for him. She wasn’t at the store. What was the matter? +What if— + +He drove to Gillen Row as rapidly as he could, stopped his car in front +of the forlorn cottage. What if her father was at home? Well, he could +manage him—must manage him. + +He ran up the front walk, up the broken steps, knocked at the door—the +bell seemed out of order. He waited. No answer. He couldn’t believe +that the house was empty. He would wait. He stood on the porch, +hesitating, wondering what to do. Then the door opened. It was Mamie. + +She had on a blue suit, a plain little suit, with a white collar and a +little black hat, turned up all around. He had never seen her except +in summer things. How well she looked, with her bright hair showing +below the hat-brim. + +“You shouldn’t have come here,” she said. “You mustn’t come. Go away—I +never—was going to see you again.” + +“What’s the matter? You aren’t ill? You weren’t at the Busy Bee?” + +“I’m not going back again, ever. I—I can’t stand it.” + +“What are you going to do, Mamie?” + +She looked so little and tragic. + +“Last night father was waiting for me when I got home. You don’t know +my father. He’s cruel, brutal, sometimes. He seemed to know, before +I told him—that I’d been driving with you. So—I’m going away—I can’t +stand—this—any more.” + +“Going—where?” + +He came inside, closed the door. What a mean little house it was. + +“I don’t know. Away from this—any place. I’ve enough money to get to—to +Giffordsville. I can find something to do there. I’ve got to have peace +and contentment—something. And you must hate me—after I kissed you last +night. You can’t care for me—respect me—and your respect was all I had.” + +“My dear, my dear little girl. Why, I—I—” + +His arms were around her again. But this time she did not meet his lips +with hers. She dropped her head, struggled a little, then sighed. + +“You see,” she said, “I can’t struggle against you. I must go away. I +can’t stand it—any longer. This house, everything—and now—” + +“Mamie.” + +“Yes?” + +“Look at me.” + +“I can’t.” + +He forced her face upward. + +“Do you love me?” + +“Don’t ask me to say it. You—know. Please don’t be cruel to me. Let me +go while I can.” + +“Cruel to you? Mamie, I love you. You know that. You mustn’t go away +from Millersville.” + +“I _must_ go. After the quarrel with father, I can’t stay here. That’s +settled.” + +“You _mustn’t_ go.” + +He repeated it over and over. He couldn’t let her go. Without her, +Millersville would be worse than oil-soaked Oklahoma. He dared not +imagine it, even. + +“I’m going now—I’m all ready for travelling. How can anything stop me?” +She pointed to a little packed bag. + +In his arms she was fragrant, sweet. How could she get along—what could +she do, alone in the world? Why—she was his girl—he could take care of +her. She understood him—his family—he wouldn’t let his parents ruin his +life. + +Marry her, of course. Wasn’t she better, nobler than the rest of +the girls—a cruel father who misunderstood her—alone in the world, +really—little and sweet and dear. Going away? Why, if he married her he +could keep her here. Of course. + +“I’m glad you’re ready,” he said, “because you’re going with me.” + +“What—what do you mean?” + +She drew away. + +“What could I mean? We—we love each other. We can drive right down to +the court-house this minute. You—you won’t mind—marrying me, will you?” + +She snuggled close to him and hid her head. From the sounds she made, +he couldn’t tell whether she was sobbing or giggling. But it didn’t +matter. Surely a girl could have her own method of accepting a proposal +of marriage. + + +XI + +The marriage has really turned out very well. Even Millersville admits +it. After all, Mamie Embury proved herself an exceptional woman, and +was quite able in every way to take her rightful place in society as +Marlin Embury’s wife. If her parents seemed below the Millersville +social level, no one dared dwell upon it. For young Mrs. Embury, under +her soft and blonde exterior, has rather a sharp manner at times and, +when necessary, can refer, in the pleasantest way, to things that have +taken place in the past—and even the best Millersville families have +their skeletons, forged cheques, little unnamed graves, jail sentences, +things like that. So, after all, a worthless father can’t be held +against a person, these days, all things considered. + +Mamie is getting to be a bit of a snob, though, even her best friends +think, because she objects to Millersville’s newest rich belonging to +the “society” set and speaks about drawing more conservative lines. Her +father was the black sheep of the family, it appears. The Carpenters +are really an old Kentucky family and she often tells that her mother +was one of the Virginia Prichards. Millersville knows that there is +a great deal in heredity—that blood will tell—so her friends can +understand her seeming snobbishness. + +Mamie is a charming hostess, and prettier than ever, even if she has +grown a bit rounder, and her husband is devoted to her. A poor girl who +married the richest man in town—it’s beautiful—and it’s such a relief, +with so many sordid things going on every day, to see real romance, a +genuine love match, once in a while. + + + + +A CYCLE OF MANHATTAN + + +I + +The Rosenheimers arrived in New York on a day in April. New York, +flushed with the first touch of Spring, moved on inscrutably, almost +suavely unawares. It was the greatest thing that had ever happened to +the Rosenheimers, and even in the light of the profound experiences +that were to follow it kept its vast grandeur and separateness, its +mysterious and benumbing superiority. Viewed later, in half-tearful +retrospect, it took on the character of something unearthly, +unmatchable and never quite clear—a violent gallimaufry of strange +tongues, humiliating questionings, freezing uncertainties, sudden and +paralyzing activities. + +The Rosenheimers came by way of the Atlantic Ocean, and if anything +remained unclouded in their minds it was a sense of that dour and +implacable highway’s unfriendliness. They thought of it ever after as +an intolerable motion, a penetrating and suffocating smell. They saw it +through drenched skylights—now and then as a glimpse of blinding blue +on brisk, heaving mornings. They remembered the harsh, unintelligible +exactions of officials in curious little blue coats. They dreamed for +years of endless nights in damp, smothering bunks. They carried off the +taste of strange foods, barbarously served. The Rosenheimers came in +the steerage. + +There were, at that time, seven of them, if you count Mrs. Feinberg. As +Mrs. Feinberg had, for a period of eight years—the age of the oldest +Rosenheimer child—been called nothing but Grandma by the family and +occasionally Grandma Rosenheimer by outsiders, she was practically a +Rosenheimer, too. Grandma was Mrs. Rosenheimer’s mother, a decent, +simple, round-shouldered “sheiteled,” little old woman, to whom life +was a ceaseless washing of dishes, making of beds, caring for children +and cooking of meals. She ruled them all, unknowing. + +The head of the house of Rosenheimer was, fittingly, named Abraham. +This had abbreviated itself, even in Lithuania, to a more intimate Abe. +Abe Rosenheimer was thirty-three, sallow, thin-cheeked and bearded, +with a slightly aquiline nose. He was already growing bald. He was +not tall and he stooped. He was a clothing cutter by trade. Since his +marriage, nine years before, he had been saving to bring his family +over. Only the rapid increase of its numbers had prevented him coming +sooner. + +Abraham Rosenheimer was rather a silent man and he looked stern. +Although he recognized his inferiority in a superior world, he was not +without his ambitions. These looked toward a comfortable home, his own +chair with a lamp by it, no scrimping about meat at meals and a little +money put by. He had heard stories about fortunes that could be made +in America and in his youth they had stirred him. Now he was not much +swayed by them. He was fond of his family and he wanted them “well +taken care of,” but in the world that he knew the rich and the poor +were separated by an unscalable barrier. Unless incited temporarily to +revolution by fiery acquaintances he was content to hope for a simple +living, work not too hard or too long, a little leisure, tranquillity. + +He had a comfortable faith which included the belief that, if a man +does his best, he’ll usually be able to make a living for his family. +“Health is the big thing,” he would say, and “The Lord will provide.” +Outside of his prayer-book, he did little reading. It never occurred to +him that he might be interested in the outside world. He knew of the +existence of none of the arts. His home and his work were all he had +ever thought about. + +Mrs. Rosenheimer, whose first name was Minnie, was thirty-one. She was +a younger and prettier reproduction of her mother, plump and placid, +with a mouth inclined to petulancy. + +There were four Rosenheimer children. Yetta was eight, Isaac six, +Carrie three and little Emanuel had just had his first birthday. Yetta +and Carrie were called by their own first names, but Isaac, in America, +almost immediately gave way to Ike and little Emanuel became Mannie. +They were much alike, dark-haired, dark-eyed, restless, shy, wondering. + +The Rosenheimers had several acquaintances in New York, people from the +little village near Grodno who had preceded them to America. Most of +these now lived in the Ghetto that was arising on the East Side of New +York, and Rosenheimer had thought that his family would go there, too, +so as to be near familiar faces. He had written several months before, +to one Abramson, a sort of a distant cousin, who had been in America +for twelve years. As Abramson had promised to meet them, he decided to +rely on Abramson’s judgment in finding a home in the city. + +Abramson was at Ellis Island and greeted the family with vehement +embraces. He seemed amazingly well-dressed and at home. He wore a large +watchchain and no less than four rings. He introduced his wife, whom he +had married since coming to America, though she, too, had come from the +old country. She wore silk and carried a parasol. + +“I’ve got a house all picked out for you,” he explained in familiar +Yiddish. “It isn’t in the Ghetto, where some of our friends live, but +it’s cheap, with lots of comforts and near where you can get work, too.” + +Any house would have suited the Rosenheimers. They were pitifully +anxious to get settled, to rid themselves of the foundationless +feeling which had taken possession of them. With eager docility, Yetta +carrying Mannie and each of the others carrying a portion of the +bundles of wearing apparel and feather comforts which formed their +luggage, they followed Abramson to a surface car and to their new home. +In their foreign clothes and with their bundles they felt almost as +uncomfortable as they had been on shipboard. + +The Rosenheimers’ new home was in MacDougal Street. They looked with +awe on the exterior and pronounced it wonderful. Such a fine building! +Of red brick it was! There were three stories. The first story was +a stable, the big door open. Little Isaac had to be pulled past the +restless horses in front of it. The whole family stood for a moment, +drinking in the wonders, then followed Abramson up the stairs. On the +second floor several families lived in what the Rosenheimers thought +was palatial grandeur. Even their own home was elegant. It consisted of +two rooms—the third floor front. They could hardly be convinced that +they were to have all that space. There was a stove in the second room +and gas fixtures in both of them—and there was a bathroom, with running +water, in the general hall! The Rosenheimers didn’t see that the paper +was falling from the walls and that, where it had been gone for some +years, the plaster was falling, too. Nor that the floor was roughly +uneven. + +“Won’t it be too expensive?” asked Rosenheimer. Abramson chuckled. +Though he himself was but a trimmer by trade, he was pleased with the +rôle of fairy godfather. He liked twirling wonders in the faces of +these simple folk. In comparison, he felt himself quite a success, a +cosmopolite. Just about Rosenheimer’s age, he had small deposits in two +savings banks, a three-room apartment, a wife and two American sons, +Sam and Morrie. Both were in public school, and both could speak “good +English.” He patted Rosenheimer on the back jovially. + +“You don’t need to worry,” he said. “A good cutter here in New York +don’t have to worry. Even a ‘greenhorn’ makes a living. There’s half +a dozen places you can choose from. I’ll tell you about it, and where +to go, to-morrow. Now, we’ll go over to my house and have something +to eat. Then you’ll see how you’ll be living in a few years. You can +borrow some things from us until you get your own. My wife will be glad +to go with Mrs. Rosenheimer and show her where to buy.” + +The Rosenheimers gave signs of satisfaction as they dropped their +bundles and sat down on the empty boxes that stood around, or on the +floor. This was something like it! Here they had a fine home in a big +brick house, a sure chance of Rosenheimer getting a good job, friends +to tell them about things—they had already found their place in New +York! Grandma, trembling with excitement, took Mannie in her arms and +held him up dramatically. + +“See, Mannie, see Mannischen—this is fine—this is the way to live!” + + +II + +Things turned out even more miraculously than the Rosenheimers had +dared to hope. After only three days Rosenheimer found a job as a pants +cutter at the fabulous wages he had heard of. He could not only pay the +high rent, twelve dollars a month, he would also have enough left over +for food and clothes, and to furnish the home, if they were careful. +Maybe, after the house was in order, there would even be a little to +put by. Of course it was no use being too happy about it, he told Mrs. +Rosenheimer. + +“It looks fine now, but you know you can’t always tell. It takes a +whole lot to feed a big family.” + +Although secretly delighted, he was solemn and rather silent over his +good fortune. Abraham Rosenheimer was a cautious man. + +Mrs. Abramson initiated Grandma and Mrs. Rosenheimer into New York +buying. It was fascinating, even more so than buying had been at home. +There were neighbourhood shops where Yiddish was spoken, and already +the family was beginning to learn a little English. Mrs. Rosenheimer +listened closely to what people said and the children picked up words, +playing in the street. + +The next weeks were orgies of buying. Not that much was bought, for +there wasn’t much money and it had to be spent very carefully, but +each article meant exploring, looking and haggling. Grandma took the +lead in buying—didn’t Grandma always do such things? Grandma was only +fifty-seven and spry for her age. Didn’t she take care of the children +and do more than her share of the housework? + +Grandma was supremely happy. She liked to buy and she felt that +merchants couldn’t fool her, even in this strange country. A table +was the first thing she purchased. It was almost new and quite large. +It was pine and bare of finish, but after Grandma had scrubbed it and +scoured it it looked clean and wholesome. It was quite a nice table +and only wobbled a little when you leaned on it heavily, for the legs +weren’t quite even. One was a little loose and Grandma didn’t seem able +to fasten it. Assisted by Mrs. Rosenheimer and Yetta, she scrubbed the +whole flat, so that it equalled the new table in immaculateness. There +were families who liked dirt—Grandma had seen them, even in America—but +she was glad she didn’t belong to one of them. + +Then came chairs, each one picked out with infinite care and much +sibilant whispering between Grandma, Mrs. Rosenheimer and Mrs. +Abramson. There was a rocker, slat-backed, from which most of the +slats were missing, though it still rocked “as good as new.” The +next chair was leather-covered, though the leather was cut through +in places, allowing the horse-hair stuffing to protrude. But, as Mrs. +Abramson pointed out, this was an advantage, it showed that the filling +wasn’t an inferior cotton. There were two straight chairs, one with a +leatherette seat, nailed on with bright-coloured nails, the other with +a wicker seat, quite neatly mended. There was a cot for Grandma and a +bed for Mr. and Mrs. Rosenheimer and Emanuel. The other children were +well and strong and could sleep on the floor, of course. Hadn’t they +brought fine soft feathers with them? + +All of the furniture was second- or third-hand and the previous owners +had not treated it with much care. So Grandma got some boxes to help +out, and she and the Rosenheimers worked over them, pulling and +driving nails. Finally they had a cupboard which held all of the new +dishes—almost new, if you don’t mind a few hardly noticeable nicked +edges—and decorated with fine pink roses. Some of the boxes were still +used as chairs, “to help out.” One fine, high one did very nicely as +an extra table, with a grand piece of brand-new oilcloth, in a marbled +pattern, tacked over it. They had a home now. + +Grandma and Mrs. Rosenheimer marketed every day at the stores and +markets in the neighbourhood. Rosenheimer sometimes complained that +they used too much money, but then, he “liked to eat well.” The little +Rosenheimers grew round and merry. + +Grandma and Mr. and Mrs. Rosenheimer, looking at the children and at +their two big rooms—all their own and so nicely furnished—could hardly +imagine anything finer. Grandma and Rosenheimer were absolutely at +peace. But Mrs. Rosenheimer knew that, with more money, there were a +lot of things you could buy. She had walked through Washington Square +and up Fifth Avenue. She had seen people in fine clothes, people of her +own race, too. She didn’t have much, after all. Still, most of the time +she was content. + +Gradually, too, Rosenheimer saw shadows of wealth. He heard rumours of +how fortunes were made overnight—his boss now, a few years before, had +been a poor boy.... Nevertheless, smoking his cigarettes and reading +his Yiddish paper after his evening meal, or talking with Abramson or +one of the men he had met, he was well satisfied with New York as he +had found it. + + +III + +As the months passed, the Rosenheimers drank in, unbelievably fast, +the details of the city. Already the children were beginning to speak +English, not just odd words, here and there, but whole sentences. +Already, too, they were beginning to be ashamed of being “greenhorns” +and were planning the time when they could say they had been over for +years or had been born here. Little Mannie was beginning to talk and +every one said he spoke English without an accent. + +Yetta and Ike started to school. Each day they brought home some +startling bit of information that the family received and assimilated +without an eye-wink. Although most of the men at the shop spoke +Yiddish, Rosenheimer was learning English, too. He even spoke, vaguely, +about learning to read it and write it, and he began to look over +English papers, now and then, interestedly. Mrs. Rosenheimer also +showed faint literary leanings and sometimes asked questions about +things. + +Ike was always eager to tell everything he had learned. In a sharp +little voice he would instruct, didactically, any one within hearing +distance. He rather annoyed Rosenheimer, who was not blinded by the +virtues of his eldest son. But he was Mrs. Rosenheimer’s favourite. She +would sit, hands folded across her ample lap, smiling proudly as he +unrolled his fathomless knowledge. + +“Listen at that boy! Ain’t he wonderful, the way he knows so much?” she +would exclaim. + +Yetta’s learning took the form, principally, of wanting things. Each +day, it seemed, she could find out something else she didn’t have, +that belonged to all American children. And, no matter how penniless +Rosenheimer had just declared himself to be, unsmilingly and a bit +shamefacedly, he would draw pennies out of the depths of the pocket of +his shiny trousers. + +Only Grandma showed no desire to learn the ways of the new country. +She didn’t mind picking up a little English, of course, though she’d +got along very nicely all of her life without it. Still, in a new +country, it didn’t hurt to know something about the language. But as +for reading—well, Yiddish was good enough for her, though she didn’t +mind admitting she didn’t read Yiddish easily. Grandma had little use +for the printed word. + +Each week the Rosenheimers’ clothes changed nearer to the prevailing +styles of MacDougal Street. Only a few weeks after they arrived Mrs. +Rosenheimer, overcome by her new surroundings, bought, daringly, a lace +sailor collar, which she fastened around the neck of her old-world +costume. As the months passed, even this failed to satisfy. The dress +itself finally disappeared, reappearing as a school frock for Yetta, +and Mrs. Rosenheimer wore a modest creation of red plaid worsted which +Grandma and she had made, huge sleeves, bell skirt and all, after one +they had seen in Washington Square on a “society lady.” + +Just a year after they arrived in America, Mrs. Rosenheimer discarded +her _sheitel_. She even tried to persuade Grandma to leave hers off, +but Grandma demurred. There were things you couldn’t do decently, even +in a new country. Mrs. Rosenheimer made the innovation in a spirit of +fear, but when no doom overtook her and she found in a few weeks how +“stylish” she looked, she never regretted the change. She was wearing +curled bangs, good as the next one, before long. + +Little Ike had a new suit, bought ready-made, his first bought suit, +not long afterwards. The trousers were a bit too long, but surely +that was an advantage, for he was growing fast, going on eight. They +couldn’t call him a “greenhorn” now. He came home, too, with reports of +how smart his teacher said he was and of the older boys, unbelievers, +whom he had “got ahead of” in school. His shrill voice would grow +louder and higher as he would explain to the admiring Mrs. Rosenheimer +and Grandma what a fine lad he was getting to be. + +Other signs of change now appeared. Scarcely a year had gone by before +lace curtains appeared at the two front windows. They were of different +patterns, but what of that? They had been cheaper that way, as +“samples.” By tautly drawn strings, white and stiff they hung, adding +a touch of elegance to the abode. Only three months later a couch was +added, the former grandeur of its tufted surface not at all dimmed by +a few years of wear. Yetta and Carrie slept on it, luxuriously, one at +each end. It was a long couch and they were so little. + +Then a cupboard for dishes appeared. Grandma bought it from a family +that was “selling out.” It had glass doors. At least there had been +glass doors. One was broken now, but who noticed that? In the corner of +the front room, opposite the couch, it looked very “stylish.” And not +long afterward there was a carpet in the front room, three strips of +it, with a red and green pattern. Then, indeed, the Rosenheimers felt +that they could, very proudly, “be at home to their friends.” They had +company, now, families of old friends and new, from the Ghetto and from +their own neighbourhood. And they visited, _en masse_, in return. + +There wasn’t much money, of course. Rosenheimer was getting good wages, +but children eat a lot and beg for pennies between meals. And shoes! +But like many men of his race and disposition, Rosenheimer never +contributed quite all of his funds to his household. Nor did he take +his women into his confidence. He felt that they could not counsel +him wisely, which was probably right, for neither Grandma nor Mrs. +Rosenheimer was interested in anything outside of their home and their +friends. Besides this, he had a natural secrecy, a dislike of talking +things over with his family. So, each week, he made an infinitesimal +addition to the savings account he had started. He even considered +various investments—he knew of men who were buying the tenements in +which they lived on wages no bigger than his, living in the basement +and taking care of the house outside of working hours. But he felt that +he was still too much the “greenhorn” for such enterprises, so he kept +on with his small and secret savings. + + +IV + +In 1897 another member was added to the family. This meant a big +expense, a midwife and later a doctor, but Rosenheimer had had a raise +by this time—he was, in fact, now a foreman—so the expense was met +without difficulty. There was real joy at the arrival of this baby—more +than at the coming of any of the previous children. For this was an +American baby, and seemed, in some way, to make the whole family more +American. The baby was a girl and even the sex seemed satisfactory, +though, of course, at every previous addition the Rosenheimers had +hoped for a boy. + +There was a great discussion, then, about names. Before this, a baby +had always been named after some dead ancestor or relative without much +ado. It was best to name a child after a relative, but, according to +custom, if the name didn’t quite suit, you took the initial instead. +By some process of reasoning, this was supposed to be naming the child +“after” the honoured relative. Now the Rosenheimers wanted something +grandly American for the new baby. Grandma wanted Dora, after her +mother. But Dora didn’t sound American enough. Ike suggested Della, but +that didn’t suit, either. Finally Yetta brought home Dorothy. It was a +very stylish name, it seemed, and was finally accepted. + +Little Emanuel, aged four, was told that “his nose was out of joint.” +He cried and felt of it. It seemed quite straight to him. It was. He +was a handsome little fellow, and, when Mrs. Rosenheimer took him out +with her, folks would stop and ask about him. She was glad when she +could answer them in English. And as for Mannie—at four he talked as if +no other country than America had ever existed. + +Very gradually, Mrs. Rosenheimer grew tired of MacDougal Street. She +tried to introduce this dissatisfaction into the rest of the family. +Grandma was very happy here. With little shrugs and gestures she +decried any further change. Weren’t they all getting along finely? +Wasn’t Rosenheimer near his work? Weren’t the children fat and healthy? +What could they have better than this—two rooms, running water, gas +and everything? Didn’t they know people all around them? Rosenheimer +was indifferent. Some of his friends, including the Abramsons, had +already moved “farther out.” Still, he didn’t see the use of spending +so much money; they were all right where they were. Times were hard; +you couldn’t tell what might happen. Still, if Minnie had her heart set +on it— The children were ready for any change. + +Mrs. Rosenheimer, revolving the matter endlessly in her mind, found +many reasons for moving. All of her friends, it seemed, had fled from +the noise and dirt of MacDougal Street. On first coming to New York +she had been disappointed at not living in the Ghetto over on the +East side. Now, when she visited there, she wondered how she had ever +liked it. When she moved she wanted something really fine—and where +her friends were, too. She had a good many friends outside of the +Ghetto now. On arriving in America she hadn’t known MacDougal Street +was dirty. She knew it now. And the little Italian children in the +neighbourhood—oh, they were all right, of course, but—not just whom +you’d want your children to play with, exactly. Why, every day Ike +would come home with terrible things they had said to him. And their +home, which had looked so grand, was old and ugly, too, when compared +with those of other people. Of course Grandma liked it, but, after all, +Grandma was old-fashioned. Mrs. Rosenheimer discovered, almost in one +breath, that her mother belonged to a passing generation, and didn’t +keep up with the times—that she, herself, really had charge of the +household. + +Out in East Seventy-seventh Street there were some tenements, not at +all like those of MacDougal Street nor the Ghetto, but brand-new, just +the same as rich people had. Each flat had a regular kitchen with a +sink and running water and a fine new gas stove. The front room had a +mirror in it that belonged to the house—and—unbelievably but actually +true—there was a bathroom for each family. It had a tub in it, painted +white, and a washstand—both with running water—and already there was +oilcloth, in blue and white, on the bathroom floor. The outer halls had +gas in them that burned all night—some sort of a law. Those tenements +were elegant—that was the way to live. + +Rosenheimer got another raise. There was some sort of an organization +of cutters, a threatened strike, and then sudden success. Mrs. +Rosenheimer never understood much about it but it meant more money. +Now Rosenheimer had no legitimate reason for keeping his family in +MacDougal Street. + +So he and Mrs. Rosenheimer and Grandma went out to the new tenements +and looked around. Mrs. Rosenheimer acted as spokesman, talking with +the woman at the renting office, asking questions, pointing things out. +At the end of the afternoon Rosenheimer rented one of the four-room +flats in a new tenement building. + +On the way home, Mrs. Rosenheimer leaned close to her husband: + +“Ain’t it grand, the way we are going to live now?” she asked. + +“If we can pay for it.” + +“With you doing so well, how you talk!” + +“Good enough, but money, these days—” + +“Abe, do you want to do something for me?” + +“Go on, something more to spend money on.” + +“Not a cent, Abe. Only, won’t you—shave your beard? Moving to a new +neighbourhood and all. Not for me, but the neighbours should see what +an American father the children have got.” + +Rosenheimer frowned a bit uneasily. Mrs. Rosenheimer didn’t refer +to it again, but three days later he came home strangely thin and +white-looking—his beard gone. Only a little moustache, soft and mixed +with red, remained. + +Before the Rosenheimers moved they sold the worst of their furniture +to the very man from whom they bought it, five years before, taking +only the big bed, the table and the couch. It was Mrs. Rosenheimer who +insisted on this. + +“Trash we’ve got, when you compare it to the way others live. We need +new things in a fine new flat.” + +On the day they were moving, Yetta said something. The family were +amazed into silence. Yetta was thirteen now, a tall girl, rather plump, +with black hair and flashing eyes. + +“When we move, let’s get rid of some of our name,” she said. “I hate +it. It’s awfully long—Rosenheimer. Nobody ever says it all, anyhow. +Let’s call ourselves Rosenheim.” + +“Why, why,” muttered her father, finally, “how you talk! Change my +name, as if I was a criminal or something.” + +“Aw,” Yetta pouted, she was her father’s favourite and she knew it, +“this family of greenhorns make me tired. Rosenheimer—if it was longer +you’d like it better. Ike Rosenheimer and Carrie Rosenheimer and Yetta +Rosenheimer! It’s awful. Leaving off two letters would only help a +little—and that’s too much for you. Since the Abramsons moved they +are Abrams, and you know it. And Sam—do you know what? At school they +called him MacDougal because he lived here on this street and he liked +it better than Sam, so he’s calling himself MacDougal Abrams now. And +here, you old-timers—” + +“She’s right, Mamma,” said Ike, “our names are awful.” + +Mannie didn’t say anything. He sucked a great red lollypop. At six one +doesn’t care much about names. Nor did Carrie, who was eight. + +There was a letter-box for each family in the entrance hall of the new +tenement building and a space for the name of the family just above +it. Maybe Rosenheimer had taken the advice of his children. Perhaps +he wrote in large letters and couldn’t get all of his name in the +space made for it. Anyhow, Rosenheim was announced to the world as the +occupant of Flat 52. + + +V + +Flat 52 was quite as handsome as Mrs. Rosenheim had dreamed it would +be. There were four rooms in it. In the parlour was the famous built-in +mirror, with a ledge below it to hold ornaments. And, before long, +ornaments there were, three big vases. They were got with coupons from +the coffee and tea store at the corner—it was a lucky thing all the +Rosenheims liked coffee. There was the couch, too, but best of all was +the new table. It was brand-new—no one else had ever used it before. +Mrs. Rosenheim bought it in Avenue A and was paying for it weekly out +of the household allowance. It was red and shiny and round and each +little Rosenheim was warned not to press sticky fingers on it, though +it was always full of finger marks. + +On the table was a mat of blue plush and on the plush mat was—yes—a +book—“Wonders of Natural History.” It had been Yetta’s birthday present +from her father and was quite handsome enough, coloured pictures, red +binding and all, to grace even this gem of a table. There was a new rug +in this room, too, though it was new only to the Rosenheims. There +were roses woven right into it and Grandma thought it was the most +beautiful thing she had ever seen. She liked to sit and look at it as +she rocked. + +Yetta, Carrie and Grandma slept in the front room—just the three of +them alone in the biggest room. There was a cot, covered with a Turkish +spread, for the girls and Grandma slept on the couch—no sleeping on +the floor any more for this family. So wonderful was the new home that +there was a bedroom devoted exclusively to the rites of sleeping. +Mr. and Mrs. Rosenheim and Dorothy occupied it. The third room was +the dining-room, where Ike and Mannie slept all alone on a cot and +weren’t afraid. No one slept in the kitchen or bathroom at all. In +the dining-room there was a whole “set” of furniture, bought from the +family that was moving out, a square table and six chairs. It was lucky +Mannie and Dorothy were so little they could sit on others’ laps. + +The dining-room with its fine “set,” brought the habit of regular meals +with it. In MacDougal Street there was a supper-time, of course, but +the children weren’t always there and the other meals had been rather +haphazard, half of the family standing up, likely as not. Now there +was a regular breakfast in the morning, every one sitting down, and +early enough for Rosenheim to get to work on time and Yetta and Ike +and Carrie to get to school. Lunch was still informal, eaten standing +around the kitchen. Supper was a grand meal, every one sitting down at +the same time, the table all set with tablecloth and dishes, as if it +were a party. + +It was easy to settle down into the pleasant rhythm of East +Seventy-seventh Street. There were big new tenements on each side of +the street and before long each member of the family made lots of +friends. + +Rosenheim didn’t have as many friends as the others. He didn’t care +for them. His hours were long and he was getting into the habit of +working, sometimes, at night. It takes a lot of money to pay rent—six +dollars every week—and buy clothes and food for a family and save a +little, too. Rosenheim didn’t complain unless his usual solemn face and +prediction of hard times can be called complaining. It never occurred +to him that he had anything to complain about. Didn’t he have a fine +home and a lot to eat, a home grander than he ought to spend the money +for, even? When he wasn’t busy, he and Abrams and a friend of theirs, +sometimes a man named Moses, would play cards long hours at a time, +talking in loud, seemingly angry voices and smoking long cigarettes. +Or, with coat, collar and shoes off, as he always sat in the house, +he would read the paper—he could read English quite easily, but he +preferred Yiddish. He didn’t talk much and the children were taught +“not to worry Papa,” when he was at home. + +Grandma grew to like the new home in time, though it never seemed quite +as pleasant as that in MacDougal Street. She did all of the cooking, of +course, and could order the children around as much as she wanted to, +though they were good children as a rule, when you let them see who was +boss. She would exclaim with clasped hands over the grandeur of things +and beg her God that the people from her home-town might see “how we +live like this.” She was always busy. She never learned to speak +English well, and though at sixty-two she could drive a bargain as good +as ever, she didn’t feel quite comfortable in the near-by shops as she +had in MacDougal Street. Gradually her daughter took over the marketing +from her. + +The spirit of change had reached Mrs. Rosenheim and she did what she +could to grasp it. She tried again to persuade Grandma to take off her +_sheitel_. + +“See, Grandma, these other people. Ain’t you as good as them? It ain’t +nothing to be ashamed of, a _sheitel_, but here in America we do what +others do.” + +But Grandma kept her _sheitel_. She couldn’t yield everything to the +customs of the unbelievers. She even muttered things about “forgetting +your own people.” + +Mrs. Rosenheim tried to acquire “elegant English.” She was very proud +of her children because their language was unsullied by accent. But +perhaps because she never liked to read and it never occurred to her +that she might study, or because her tongue had lost its flexibility, +she was never able to conceal her foreignness. She was becoming a +little self-satisfied, too, a bit complacent with her own ways, and +this may have hindered her progress. The new language issued forth in a +strange, twisted form, the “w’s” and “v’s” transposed, the intonations +of the Yiddish always noticeable. She managed to make nearly all of the +ordinary grammatical errors of the native and a few pet ones of her +own. Her sentences were full of inversions. Her voice, never very low, +became louder and louder and the singing intonations more marked as she +grew excited. Rosenheim spoke with an accent, too, which he always +retained, but his voice was quite low and he soon overcame this strange +sing-song of his native tongue. Then, too, Rosenheim never talked very +much. + +Mrs. Rosenheim bloomed in East Seventy-seventh Street. Her mother did +the cooking and Yetta helped with the housework. Even then, with so +many children in the house, there was enough to do, but she spent much +time in visiting her neighbours, gossiping about her children, the +prices of food, other neighbours. Although her family came first, she +began to pay more attention to herself, buying clothes that were not +absolutely necessary, cheap things that looked fine to her. She became +ambitious, too. She found that there was another life not bounded by +the tenements and that “other people,” the rich part of the world, were +not much different outside of their possession of money. Her humility +was wearing away. “We’re as good as anybody” came to her mind, and +was beginning to fertilize. She didn’t want to associate with any one +outside of her own group, but she liked to feel that others were not +superior. The children, continuing their acquisitiveness, encouraged +their mother. + +Yetta had her fourteenth birthday soon after the family moved to East +Seventy-seventh Street. She began to mature rather rapidly, arranging +her hair in an exaggerated following of the fashion and even purchased +and wore a pair of corsets. She had a high colour and her flashing +eyes made her quite attractive. Her mouth was rather wide. Yetta did +not speak with a foreign accent, but her voice was a trifle hoarse and +was not well modulated. She had a lot to say about nearly everything +and delighted in saying it. The niceties of conversation had not been +introduced into the Rosenheim family life and most of the things Yetta +thought of occurred when some one else was talking. Her favourite +method of attracting attention was to interrupt or talk down, in a +louder voice, any one who had the floor. Ike had this pleasant little +habit, too, so between them conversation rose in roaring waves of sound. + +Yetta felt that many things about her could be improved. She began to +criticize things at home—her clothes; her mother’s language, which was +too full of errors, too singing to suit her daughter; the actions of +the younger children. She never liked to read, but she “loved a good +time” and was always with a group of girls and boys, laughing and +talking. + +Ike was much like Yetta, though a bit more serious, more inclined to +argument. He could argue over anything even at twelve. He, too, had +definite notions about the upbringing of the younger children and the +modernity of the household. He didn’t want any one making fun of the +family he belonged to. His own name came in for his disapproval about +this time. + +He had a fight with a boy named Jim and Jim hit him and called him +names. But the cruelest part of Jim’s name-calling had been merely to +repeat, over and over again, “Ikey Rosenheim, Ikey Rosenheim.” For this +cruelty Ike had fought Jim and had emerged not entirely victorious, +bringing back a black eye and the memory of the derision in the mouth +of the enemy. + +“I’m going to change my name,” Ike announced at supper that night. “I +don’t care what this family says. You make me sick, naming me Ike. You +might have known. This family has terrible names. No wonder people make +fun of us. After this I’m—I’m going to be—Harold.” + +“Oh, no, not Harold,” Grandma wailed, with uplifted hands. + +“No,” Mrs. Rosenheim groaned, “you’ve got to keep the letter, the ‘I.’ +You were named after your Papa’s father.” + +“There’s a lot of good names beginning with ‘I,’” Yetta encouraged. So, +between them, they found Irving, which seemed satisfactory to every +one. Little Irving, at school, told his teacher that Ike had been a +nickname and that the family wanted him called by his own name, now. +Jim, not satisfied with Irving Rosenheim as a reproach, had to find +something else to fight about. + +Carrie and Mannie and Dorothy were still too little to bother about +names. They begged for pennies for lollypops on sticks, candy apples, +licorice and other delicacies that the neighbourhood afforded, +satisfied to tag after Mrs. Rosenheim as she did the marketing. They +were nice children, though of course Dorothy was a little spoiled—the +youngest child and always having her own way about everything. + + +VI + +During the next year something came up in a business way that caused +Rosenheim and Abrams to hold long consultations during many evenings. +They nodded together over bits of paper on which there were many +figures. Mrs. Rosenheim felt that they had “something in their +heads” they weren’t telling her about, but, being a dutiful wife—and +knowing her husband, and how useless it would have been—she didn’t +press matters. A few weeks later she found out. E. G. Plotski had died +suddenly, leaving no near relatives except a wife. Abrams had heard +about the case. Mrs. Plotski couldn’t keep up the business alone. If +she couldn’t “sell out,” complete, she was going to give it up and sell +the machinery. She had some cousins in a far-Western place called, +Abrams believed, Iowa, and was desirous of living with them. If Mrs. +Plotski “gave up the business” there was a tremendous loss, it seemed +to Abrams and Rosenheim—for Plotski already had operators, customers, +“good will.” And with their knowledge of the pants business.... + +It seemed, indeed, a visitation, as if a whole pants business had +descended to them as a direct reward for their long and faithful +work. But Mrs. Plotski had friends, not just in a position to buy the +business, it seemed, but quite capable of giving advice about selling +it. And herein lay the need of much nodding and figuring. Finally it +was settled. Abrams and Rosenheim went to their several banks—it’s +never safe to put all of your savings in one bank, even if it does look +like a fine big one—drew out their saving accounts, for of course they +had no checking accounts, and, after the usual legalities had been +concluded, were the joint partners of The Acme Pants Company, Men’s and +Boys’ Pants. + +After they had signed their names, Marcus L. Abrams and Abraham G. +Rosenheim, Rosenheim allowed his stern face to relax into a rather sad +smile. + +“Good, eh, Marcus? Here, I’m only ‘over’ seven years and I’m partner +in a business already. Of course, we can expect hard times, but, a +business ain’t anything to be ashamed of.” + +The family saw Rosenheim’s new signature and liked it. Irving wrote +it above the letter-box. The G stood for nothing in particular, but +Rosenheim had no middle name and of course he ought to have one. It +was indeed American. The neighbourhood did not notice, it was used to +changes. + +Abrams and Rosenheim worked all day and most of the night. They “went +over the books” with great deliberation. They looked into every minute +detail of the business, and wrote numerous letters by hand on the old +Acme Pants Company letterheads that they found in Plotski’s desk. When +this paper was used up they ordered more, retaining the cut of the +building at the top but substituting their names for the name of the +deceased former owner. + +They were very happy over their new business, though you would never +have known it by their actions. They always wore long faces. + +The factory did well. People liked ready-made pants, it seemed. The two +men hurried around seeking new trade, satisfied with as small a profit +as possible. They bought job lots of woollens from the factories and +did numberless other things to reduce expenses. Rosenheim cut the pants +and Abrams was not too proud to do his share of the menial labour. +Before another year had passed the whole of the third floor loft +belonged to the Acme Pants Company. + +Mrs. Rosenheim was proud of her husband. It was mighty fine, these +days, to speak of “my husband’s factory” to those women whose more +unfortunate spouses were forced to exist on mere wages handed them +by their overlords. But even this, in time, stopped satisfying. What +good does it do for your husband to own a factory if you still live in +a tenement in East Seventy-seventh Street? Mrs. Rosenheim knew that +her husband was working hard and was nearly always worried over money +matters, bills to meet, wages to be paid. But, as long as he actually +was a manufacturer, and owner of a business, a payer of wages, it was +unbelievable that they should live in a tenement. Weren’t they as +good as anybody? Several months ago the Abrams had moved. Of course, +with only two boys the expenses were less, but what of that? And the +Moskowskis—now the Mosses—had moved, too. The Rosenheims had been in +the tenement three years and now the neighbourhood was filling up +with terrible people, straight from the Ghetto—or the old country—and +bringing foreign habits with them. It was no place to bring up growing +American children. + +It was Yetta who precipitated the moving. Although he petted and +humoured Dorothy, it was his oldest child who was Rosenheim’s +favourite. Now Yetta tried all of her most endearing tricks. + +“Papa,” she said, “I’m sixteen. I ought to get out of this +neighbourhood. Ask Mamma. I’m almost a young lady. I want good things—a +fine man like you with a factory shouldn’t keep his children in the +tenements. All of my crowd are gone. I miss them something awful. You +don’t want me to go with the—the ‘greenhorns’ who are moving in around +here, do you?” + +Similar arguments managed to convince Rosenheim. Anyhow, one night he +nodded solemnly and consented to move. + +“You women will ruin me yet, with all your spending,” he said, but +Yetta, tall though she was, jumped on his lap and kissed his thin cheek. + +“None of that,” he said, in assumed brusqueness, as he pushed her away. +“You make a fool of your old Papa, eh? Well, go along and get your fine +flat.” + +Mrs. Rosenheim and Yetta, accompanied by Mrs. and Miss Graham, a recent +and becoming transformation of their old friends, the Grabinskis, went +apartment hunting. They decided on the Bronx, new and good enough for +any manufacturer’s family. They had friends there and there were lots +of stores. It was a nice neighbourhood, Yetta thought, with lots of +young people who wore good clothes. She could have a fine time. + +No longer were the Rosenheims satisfied with the first apartment shown +them. Yetta and her mother had grown critical. Yetta’s ambitions had +limitations, of course. She didn’t aspire to an elevator apartment or +anything like that—but she didn’t want a tenement. She wanted a big +living-room, for she was approaching the beau age and already was going +to the theatre with MacDougal Abrams and Milton Cohn. They visited +dozens of apartments, examining the kitchens and halls, exclaiming over +the plumbing. Grandma wanted a big kitchen and she ought to have it, +as long as she did most of the cooking. And they had been crowded for +years—Yetta didn’t want any one sleeping in the front room, nor even in +the dining-room. Young girls do get such notions! Mrs. Rosenheim wanted +grand decorations in the lower hall. + +After much step-climbing they found their apartment. It was on the +fourth floor, rear, of a walk-up apartment, but the rent was forty +dollars a month and they dared not pay more. Rosenheim looked dour when +the news was broken to him, but, with sad headshaking and remarks about +business being bad, he said they might take it. + +The entrance hall of the apartment-house was of marble. The +letter-boxes were of brass and shining. The stairs leading to the +apartment were carpeted. The apartment itself had seven rooms. A few +years before the Rosenheims wouldn’t have believed an apartment could +be so large. Now they all accepted it rather indifferently. Wasn’t +Rosenheim a factory owner? Didn’t some of their friends live just as +grandly? The woodwork was shining oak. The floors glittered blondly. +Mr. and Mrs. Rosenheim had a bedroom all alone, Grandma shared a tiny +cubicle with Dorothy. Yetta and Carrie had their room and there was a +room for the boys. All the rooms had new beds of white enamelled iron, +fantastically twisted and with big brass knobs. + +The Rosenheims got rid of most of their old things at a sale before +they left East Seventy-seventh Street. Then Mrs. Rosenheim and Yetta +bought things suitable for the grandeur of their new home at an +instalment house in Sixth Avenue. There was a three-piece parlour set +stained to a red imitation of mahogany. The round table had come with +them, as had the vases. The dining-room boasted a new “set,” a round +table that pulled apart and had four extra leaves and sat on a huge +pedestal, and eight chairs—two with arms, making one for each of them. +There were brand-new rugs, one for each room, most of them in patterns +of birds and beasts and flowers in bright colourings, though the front +room displayed a gay and exciting “Oriental pattern.” + +One of the startling changes of the new régime was the name above the +letter-box. A simple and chaste A. G. Rosen was announced in Irving’s +most careful writing. Rosenheim explained that, at the factory, every +one called him Rosen for short and it might make it confusing to keep +the old name. The family hailed Rosen joyfully. Surely they were real +Americans, now. + + +VII + +They were settled only a few months when Yetta begged and got—a piano. +Shiningly red, it matched the rest of the living-room furniture. It was +an upright, of course, and Yetta draped a pale silk scarf embroidered +in gold threads over it, with a vase at either end to hold it in place. +Soon she and Carrie were taking lessons from a Mme. Roset of the +neighbourhood, making half-hours horrible with scales and five-finger +exercises. + +There were now other forms of art in the household, too. For his +birthday the children gave their father enlargements of the photographs +of him and their mother. These were “hand-made crayons” in grey, with +touches of colour on lips and cheeks and framed in wide carved oak, +trimmed with gold. They were placed side by side above the piano, +which stood slightly diagonally in one corner. + +The children were growing up. Yetta felt herself quite a young lady +and didn’t go to school. There was no use going any more—she wasn’t +going to be a teacher, was she? She had a lovely handwriting, with fine +loops at the ends of the “y’s” and “g’s.” It seemed a shame to spend +her days in school when there were so many things to do outside. No +one tried to persuade her to keep on going. Her father was slightly of +the opinion that too much learning wasn’t good for a girl anyhow. Men +didn’t like “smart” girls and Yetta was growing up. If she had wanted +to go to school he might have consented, but she didn’t. She preferred +putting on her best clothes, her hat an exaggerated copy of something +she had seen in Broadway and had had made after her description at a +neighbourhood shop, a cheap fur around her neck, high-heeled shoes. +Thus attired, she went walking. + +In the morning she had to help a little with the bedmaking, dusting and +ironing. But in the afternoons she was free. She’d meet some of “the +girls” or “the boys” and drink soda, laughing and giggling over things. +She used the latest slang and talked rather loudly. At night there +were dances or the crowd would go, in pairs or groups, to the theatre, +sitting in the gallery, usually, and laughing heartily over the jokes. +They were fondest of vaudeville. Yetta was awfully happy when she had +enough spending money and a new dress—a bit more exaggerated in style +than any of her friends. She couldn’t imagine anything finer than the +new neighbourhood and the new apartment. + +Grandma was just a trifle bewildered in the Bronx. She didn’t seem to +fit in. The children, growing up, were developing unexpected opinions +of their own that didn’t agree with her ideas. They called her +old-fashioned and giggled at her advice. There was plenty to do and +Grandma liked housework. But sixty-five isn’t young and Grandma had +worked hard in her day. Four flights of stairs aren’t easy, either, +so Grandma didn’t go out often. Occasionally, she walked around the +neighbourhood, not knowing just what to do. Mrs. Rosen did all her own +marketing or telephoned for things—there was a telephone in the new +apartment. There were a few old friends to go to see, foreign-born +women, like herself, and with these she would talk in comfortable +Yiddish. But each one lived several blocks away. You didn’t talk to +strangers in this neighbourhood, it seemed, and you could go for weeks +and not see any one you knew. A funny place, America. + +Still, there were pleasant things for Grandma—good food and the fun +of preparing it, a comfortable home. Mrs. Rosen didn’t like to work +as well as she used to, so finally she hired a woman who came in, one +day a week, to do the washing in the morning and the scrubbing of +kitchen and bath in the afternoon. Grandma was quite excited over this +innovation. For the first time in her life she could fold her gnarled +old hands and watch some one do the work for her. + +“They should hear about this back home,” she would say. “Abe with a +factory and us with seven rooms and a washwoman and all. We’ve got it +lucky, ain’t it, Minnie?” + +Mrs. Rosen, though annoyed at her mother’s simplicity, agreed. Already +Mrs. Rosen was planning bigger things. It didn’t seem at all impossible +to her that some day they might even have a regular servant girl. + +Mrs. Rosen was well satisfied, generally. Occasionally she, too, +regretted some of the pleasant things that Seventy-seventh Street +had meant for her. She had liked the friendly chatter of the +neighbourhood. Here in the Bronx you had to be “dressed” all the time. +In Seventy-seventh Street you could go out in the morning in your +housedress, with a basket, and spend a pleasant hour or so bargaining +with the shop-keepers and talking with friends, always meeting little +groups you knew. On the steps, in the evening you could call back and +forth. Money was good; she was glad she had it. A servant girl would be +fine; it was a lot of work for her and Grandma, cleaning up after five +children. But this neighbourhood was stylish enough. You knew some of +your neighbours here, even if they weren’t so friendly. Maybe, after +you got better acquainted.... + +It was nice, having a lot of rooms and new clothes and all that. Mrs. +Rosen finally met new acquaintances and liked them. She played cards +in the afternoons now and a few months later joined a euchre club +which met every Tuesday afternoon at the homes of its members in turn. +There were “refreshments” after the game, cold meat and potato salad, +usually, and the prizes were hand-painted china and “honiton lace” +centrepieces. Mrs. Rosen won quite an assortment as the months passed. + +Irving was getting to be a big boy. He looked a little like his +father, thin, a trifle sallow, with a slightly aquiline nose—but much +handsomer, his mother thought. His eyes were not strong and quite early +he had to wear glasses. He adopted nose-glasses and before he quite got +used to them he had formed the habit of tilting his head up, to keep +them from falling off. He had rather a sharp chin and wore his black +hair straight back and sleek. + +When the family moved to the Bronx he was fourteen, had on a first pair +of long trousers, and was in the first year of the high school. He was +quick in his studies and would argue with his teachers about anything +under discussion. He still liked long dissertations at home and had +about decided to be a lawyer. In the years that followed he read quite +a little, not so much for the love of reading—he had little of that—but +from a desire “to keep up with things,” so he could discuss and dissect +and argue. He liked the theatre as he grew older, but preferred serious +dramas. + +Carrie was quieter than either Yetta or Irving, but she observed a +great deal. She liked to spend money, begging it from her parents. +“We’re rich, why can’t I have more things?” she would say, buying +unnecessarily expensive ribbons and purses. She liked to correct the +family, too, and, when her mother grew vocal and her voice took on the +sing-song of her native tongue, Carrie would say, “Don’t talk so loud, +Mother. We aren’t deaf, you know,” or “This is America. We try to speak +English here.” Mrs. Rosen would check herself rather shamefacedly, +instead of “calling the child down,” as she felt she should have done. +Carrie liked expensive clothes and she liked putting them on and taking +long walks with just one girl friend, talking quietly. She thought +Yetta’s crowd awfully loud. Mannie and Dorothy were good-looking +little children, still coaxers of pennies and both rather spoiled. + +The Acme Pants Company grew, but in spite of its growth none of +the family dared suggest any extravagant changes. Rosen spoke too +much about hard times for that. And he did worry, too, for with the +enlarging of the business came the borrowing of money and notes to +meet. He worked at night for weeks at a time and grew thinner. Outside +of his usual solemnity he never complained. He enjoyed the business as +much for its own sake as for the things he was able to give his family. +It was far more interesting and absorbing to him than they were. Even +at home his mind was filled with business detail and in the midst of +a meal or a friendly discussion his eyes would grow vacant, he would +fumble for a pencil and write something down on an envelope. Spare +evenings, he played cards with Abrams or Moss or Hammer or fell asleep +over his newspaper—an English one, nearly always, now. He still took +off his coat in the house and sometimes his collar and tie. It was +Carrie who said to him, “Papa, why do you start undressing as soon as +you get home?” He always kept on his shoes and sometimes his collar and +tie after that. + +He never took much part in the family life. Irving bored him. He was +not interested in “women’s doings,” and could ignore whole evenings +of conversation about people and clothes. His business was the one +thing he cared to talk about—his family knew nothing about business. +What was there left? None of them knew or cared anything about world +affairs. It isn’t likely Rosen would have been interested if they had. +So, unconsciously, he drew apart more and more. He paid bills, with a +little grumbling. He handed out money when necessary. He greeted all +luxuries with something about “hard times.” He accepted all innovations +with apparent disregard. He was never cross or disagreeable. Every one +was a little quieter when he was at home. Otherwise it was as if he +were not there at all. + + +VIII + +A year later, when she was eighteen, Yetta became, suddenly, Yvette. +The crowd she was going with thought Yetta an awful name, old-fashioned +and foreign. And certainly there was nothing foreign about her. She had +seen Yvette in a book—and, with the right initial and all—Yvette Rosen +sounded fine. After that she frowned at any one, even old Grandma, if +the old name crept in. + +The family became more extravagant as the days passed, though not +extraordinarily so. But why not? Even Rosen had to admit, grudgingly, +that the factory was growing. Little things—Mrs. Rosen had a fine +black silk dress, with revers of green satin, lace covered. She +bought Grandma a black silk, too, for days when company came in. And +Yvette—how that girl did wear out clothes, to parties nearly every +night! And Irving wanted “his own money” and was put on an allowance, +though he always begged his mother for more before the month was half +over. Books cost a lot, it seemed, and you can’t be a tightwad with +a bunch of fellows. And Carrie had a notion that the family was very +rich—when she got new things she wanted the best. Even Mannie and +Dorothy needed new things frequently. + +In 1906 Irving was graduated, at 18, from the high school. It was a +big event for the family. All of them, even Grandma, who didn’t go out +much, attended the graduation exercises. At the hall they chatted about +how fine and smart Irving was until Carrie, who could be very petulant +at fifteen, “shushed” them all into silence. + +On the way home Mrs. Rosen couldn’t help calling her husband’s +attention to his family—weren’t they something to be proud of? To think +that only a few years before.... + +It was Irving who first spoke dissatisfaction with the Bronx apartment. +Irving was to enter Columbia University in the fall and he wanted to be +a little nearer his school. + +“You don’t know how it is,” he said, one night at dinner. “Every one +laughs at the Bronx. I went to a vaudeville show with Yvette last week, +though Heavens knows why she goes to it, and at the mention of the +Bronx every one laughed. It isn’t only that. Here we are in a walk-up +apartment, when we could have something better. I’m starting—to—to make +friends. I’ve got to make a place for myself. I’m eighteen. When we +were younger it didn’t make much difference, now we ought to get out of +here.” + +Carrie agreed with him. + +“It certainly is terrible here,” she said. “I don’t like this high +school, either. I want to go to a private school. There are several +good ones in Harlem and a real fine one on Riverside Drive that I’ve +heard about. Irving is right. You’d think we were poor, the way we +live here—no servants or anything. When I meet new girls I’m ashamed to +bring them home. Ada is going to private school, and Beatrice has moved +to Long Island. I don’t know any one around here—but trash and poor +people.” + +Even Mannie, at thirteen, was tired of the Bronx and Dorothy, at nine, +was ready for any change. + +The Bronx suited Yvette. She had her crowd here. Still, there was +something in what the others were saying. Harlem sounded more stylish +certainly. She had friends there, too, and could get acquainted easily +enough. + +Mrs. Rosen didn’t know. She felt, with Yvette, that things were very +nice as they were. The old friendliness of East Seventy-seventh Street +would never come back, and she, too, had acquaintances in Harlem. It +would cost more to live—but didn’t they have the money? There could be +a servant and new furniture—the children had been hard on the things +that had been so shining four years ago. After all, they were rich +people, and the children had to have advantages. + +Gradually Rosen, grumblingly, was won over. Couldn’t he see how +terrible it was—all their money, and still living in the Bronx? +How could people know he was a success? Their apartment was +old-fashioned—that funny tub and only one bathroom for the whole +family. And Grandma ought to have a room for herself—with five children +there ought to be a servant girl—what was the use of having money if +you couldn’t get things with it? + +Again there was a series of house-huntings. This time Irving +accompanied his mother and Yvette. Irving was very critical. Things +others pronounced “grand” he didn’t like at all. At eighteen he +considered himself quite a man. As a coming lawyer he felt that his +surroundings should reflect his own glory. What did his folks know +about things? Didn’t he go to homes they never entered, the Wissels’ +and the Durham-Levi’s? Irving wanted a home with style to it. He +hadn’t definite ideas about decoration, but it must look fine and big +as you came in. He thought they ought to inquire a little about the +neighbours—find out if they were just the sort one would want to live +near. Their present neighbours certainly were awful. + +The new apartment was in West 116th street. The building was large +and red, with white stone ornaments. The lower halls were grandly +ornamental and a great velvet curtain hung toward the rear. There was +an elevator, rather uncertain, with iron grille work in front. That +would make it nice for Grandma—she could get out more. The living room +had a gas grate and the woodwork was stylishly mission finished. + +Followed the usual buying orgy and this, too, Irving consented to +attend. The piano came with them, but there was a new parlour set, +great heavy pieces of mission, square and dark, with leather cushions. +A huge mission davenport was the pièce de résistance. The dining-room +had a brand-new “set”—there might be company to dinner—a big table, +twelve chairs and a sideboard with a mirrored back. In the bedrooms +there were great brass beds, the posts three inches across, and large +mahogany dressers with “swell fronts,” curved generously outward. + +In the living room, too, there were fine rugs, “real Orientals” this +time, about six small ones, oases of red and blue on the light inlaid +floor. The family admired the lighting fixtures—a cluster of fourteen +lights in the living-room, to which they added a fancy lamp with a +shade composed of bits of coloured glass in a floral pattern; in the +dining-room a great dome of multi-coloured glass hung directly over the +table. + +Then Mrs. Rosen hired their first maid, though the family referred to +her as “the girl.” Her name was Marie and she didn’t have a very easy +life of it. At first Mrs. Rosen and Grandma helped her, but Mrs. Rosen +disliked housework increasingly and she didn’t want Grandma to work if +she didn’t. Grandma had always done all the cooking, but as “the girl” +learned to prepare the dishes liked by the Rosen family she gradually +took over the cooking, too. Then, when “the girl” complained about +working too hard a woman was hired for two days each week to do the +washing and heavy cleaning. + +Grandma wasn’t quite as content as she had been, most likely because +she wasn’t so busy. Grandma couldn’t read English at all and Yiddish +very little, even if the children would have allowed a Yiddish paper in +the house, now, which is doubtful. Grandma had never had the reading +habit, nor, for that matter, any habits of leisure. She had thought +that life meant service and now there was nothing to do. It was harder +for her to go out because she walked very slowly. There were fewer +places to go, fewer friends, fewer Yiddish shops. People would stare, +embarrassingly, at Grandma’s _sheitel_ and Grandma hadn’t learned to +speak English very well. Mrs. Rosen spoke with an accent, but that was +different; people could hardly understand Grandma. + +There was always lots of company in the house and Grandma liked young +people, but there was so little to say to them. Unless she knew them +awfully well they couldn’t understand her, or Yvette or Irving would +frown at her attempts at conversation. Every one smiled at Grandma +and shook hands, but that was all—it was more comfortable to stay in +her room, usually. There seemed to be fewer old people than there had +been. Fewer seemed to live in Harlem, anyhow. In MacDougal Street and +even in East 77th Street and the Bronx, Grandma had met old ladies, +occasionally, people from her own village, and had had long talks +with them, interrupted with nods and shakes of the head and tongue +cluckings. Here it was different. She loved her family, of course, but +she didn’t seem to fit in. Darning stockings wasn’t enough. Of course, +Grandma was glad the family was doing so nicely—a fine big apartment +with an elevator and a servant girl—and she had two new bonnets and +her old one not nearly worn out yet—where did she go to wear it?—and +her own room and everything she wanted. And Irving bringing her home +candy she liked and Yvette singing for her—Grandma knew she ought to be +awfully happy. Yet there seemed to be something—missing— + +Mrs. Rosen grew to like the new apartment, though at first it had +overawed her a little. But before long she belonged to two card +clubs—she had known members of both of them when she lived in the +Bronx. She even tried to persuade Rosen to learn euchre or bridge so +that he could join a club that played in the evening. But Rosen didn’t +like “ladies’ games.” + +There were some things about the new neighbourhood Mrs. Rosen didn’t +like at all. The neighbours seemed so cold and distant. As if she +wanted to know them! Wasn’t her husband the owner of a factory—with +more money than any of them, more than likely? Yet they minced by her, +as if they thought so much of themselves. Well, she could put on airs, +too! + +That winter Mrs. Rosen went to a beauty parlour for the first time. +The women of her set were going, it seemed. It made your hair thicker +to have it shampooed and waved, especially when it was starting to get +grey. Though it did hurt a little, she grew used to manicures, too, +after a while. Mrs. Rosen even considered dieting. But, after a few +attempts she gave it up. Just the things she shouldn’t eat were the +ones she liked best. After all, she was forty-four, though she knew no +one would ever guess it, and if at that age you are a little plump who +is there to say anything against it? She bought a fur coat that winter, +seal, of course, with a great sweep to it and a hat to match, with a +curved feather. Now, let one of her neighbours say something! She knew +she looked mighty fine—as good as any one in her crowd. Why shouldn’t +she? Wasn’t her husband a well-known manufacturer? + +Rosen wasn’t quite as busy as he had been, though the Acme Pants +Company was getting along splendidly. But with things in good condition +there was time to spare. He could have spent more time with his family +had he cared to but it seemed tiresome when he did. Irving annoyed him +more than ever with his debates and arguments. In the evening he fell +asleep over his paper—he didn’t care for other literature except an +occasional trade magazine. He still played cards with a few old friends +he had made when he first came to America, and who, like himself, had +prospered. He kept his coat on in the evenings now, or wore the smoking +jacket Carrie had given him. What if their friends came in—he had to +look nice for their sakes, didn’t he? There was a little room, off the +living room, which the family spoke of as “Papa’s den.” There was a +couch here, brought over from the Bronx, and a desk. Under pretence of +being busy, Rosen would read in there, until he fell asleep. + + +IX + +The next year there was a great change in the Acme Pants Company. +An opportunity came almost over night and he and Abrams, after long +discussions—at the factory this time—joined the Rex Pants Company, +McKensey and Hamberg, partners, and the four formed the Rex Suit +Company, Gentlemen’s Ready-Tailored Suits. Ready-tailored suits, it +seemed, were more in demand every day. The four had capital enough to +swing something good and to introduce a new name. Until then, most +ready-made suits were mere trade goods. But a few firms had learned +the value of a trade name and advertising, and Rosen and Abrams agreed +with McKensey and Hamberg that there was room for one more and great +possibilities in the idea. They rented an immense loft building and +were soon making and selling a line of ready-made suits under the +name of the King Brand. They hired an advertising man, giving him an +absurdly high salary, an office of his own, with a stenographer and all +of that, and agreed to pay exorbitant rates to magazines just for the +privilege of a half or a quarter of a page of blank space on which to +advertise their wares. A few months later, tall, exquisite young men, +in graceful poses, accompanied by impossibly thin young women or sporty +dogs looked at you from the magazines under such captivating captions +as “King’s Suits for the Kings of America” or “Every Inch a King in a +King Brand Suit.” + +Rosen was interested again. Here, expenses were mounting, though +profits might mount, too. Now he could figure again, and plan and +talk things over with Abrams. Abrams, however, was Abrams no longer. +He was Adams, now. He had signed himself Adams when the new firm was +organized. Even Rosen’s name had changed—he dropped one more letter. +The indefinite Abraham G. had been altered and he blossomed forth as +Abraham Lincoln Rose, to the delight of his children. + +Irving was going to Columbia. He had joined a debating club and even +his mother had to admit that, at this time, he was pretty much of a +bore. He even called his father “Governor” on occasions and twirled a +cane on holidays. He was “getting in with fine people” and dined at +the homes of new friends, bringing back stories of families who didn’t +interrupt when you were talking and who had servants who knew how to +serve meals. He felt he was going to be quite important and he wanted +his family to live up to him. + +Carrie was going to a private school—the only kind of school suitable +for rich girls. It was in Riverside Drive, and she met some mighty +fine girls there. Like Irving, she brought home stories showing the +heights of other and the degradation of her own family. “—We are such +rich people and still we never have anything.” + +Carrie objected to her name, too, it seemed. “Carrie” was such a cheap +name. Nobody would know you were rich with a name like that. She was +going to be Carolyn after this. Carolyn Rose was a pretty name, wasn’t +it? + +Carolyn loved to spend money. She had decided that the family was +really wealthy, that it was all bluff about hard times and saving. She +wanted a gold mesh bag and got it before Yvette even knew there were +gold bags in the world. Carolyn had a fur coat as expensive as her +mother’s, but with a smarter, more girlish cut. She disregarded the +stupid idea, made up by some one who didn’t have the money, probably, +that diamonds were for older people, and persuaded her parents to give +her a big diamond ring, set in platinum, for her seventeenth birthday. + +Yvette’s clothes were always a bit loud, too extreme, even cheap +looking. Although she paid big prices for them they were still tawdry. +Carolyn’s tastes were not quiet, but she managed to look “expensive.” +Her hair was black and sleek and she knew she had “style.” She liked +collars a bit higher than any one else wore, when they wore high, a bit +lower when low collars came in. She was no slavish follower of fashion, +like Yvette. She added a bit of “elegance” to whatever fashion had +dared to ask for. She liked smooth broadcloth suits, much tailored, +for day wear, and elaborate chiffon evening gowns. She talked with +an “accent” but not the kind her mother had. She said “cahn’t” when +she could remember it, and thought one ought to have “tone.” She had +languid airs. + +Mannie was growing into a nice child. He was quiet and he started to +read when he was just a little fellow. Now you could find him, any +time, curled up with a book he’d brought home from school. He didn’t +care much for out-of-door games. He was the first of the family to have +literary leanings, though Dorothy read, too, when she couldn’t find +anything that pleased her better. + +Dorothy was petted and spoiled by the whole family. She got things +even before she could think to ask for them. Because there was never +anything for her to be cross about the family said she had “a wonderful +disposition” though she had a pouting mouth and did not smile very much. + +Dorothy was “a little beauty.” Although the family kept always with +their own race and declared, on all possible occasions, their great +pride in it and their aversion to associating with those of other +faiths, the thing that delighted them most about Dorothy was, for some +unexplainable reason, that every one said “she looked like a Gentile.” +Mrs. Rose would repeat to her friends that people had said, “you’d +never guess it—just like a Gentile that child looks.” Her friends +agreed and there was nothing in their minds but cordial congratulation +over the fact. Dorothy had lighter hair than the others and grey eyes. +She was a slender little thing, quiet, determined, impatient. + +“We ought to have an automobile,” she said, one day. That was in 1909, +before cars had become as much of a necessity as they are now, and +Dorothy was only twelve. Two weeks later, after many hugs, her father +bought a car, a red one that would hold any five of them. Irving soon +learned to drive it and later Carolyn and Dorothy learned, too. Grandma +could never be persuaded to enter the car—it didn’t look safe to her. +Mrs. Rose rode, but it was always sitting stiffly erect with unrelaxed +muscles. Rose asked Irving to drive him places, occasionally, when he +was in a hurry. He never liked the automobile except as a convenience. + +That year Grandma died. She was sick only a few days and didn’t +complain even then. The doctor came and fussed over her and finally +a nurse came, but Grandma persuaded her daughter to send the nurse +away. Grandma seemed quite content to die, and though the family was +fond of her, her going did not cause any undue emotion. Mrs. Rose wept +loudly at the funeral and Rose looked unusually solemn in the weeks +that followed. He had been very fond of Grandma and had appreciated the +little things she always loved doing for him. But, after all, as Mrs. +Rose would say to her husband, “it ain’t as if she was a baby at 72. +It ain’t as though Mamma ain’t had everything money could buy these +last years. A grand life she’s had, nothing to do and her own room and +all. Many times she spoke of it. It’s good we was able to give it to +her. She was a good woman but now she’s gone and I can say I ain’t got +nothing to reproach myself for.” + + +X + +In 1910, when Yvette was twenty-four, she became engaged to marry +MacDougal Adams. Already MacDougal was sales manager for the Rex Suit +Company, and he was doing well. He had grown into a handsome fellow +who would be quite fat, one day, if he didn’t diet carefully. He was +crisply black-haired, ruddy-faced. He made friends easily and was +jovial most of the time. He had no subtleties, but Yvette was not the +one to notice. She considered him very modern, and liked the way he +“caught on to things.” Her friends—and the announcement Yvette mailed +to the newspapers—spoke of the affair as “a childhood romance,” as +indeed it was. It pleased the Roses and the Adams, too. They gave a +reception at a hall on 125th Street to celebrate the occasion, each +of the families inviting special friends, with Dorothy and little +Helen Nacker to pass flowers to the guests. There was a band behind +artificial palms, and waiters in white aprons passed refreshments. +Yvette wore a dress of pink and Carolyn wore yellow. Carolyn didn’t +think the party fine enough, and Mannie and Dorothy didn’t like it +much, either. The rest of the family thought it a successful affair. + +Mrs. Rose, Yvette and Carolyn spent the following weeks shopping. +Yvette had to have a complete trousseau, starting with table +linens and ending with silk stockings. Three months later Yvette +and MacDougal were married at the Waldorf with Carolyn and Maurice +Adams as attendants. Only the most intimate friends were invited +to the elaborate banquet which followed, though later there was +an “informal reception” with much wine. MacDougal had just bought +an automobile—black, though Yvette would have preferred a gayer +colour—and, after a short Atlantic City honeymoon the young couple +took a new and elaborate apartment in Central Park West and settled +down, with two maids, to domesticity. + +“Ain’t it grand, Papa?” Mrs. Rose had said to her husband after their +first call on the young couple. And even Rose had to agree that Yvette +was getting all that could be expected. + +Carolyn was “the young lady of the family,” now. She was not as easily +satisfied as Yvette had been. She called Yvette’s crowd “loudly +vulgar,” though she was a trifle loud, herself, at times. She raised +eyebrows and drew away when fate included her in her sister’s parties. +She was glad when her sister married—now she could entertain her loud +friends in her own home. Maybe Yvette would even tone down a little; +she laughed too loudly, and her terrible taste in clothes! Her mother +talked loudly, too, except when she tried very hard to remember—and +it was terrible the way she shrieked and sing-songed when she grew +excited—but at least you could remonstrate with her. + +The Harlem apartment didn’t suit Carolyn at all. Here she was, out of +school, nearly twenty—and living in—Harlem. She had gone to a series +of morning lectures at one of the hotels and one of the lectures had +been on furniture—it seemed all of the things in the Harlem apartment +were entirely wrong. Carolyn knew this was true, too. Hadn’t she been +to other homes, where people knew things? They were rich and had one +maid—and she didn’t know how to wait on the table—and the family +treated her as if she were one of them. And Irving talked back to his +father, rather impudently, even when company was there, and the car was +a sight—she was ashamed to use it. The least they could have was a new +car and a chauffeur. + +Irving agreed with all of Carolyn’s criticisms, excepting those +which concerned himself. He was twenty-three, why shouldn’t he have +things nicer? Dorothy, going on fourteen, also found the Harlem house +distasteful. + +“A terrible neighbourhood,” said Dorothy, who became Dorothea, that +year. “It’s too far from school and we do need a new car. I’m ashamed +to tell any one where I live. I want a big room and my own bath, so I +can ask girls to stay all night, if I want to.” + +Rose sighed, said the family would break him and times were hard. +Mrs. Rose sighed, too. Still, Harlem wasn’t such a friendly +neighbourhood—the other couldn’t be worse. And with only one girl there +was too much for her to do. If they had a man to drive the car and a +cook, maybe— + +Carolyn went house-hunting alone. She said she’d take the others with +her “when she found something.” Two weeks later she took her mother and +Dorothea to see the new apartment. It was a foregone conclusion with +Carolyn that they would take it—just the formality of mailing the lease +for her father’s signature. + +The apartment was on Riverside Drive, in a huge building of +cream-coloured brick. At the door was a negro uniformed in dark green, +and another similarly clad attended the mirrored elevator. The halls +had Oriental rugs and were lit and draped with an expensiveness that +suited even Carolyn. Of course it was pretty far out on the Drive—but +it looked rich—and living on the Drive was rather grand, at that. Mrs. +Rose was speechless at first, but later the apartment seemed quite +satisfying. She liked the ornateness, the grandeur—it was even finer +than Yvette’s, than any of her friends. Why shouldn’t it be, with Abe a +partner in a big factory and all—? + +The woodwork of the apartment was white enamel. There were little +panels in the living room, waiting to be papered, and the dining-room +had a white enamelled plate rail. The lighting fixtures were of the +new “inverted” style, on heavy brass chains ending with carved brass +holders of white frosted globes. There were French doors of mahogany +leading into the living-room and dining-room, a huge butler’s pantry +with numerous shelves, a kitchen with a big hooded range and immense +white sink, large bedrooms, four baths. + +“If—if your Papa will pay for it,” Mrs. Rose admitted weakly. + +“Oh, he’ll pay,” said Carolyn, “why shouldn’t he—a rich man like him?” + +When the men of the family came to see the apartment Irving pronounced +it “immense.” Mr. Rose looked at the apartment, saw the library that +he could have for his own, the big bedroom and bath—and gave in with +unexpectedly little persuasion. After all—his friends were living +well—why shouldn’t he? He was making money—the family might as well +spend it. Didn’t the way you live show how well you were doing? Not +that he was making so much, of course, but, with Yvette married—if +Carolyn wanted the apartment. + +Mannie and Dorothea were rather indifferent. Still, Mannie was in prep +school and cared most about books—even writing a poem occasionally. He +was eighteen. At fourteen, Dorothea didn’t care about details as long +as they were moving. Her new room was nice and big. Still, they ought +to have a new car—Dorothea was quite pouty over the old one. + +Carolyn took charge of the furnishings of the new apartment. Mrs. +Rose, with uplifted hands, declared her ignorance of periods “and such +nonsense,” but begged her daughter not to spend too much money. “You +know your Papa. There is a limit even with him.” + +Irving gave a long-winded dissertation about what to get and told about +a fine apartment he had visited, farther down on the drive—two girls he +knew, their father was a criminal lawyer. Carolyn didn’t listen very +closely. She knew what she wanted. + +Accompanied by her most intimate friend, Eloise Morton, daughter +of S. G. Morton, the box people (both of Eloise’s parents had been +born in America), Carolyn visited a number of shops. She called the +stores where Yvette traded “middle class,” but she was afraid of the +decorating shops and called the things in the window “junk.” + +“You might like that old stuff,” she said to Eloise, “but I can’t see +anything to it. Old chairs, stiff and funny—a hundred dollars apiece +and then a fake, probably. A whole room full of that doesn’t look like +anything. I like things that show their full value, that you can tell +cost a lot of money.” + +Eloise agreed that her friend had the right idea. + +Carolyn didn’t allow any mere furniture clerk to suggest or dictate +to her. Hadn’t she seen a lot of fine homes? Didn’t she go to every +new show in town and look especially at the stage settings? Hadn’t she +heard a furniture lecture? Who could advise her? + +She didn’t want her mother with her, she’d “simply spoil things if she +started to talk.” Carolyn and Eloise, alone, could give an impression +of taste, elegance and riches. + +Carolyn decided on Adam furniture for the living room. If the ghosts +of the brothers Adam groaned a bit Carolyn was too busy to hear. She +liked “sets” for the living rooms—didn’t every one have them?—so she +chose a great davenport of mahogany with cane sides and back, motifs +slightly after some of the Adam designs scattered over the woodwork. +The upholstery was rose velour. There were two huge chairs of similar +design, one a rocking chair. Other chairs were of cane and mahogany, +one a Venetian, one a fireside. There was a great oblong table, too, +that Carolyn knew showed good judgment, for it was of “dull antique +mahogany.” It, too, bore motifs of the house of Adam. There was a floor +lamp with a rose shade and two table lamps to match and several pieces +of “stylish” painted furniture, factory made. Carolyn looked with scorn +on the little rugs that had seemed so fine a few years ago. She chose +now an immense Oriental in rose and tan for the living room and a +Chinese rug in dark blue to combine with the intricately carved Queen +Anne furniture of the dining-room. + +There were elaborately patterned filet lace curtains throughout the +house. Before this Mrs. Rose had always hemmed and hung the curtains. +Now Carolyn gave orders for them. The over-drapes and portières were +of rose velour, heavily lined, and above the windows were elaborate +valances, edged with fringe and wide gold braid. There were blue velour +curtains in the dining-room. + +In the bedrooms Carolyn’s imagination had full play. Her parents’ room +was in mahogany with twin poster beds. Her own room was in ivory, cane +inset. Dorothea’s was white enamelled, painted with blue scenes. + +For the walls of the living-room, between the panelling, Carolyn chose +a scenic paper in grey. On this were to be hung elaborate oil paintings +in scalloped gold frames: “A Scene at Twilight,” “The Fisherman’s +Return.” In the dining-room the paper was in tapestry effect, red and +blue fruit and flowers. + +The family moved into the new apartment in October, 1911. The moving +was simple for the old furniture was to be sold and professional movers +attended to the packing of ornaments and dishes. + +Mrs. Rose and Irving were impressed with the effects wrought by +Carolyn’s taste and her father’s money, but it did not take the family +long to settle down to the pleasures of life that Riverside Drive +opened to them. + + +XI + +Moving to the Drive, the Roses made the final change in their name. +Mannie, usually quiet, was the one to propose it. + +“Rose is so—so peculiar,” said Mannie. “Any one could tell it had +been something else, Rosen or worse. I’m eighteen and go to College +this fall. I’m not going to have a name so—so ordinary. Let’s change +it to Ross. That’s not distinctive but it isn’t queer or foreign. +I’m changing my first name just a little, too. I’ve never been called +Emanuel, anyhow. Mannie isn’t a name at all. I’m going to register at +College as Manning Ross.” + +There was no letter-box to announce the change, but the elevator man +knew the new occupants of Apartment 31—he wrote the names down with +a blurring stub of a pencil to be sure to remember them—were Mr. and +Mrs. A. Lincoln Ross, the two Misses Ross and two young men, Irving and +Manning. + +The family had liked Rose—but there might be something in what Manning +said. But no more changes. Mr. Ross put his foot down, this time. He +was meeting important men in business, Gentiles, and he didn’t want any +more monkey-business about names. Ross was all right and Ross it would +have to stay. And it did. + +Mrs. Ross took great delight in getting her new servants. It made her +feel superior and important, driving up to an employment agent and +interviewing prospective retainers. She took Carolyn along for advice +and counsel—Carolyn went out a lot and knew about such things. + +Carolyn would have liked a retinue, but Ross rebelled—expenses were +awful and each servant was another mouth to feed. The old “girl” had +got married so they finally chose a cook who was not above helping with +other things, a waitress who could combine housework with waiting, and +a chauffeur. Besides, the washerwoman would still come for two days +each week. + +Soon after the family was settled, Mr. Ross bought a big limousine, +American made, but one that Carolyn thought looked really expensive. +The chauffeur was in uniform, of course. He happened to be a young +Irish boy and it seemed to Carolyn, sometimes, that he smiled a bit +sarcastically and annoyingly as he held the door open for them, +especially after her mother had spoken with an accent or her old +sing-song. + +Mr. Ross didn’t object to the new luxuries. It was much more +comfortable driving to the office in the limousine than waiting for +Irving or one of the girls to take him or depending on less comfortable +modes of transportation. He had more room to himself, too. He liked +the way the new cook prepared things—he was getting indigestion and +had to be careful about what he ate—though he still remembered with +real emotion the pot-roasts and fish and stuffed goose that Grandma +had delighted to prepare. These new dishes—salads and things like +that—everything served separately—you could get used to it—it didn’t +make much difference—here he was, used to a maid in cap and apron, +waiting on table—and Minnie used to it, too, excepting when she forgot +and talked to her or reached across the table for things. Still, Minnie +meant well, a good woman, rather fat these last years, but a good woman +who loved her family—none of this new foolishness some of the women +had, he’d noticed— + +Mr. Ross didn’t pay much attention to women. He never had. He saw what +fine girls his daughters were, that was about all. He couldn’t have +recognized half a dozen of their best friends, whom he saw constantly +at his home, if he had passed them on the street. + +His business—that was something. Still, even that didn’t keep him busy, +the way it used to. This new arrangement, the offices and the factory +separated—of course it was for the best. He could always go over to +the factory when he wanted to, though there wasn’t much need—machinery +he didn’t understand, everything in such order—with a head for every +little department, not to mention the big ones. And, with three +partners you couldn’t say things as if it were your own business. Mr. +Ross was fifty-three, but it hadn’t been an easy fifty-three years and +things had gone along rather rapidly for a while. Not that he was an +old man—far from it. Still, things that had passed seemed pleasanter +than they had seemed in the passing—and things to come lacked lustre. + +This wasn’t age,—certainly not—he felt as well as he had twenty years +ago, practically. Give him some real work to do, you’d find out. But +there was so little to do, now. You’d go down to the office about ten +and dictate a few letters and potter around with things. You’d examine +“swatches” and find that an expert had already given them a chemical +analysis. You’d go to luncheon and be careful about what you ate. After +luncheon, a little sleepily, you’d dictate more letters, if there were +any more and see a few men on business, young upstarts, most likely, +or Gentiles who wanted something for nothing—or consult with your +partners. Then, you’d drive home after a while and read the paper or +listen to Carolyn play on the new player piano or talk with Dorothea, +though there wasn’t much to talk about. Dinner then, and a game with +Adams, though he had rheumatism these last years and wasn’t the man +he had been. Or Moss would drive over. There was a club, even, if you +cared to go to it—a lot of strange men who didn’t care anything about +you—a club—at least they were of your own race—Dorothea was always +asking questions about why the family didn’t mix with other people—such +notions a child gets— + +The Rex Suit Company was still progressing. The great factories were +outside New York, but the business offices occupied a whole floor of an +office building, each partner with his own mahogany furnished office, +with its rows of bells and its private stenographers. There was an +expert to decide each thing. MacDougal was in the sales department +and Maurice, the younger Adams boy, was advertising manager—a big +advertising agent had charge of all of the advertising, of course. +And what advertising the firm did, too! Double pages in the popular +weeklies at thousands of dollars a page. Every one was familiar with +the “Kingly Men.” Girls cut them out and mounted them for their +rooms. “America’s Kings in Kingly Suits” had been familiar enough to +get applause at a musical comedy when it was used to introduce two +juveniles. “Every Inch a King for the Kings of Creation” and other +well-known slogans ran in letters four feet high above the artist’s +conception of the “Kingly Man” on the billboards. + +Each year there was an ornate catalogue of the styles, “for the Prep +Youth,” “for the College Man,” “for the Younger Set,” “for the Older +Fellow.” Hundreds of merchants all over the country displayed King +Brand signs and carried King Brand suits. The Rex Company had invented +half sizes, adjustable models and the giving with each suit of an extra +bit of the goods and two extra buttons for mending. There wasn’t much +you could plan about for the Rex Company. Likely as not, some one else +would have thought of it first, anyway. + +Mr. Ross was accustomed to meeting men, now. He liked to meet them, +in business. He would listen, weigh what they said, learn from them. +He never talked much. He always retained his look of severity. He was +known as “a crackerjack of a business man,” “a man you couldn’t put +anything over on,” but the other partners were good business men, too. +There was nothing for Mr. Ross to work for. + +Outside of business he had little. His family still seemed apart, yet +he would have done anything to have saved them trouble or pain. He +liked Yvette because she was frank and lively, but these last years he +liked Dorothea, too, though there was nothing against Carolyn, a fine +girl, if she did like to spend money. Minnie was all right—the boys +would be, too, when they got a little older and settled down. + +Mr. Ross didn’t mind listening to the mechanical piano or the Victrola +at home, but he did not care for other kinds of music. Concerts made +him miserable and fidgety. He saw nothing in them and after several +for charity and one visit to the opera he refused to partake of music +outside of the home. He had never learned to like reading. He was still +content with the daily papers and glanced, occasionally, at a weekly +devoted to current events. He knew nothing about art and said so. He +didn’t want to be bothered with “such notions.” Drama of all kinds +bored him and even musical comedies entertained him only for a little +while. Usually he got to thinking of business in the midst of things +and lost all consciousness of what was going on. + +Mr. Ross had no social ambitions, so, with no business worries and no +outside interests, his days began to drag unpleasantly. He thought +often of other days, of “the other side”; when he had been planning +to come to America—he was glad that was over—of MacDougal Street, +the hard work he had done there, the long hours, the over-time, the +little economies so both ends would meet, then the newer tenement, with +things a little easier, the beginnings of the factory—those had been +real days—staying awake planning to meet bills, figuring to the dollar +how to get money to pay the “help” and have enough left for living +expenses, then Harlem and now Riverside. It was good to have planned +and worked. Still, now he was used to his comforts. He liked space and +quiet and the car—but, with nothing to do— + +Mrs. Ross had long since relaxed her anxiety over her husband. He +had never talked business and he seemed just like always, willing to +listen to her stories of how she had spent the day. Mrs. Ross was quite +content with the Drive. The aloofness of the neighbours, that had been +disagreeable to her in Harlem, became one of her own characteristics +now. She became more and more aware of her own importance. She had +disliked the way “outsiders” and Gentiles had treated her, years +before. Now, her last vestige of humbleness gone, she felt herself more +than “as good as any one.” Wasn’t she Mrs. A. Lincoln Ross, wife of +Ross of the Rex Suit Company, a real figure in New York? Didn’t she get +her picture in the paper when she gave money to charity? Didn’t people +treat her with respect as soon as they found out who she was? She was +frankly fat, but she didn’t mind. She had expensive dressmakers and +tailors and she thought the results of her toilet satisfactory. After +all, she was nearly fifty. + +Her voice had toned down, during the years, as had Yvette’s. When +talking with those she considered important, she even tried to put +an elegant swing into her sentences. Usually, though, her voice was +accented, ordinary, uninteresting. She still made errors and sometimes +quite a lot of sing-song crept in. + +In the morning Mrs. Ross attended to her household affairs, giving +directions to the servants, ordering her own provisions over the +telephone, even planning meals. She looked into the ice-box to see what +provisions remained, rubbed fingers across furniture for dust, examined +linens. She was a good housekeeper. In the afternoon, with Yvette, whom +she found most congenial, or an acquaintance, she went for a drive or +shopped. She dropped most of her old friends who had not progressed and +she had no sentimental regrets concerning them. A few earlier friends +she kept up with, asking them for luncheon or for a drive, with a hint +of patronage. Through her daughters she met other women of her own age +and circumstances. To these she tried to be pleasant, using her best +language and manners. She had no intimacies with these women. + +During the second year of the family’s residence on the Drive, Mrs. +Ross was asked to belong to several committees of important charitable +organizations. She joined these gladly and gave generous sums. She +liked the society of her own race. She did not feel at home with +“outsiders” nor know what to say to them—she felt that they were +constantly criticizing her. She had decided social ambitions, however, +and wanted Mr. Ross to join a well-known club composed of members of +his people. She was proud to know women who, a few years ago, or even +now, were she less wealthy, would have ignored her. To the arts she was +as indifferent as her husband. + + +XII + +Irving was a lawyer now. He had a nice office in one of the newer +buildings devoted to professional men, but not much practice. His +father found it just as convenient to give him some of the smaller +business of the firm as to increase his allowance. When anything +important came up Mr. Ross agreed with his partners that it was best to +let a better-established lawyer handle the case. + +Irving—who became Irwin about this time—could have joined a large +firm as a junior member, but he preferred independence. He didn’t +like to work hard or long and he had heard of the tasks performed by +the younger members of big firms. He liked to waste time, browsing +around book-stores, walking through the lobbies of hotels, calling on +friends. He had a large acquaintance with women and had as many dinner +invitations as he could accept. Wasn’t he a great catch, a young lawyer +with a rich father? And good company. + +At twenty-five, Irwin still loved an argument. Although never a great +reader, he liked to pose as one, quoting well-known authorities, +reading and talking about authors unknown to his hearers. His hair was +always immaculately sleeked, though it had just a perceptible wave. He +had his favourite manicurist at one of the larger hotels. He smoked an +expensive brand of cigarettes, carrying them in an elaborate silver +and gold case and fitting each one carefully into an extremely long +amber cigarette holder before smoking it. He used affected gestures, +pounding on a table to emphasize a point he was making. He still wore +nose-glasses, now large lensed and tortoise rimmed, and from habit he +held his head too high. + +Irwin was proud of his acquaintance with half a dozen actresses of +minor importance. These he took to teas, dinners and suppers, talking +later as if the engagement had had special significance. He was careful +about his acquaintance with other women, choosing those that were, +to him, of social importance. He had the same distrust his parents +had for those outside of his own race. He never attended services at +a synagogue, but to him religion and race were intermingled and he +did not attempt to differentiate between them. Since boyhood he had +suffered from prejudice far more than his sisters. He was proud to +associate with “outsiders,” liked to think he looked and spoke and +acted like one of them. But he would never have married a Gentile. + +Carolyn was now the liveliest member of the Riverside Drive household. +She didn’t think much of race and creed. She envied other women in some +things, but she thought herself all that was desirable and attractive. +She liked best the people of her own race, but she preferred them +with American or English accents, appearance and accomplishments. She +liked to associate only with people of great wealth. Always gowned a +bit ahead of fashion, perfectly groomed, silky, smooth, crisp, she went +to the theatre, evenings and matinées, to luncheons and to parties, +giggling and laughing, quite moderately, of course, and had a gay time. +She loved musical comedy and after-theatre suppers. She didn’t care for +the opera, but even the most serious drama could give her something to +giggle about afterwards. Her hair and eyes were dark with something +of the Orient about them, but her skin was fairer and clearer than +her mother’s or Yvette’s, her round little nose was always white with +powder and her eyebrows narrow and smooth, her lips and cheeks pinkly +attractive. + +You could see Carolyn almost any fair afternoon on the Avenue with +Eloise or Helen or Mary Louise, stopping in at one little shop for +a bit of lingerie, at another for flowers. They spent money with no +thought of its value. Most of them could not remember poverty. Those +who could found spending the best method of forgetting. Occasionally +they met several of “the boys” for tea. When they didn’t they bought +tea for themselves at Maillard’s, usually, or the Plaza. There was +always a car waiting and they wore low pumps or slippers and the +thinnest of stockings even when the snow was on the ground. + +Carolyn “went with” Jack Morton, Eloise’s brother. She had met Eloise +at the Riverside Drive School. Jack was at Harvard, then, but he was +graduated a year later and was “catching on” nicely in his father’s box +factory. The Mortons thought the Rosses a step below them socially, +for the Mortons were a little farther removed from “the old country.” +Outside of that, they liked Carolyn. So no one was surprised, when, in +1914, when Carolyn was twenty-three, she announced her engagement to +Jack. The Rosses thought Carolyn had “done well,” as indeed she had, +for Jack Morton was a likeable fellow, full of practical jokes and fond +of poker playing, but on the whole quite a desirable husband. + +Ross gave his daughter a diamond lavalliere for an engagement present, +and as Carolyn picked it out herself it was quite glittering. He +promised her the furniture for her new apartment as a wedding present. +The Mortons gave Carolyn a small car, green, with cushions to match, +which she pronounced “a young wonder.” They had an engagement “at home” +and were married a few months later at one of the newer hotels. Carolyn +hoped that it was quite evident to the friends of both families that +they were both very wealthy. + +The young couple took a three weeks’ trip to Florida—Jack couldn’t stay +away from the business longer than that. Then they went to the Astor, +but Carolyn wanted to entertain her friends and a hotel does keep you +cooped up so. She and Jack finally decided on a small apartment in a +high-priced new building in Park Avenue. They had only one maid to +start with for they both preferred eating at restaurants. With the car +you could eat at a different place and go to a show or some place every +night. + +Without Carolyn the Riverside Drive apartment seemed quiet. Manning +went to Harvard for a year, dissatisfied with the unexclusiveness of +Columbia. + +Dorothea liked school, too, and was now taking a few harmless courses +which gave her something to do, though they didn’t satisfy her. Nothing +quite pleased Dorothea. She hadn’t been satisfied with Carolyn’s +school—girls of only one creed went there, so narrow. Dorothea said +that school was a joke. She had chosen a more expensive school, +patronized by daughters of rich men generally. Her new study courses +were at Columbia and with private teachers. Mr. Ross didn’t like them. + +“It isn’t as if she had to be a teacher,” he said. “A girl can have too +much book-learning.” + +But Dorothea went. She had always been different. Her clothes, +for one thing. Couldn’t she have had anything she wanted? Look at +Carolyn—always dressed like a picture—the family had to admit that, +themselves. Even Yvette, though she liked bright colours, was a good +dresser. It wasn’t as if Dorothea was economical. She spent as much +as Carolyn did. Carolyn wore things that “looked expensive,” rich +broadcloth, elaborate furs—Dorothea preferred rough tweeds. She paid +extraordinary sums for little suits that Mrs. Ross thought looked as +if she’d got them for twenty dollars in Third Avenue. They were of +mixed weaves, in grey or tan, and she wore big tailored collars over +her coats, not mannish looking or freakish, just plain. She paid fifty +dollars for her little round velour hats. She wore heavy gloves and +shoes, even when she went out with Carolyn, sleek in white gloves, thin +pumps and furs. Dorothea paid huge prices for plain little evening +frocks which she bought at exclusive little places. Even then she was +not satisfied. + +Dorothea wore a perpetual little pout—something had always just gone +wrong. She spent her time wondering what to do, dipping in “courses” +on a variety of subjects, at settlement work, “going with people +she didn’t have to associate with,” her mother thought. Clad in a +trim-fitting habit she rode whole mornings in Central Park. She +exhibited funny little Belgian Griffins at shows. She went to benefits +and tournaments. Yet she was always a trifle “put out,” a bit bored. +Things weren’t ever good enough, or quite what she had expected. + +For her twentieth birthday Dorothea asked for and received a new car, a +good-looking foreign-made roadster. About time the family had more than +one car! She didn’t want a chauffeur. Hadn’t she been driving as long +as she could remember, learning on the old red one? She liked driving +the car best of all. + +The family, the family’s friends, what any one said or did—all +displeased Dorothea. She made sport of Irwin’s pet affectations to his +face, to her mother’s horror. She called Yvette’s things “impossible” +and made fun of Carolyn’s diamonds. She treated her mother as a person +of no consequence, never asking her opinion about things. Although she +had nothing in common with her father, she made a great fuss over him +and he grew to like her better than any other member of his family. +She took him out in her car, though he didn’t quite enjoy the rides, +expecting to be tipped over at every corner. Dorothea drove perfectly, +with the recklessness of a racer. + +Dorothea went with “outsiders.” She seemed as much at home with members +of other races as with her own. She’d bring in unexpected guests, +making the family feel ill at ease. While guests were there she’d bring +up bits of family history the rest were trying their hardest to keep +out of sight. + +“Dad,” she’d say, “here’s some one that wants to meet you. He’s heard a +lot about you.... Can you believe that less than twenty-five years ago +Dad came to America with no money at all?” then, with a little gesture +and a smile, “and now look at him.” She’d throw an arm around her +father, who, ill at ease, would greet the stranger. + +If Mr. Ross had been unsuccessful, he would have looked like any of a +thousand of his race whom you can see leaving the shops any evening +at the closing hour. But his wealth haloed him. It was impossible to +separate him from his money. Thin, stoop-shouldered, solemn, quiet and +accented of speech, he stood for success. To Dorothea her father was +immensely important. She was the first who had ever made much of him. +It embarrassed him—he was a simple old fellow in many ways—but he liked +it. + +Mrs. Ross thought Dorothea didn’t appreciate her. + +“It’s always her Dad, her Dad,” she’d say, “never a word about how +I worked when she was small or all I do for her—just Dad this, Dad +that—and Irwin don’t like it—that you’re always bringing up old +times, about Papa being a cutter. The other night when that fine Miss +Tannenheim was here, you said it, when you was talking to that big +blond fellow you brought in....” + +“You’re a dear, Mother,” Dorothea would give her mother the tiniest +touch of a kiss on her broad cheek, “but Irv’s a mess and he knows it. +The Tannenheim person is a cheap old thing with a mean eye and she’ll +marry him some day, if he isn’t watching.” + +“Dad,” said Dorothea, one day, “let’s move. You can’t guess how sick I +am of Riverside Drive.” + +“What’s the matter? Haven’t you got things nice here?” + +“Nice—on the Drive?” + +“We’re always moving, it seems. Only four years ago....” + +“I know, Dad. That’s just it. A man of your position ought to have +a home. Apartments are nothing. This one is simply awful. Riverside +Drive is fearfully ordinary, vulgar—don’t you think so? Such a cheap +collection of the newly rich. Dad, you ought to have your own home in +town, anyhow, and something permanent in the country.” + + +XIII + +The idea of a home appealed to Mr. Ross. He felt, now, that he had +always wanted a real home. Dorothea called for him in the car and they +explored the streets east of Fifth Avenue. Finally, without consulting +the rest of the family, Ross bought a five-story house in East +Sixty-fifth Street, just off Fifth Avenue. + +“Mother will think this is terrible,” Dorothea said as she kissed him, +“but you and I like it, don’t we? I know it cost an awful lot, Dad, +but you can see it’s really an investment. After it’s made over a bit +inside it will do for a family home for years. Imagine you—after all +you’ve done—not having a family home.” + +Ross really liked the house. It seemed almost—home-like. The rest of +the family were not pleased. The married daughters—of course it was +not their affair—but, they wondered if it was just the right thing. Of +course nice people lived in houses, but none of their friends. + +“That’s why we bought it,” said Dorothea. + +Irwin “guessed it was all right.” Manning was indifferent. + +Mrs. Ross held up bejewelled hands and wailed. + +“Oh, Dorothea, just as I’m beginning to get into things and can ask +people here to a fine apartment on the Drive—an address I can be proud +of—and here you buy an old house—I thought a young girl like you would +want things swell—here we’ve got servants and all—” + +“Don’t you worry,” said Dorothea, “it will be ‘swell’ enough—awful +word. And as for servants—” + +The family moved to the East Sixty-fifth Street house a few months +later. Dorothea didn’t run around after furniture as those of her +family who had chosen furniture before her had done. She turned the +whole house over to Miss Lessing, in Madison Avenue. Miss Lessing’s +corps of exquisitely minded young men came in, looked around, made +sketches, brought drapery material and wood finishes, all of which +Dorothea examined critically. + +“At last we’ll have some place we can ask our friends,” she said. + +The house in East Sixty-fifth Street was rather nice. It was done in +English things, mostly, painted walls and rather soft taffetas. There +were some big easy chairs that could be pulled around, comfortably, in +front of the fireplace. Perhaps because of its seeming simplicity and +the plainness of the walls and carpets Mr. Ross liked it more than any +home he had ever had. He felt it belonged to him. Mrs. Ross never liked +it. + +“It’s too plain,” she said, “nothing to it. No one would believe how +much it cost you, Papa. Mrs. Sinsheimer has got an apartment on Park +Avenue, just a block from Carolyn. Fourteen rooms. She had a decorator, +too, but he got different things than this—gold furniture. It looks +like something. We had a fine place on Riverside Drive and Dorothea +drags us here, where there ain’t even lights enough to see by, at +night.” + +Still, Mrs. Ross found out, from what people said, that there must be +something desirable about the new home. She even acquired a bit of +the patter Dorothea used, pointing, with something like pride, to “a +real Chippendale escritoire, one of the nicest examples in America,” +and “some Wedgewood plaques, three, from an original set of four, you +know,” and “of course, we are getting old and it’s nice we can have a +home where we can gather the sort of things we like, as a background.” + +Irwin didn’t “think much of the place, myself,” but it was a good +idea, the old folks having a home ... he was glad he didn’t have to +be ashamed of it, though, for his part ... now, that country place +Dorothea was talking about.... + +Yes, Dorothea had been talking about a country place. After they were +settled in the new home, she continued to talk. They had five servants +now—they wouldn’t even need two sets—Dad could see how it took that +many to run any kind of a house—and they could just shut up the town +house in Spring and open it in Fall. All the family could be there, +too, Yvette and the new baby, and Carolyn and their husbands ... “a +real family together. Dad, a permanent family like ours ought to have a +decent country place.” + +The country place was on Long Island, finally. Dorothea picked it out +and put the decorations in the hands of the same firm of decorators, +who did rather startling things with coloured wicker, chintz and tiled +floors. + +It was near a famous country club and Dorothea knew, as did the rest +of them, that none of the men of her family could ever be admitted. +It didn’t seem fair to her, of course, and yet ... Dad was a great +one—there oughtn’t to be any place Dad couldn’t get into. But Dad +didn’t care. Though, from things he said, Dorothea knew he had felt +things ... expected them. He hadn’t even hoped this much of life. +Irwin didn’t like being left out of things ... and yet, Dorothea, +looking at Irwin, hearing him argue in his rather nasal tone, gesturing +with his long amber cigarette holder, couldn’t blame members of the +club, exactly.... It wasn’t because of Irwin’s race ... maybe the +members, themselves, weren’t so wonderful ... and yet there were her +two brothers-in-law, one rather fat, both slow-minded, card-playing, +a bit loud and blatant, always bringing money into the conversation +... Yvette, loud, laughing, so heavy, mentally, Carolyn, with her +cheap talk of money and spending ... her mother ... it wasn’t fair to +criticize her, her mother’d had a hard time of it when she was young, +and yet.... + +Dorothea knew that, somehow, the men she liked didn’t belong to her +race. Hamilton Fournier, now ... of course, if she’d marry him, there +would be an awful talk, lots of crying and going on about religion ... +that sort of thing. She could hear her mother ... she remembered when +Freda Moss married,—“He’ll throw it up to you.” Yet, if you are proud +of your race ... doesn’t that ... can you have a thing “thrown up to +you” that you are proud of? It was a big problem, too big for Dorothea. +She felt that she’d always had everything she wanted ... she could keep +on having.... + +The family settled down comfortably in the new home, Manning with them. +He was going to school in town, now. + +Mrs. Ross was getting to like the new home better ... it wasn’t +Riverside Drive, of course, but people didn’t look down on her here. +She was even getting in with Mrs. Rosenblatt—now that she lived near +her. That crowd—she didn’t have their education, but what of it, she +was richer than most of them. Who were they, to be so exclusive? Maybe, +by next year, if she donated to their Orphans’ Nursery Fund.... + +Mr. Ross’s indigestion seemed a little worse. The doctor came to see +him several times each week and he had to be more careful with his +diet. There seemed to be less to do at the office. He could retire, of +course, but that would take away the only interesting thing he had—the +few hours at the office. He even tried outdoor exercise, but after one +attempt, he gave up golf as impossible. He gave to organized charities +rather liberally and was even appointed on a committee which he never +attended—he knew it was his money they wanted. He would sit, as he had +always sat in the evening, falling asleep over his paper, or, bundled +up beyond the necessity of the weather, he would climb into the car and +spend a few hours with an old friend, or some one would come to see +him, playing cards, as always. But a few of the old friends had died, +another had moved away ... there had never been many of them. He was +just an old man, and lonesome, with nothing interesting to do or think +about.... + + +XIV + +Manning stopped school the year after the family moved into their new +home. He had had a year at Harvard and a year or so at art school. +Now, at twenty-two, he felt that he was a sculptor. His father was +disappointed—Manning had started out a nice boy—it did seem that one of +the boys.... + +But Manning shrugged sensitive shoulders at anything as crude as the +clothing business, even wholesale. His soul was not in such things. And +Mr. Ross had to admit that the position of model was about the only one +in the establishment that Manning could have filled. Manning went in, +rather heavily, for the arts that the rest of the family had neglected. +Of course Dorothea read, but Manning thought she skimmed too lightly +over real literature. And Irwin—an impossible, material fellow. + +Manning wore his hair a trifle long. He talked knowingly of Byzantine +enamels and the School of Troyes. He knew Della Robbia and the +Della-Cruscans. There was nothing he didn’t know about French ivories. +He knew how champlevé enamelling differed from other methods ... there +were few mysteries for Manning. His personal contributions to Wanty +consisted of fantastic heads, influenced slightly by the French of the +Fourteenth Century, in bas-relief—very flat relief, of course. + +Manning’s friends felt they formed a real part of New York’s “new +serious Bohemia.” They ate in “unexploited” Greenwich Village +restaurants, never complaining about the poorly cooked food, sitting +for hours at the bare, painted tables, talking eagerly in the dim +candle or lamp light. They expressed disgust when “uptowners” +discovered their retreats and sometimes moved elsewhere. You could find +them every Saturday and Sunday night in parties of from four to ten, +at the Brevoort, sometimes with pretty girls who didn’t listen to what +they were saying, sometimes with homely little “artistic” ones, hung +with soiled embroidered smocks, who listened too eagerly, talking of +life and art, revolution and undiscovered genius. + +There was no question that Manning’s father should continue his +allowance—there is no money in sincere art these days. Manning knew +that even his father must recognize that. Manning spent his summer with +the family on Long Island—it was hot in town. But, when one’s family is +of the bourgeoisie, it does draw one’s energy so. In the autumn Manning +decided he must have a real studio, some place he could work and +expand, going to “the town house” for week-ends. Having one’s family +uptown was quite all right, of course—but you couldn’t expect an artist +to live with them. + +Mr. Ross agreed to the studio. He was getting accustomed to Dorothea’s +friends, unbelievers though they were. He found he could not accept the +artistic friends that Manning thought so delightful. + +Manning found his studio, finally. The rent was terrific, of course, +but the building had been rebuilt at great expense and was absolutely +desirable in location, construction, everything. He furnished it +himself in Italian and Spanish Renaissance things. Rather nice! When +it was furnished—though they probably couldn’t “get it” he’d let the +family see it. + +One Sunday, after a family reunion dinner, Manning announced that his +studio was done. If the family liked they might all run down that +way—a sort of informal reception ... of course, they probably couldn’t +understand it all.... + +It was in the Village, of course, but not “of” it. Did they think the +Village was slumming? Uptown people did. But that’s where you’d find +real thought, people who accomplished things.... + +“Why, my new studio has real atmosphere”—Manning ran his fingers +through his hair as he spoke. “It’s in a wonderful old building, +magnificent lines and the architect left them all—it’s just inside he’s +remodelled. I’ve the third floor front, two magnificent rooms, a huge +fireplace, some lovely Italian things ... and the view from the window +is so quaint and artistic ... of course you may not understand it ... +this family ... it’s just a block from Washington Square.” + +“Why, that’s where....” began Mrs. Ross. + +Irwin silenced her. + +“Don’t begin old times, Mamma. Most of us haven’t as long memories as +you,” he said. + +“Come on, now that we’re all here, let’s go down,” Manning went on, “I +want you to see something really artistic. A friend of mine, DuBroil—I +think you’ve met him—did me a stunning name plate in copper, just my +name, Manning Cuyler Ross. I’m so glad I took Cuyler for a middle name +last year. And there is just the single word, ‘masks.’ I thought it +was—rather good. And I’ve a stunning bit of tapestry on the south wall. +Come on—you’ve got your cars here, we’d better get started—” + +It was a pleasant drive. The three cars drew up, almost at once, in +front of Manning’s studio, as he, in the front car, pointed it out to +them. + +They made quite a party as they turned out in front of the building—a +prosperous American family—Mr. and Mrs. Lincoln Ross, well-dressed, +commanding, in their fifties, which isn’t old, these days; MacDougal +Adams, plump, pompous; Yvette Ross Adams, in handsome furs and silks; +Jack Morton, sleek, black-haired; his always exquisitely gowned wife, +Carolyn Ross Morton; Irwin Ross, in a well-fitting cutaway, eyebrows +raised inquiringly, chatting alertly; Dorothea Ross, attractive and +girlish in rough tan homespun, and Manning Cuyler Ross, their host, +pleasantly artistic. + +“Here’s the place,” said Manning. “No elevator, real Bohemia, three +flights up, uncarpeted stairs. Come on, Mother.” + +Mrs. Ross was strangely pale, and on the faces of Yvette and Irwin and +MacDougal Adams there were curious shadows. The rest, save for Mr. +Ross, were too young to remember. As for him he broke, for the first +time in years, into a broad smile. Manning went rattling on. + +“This,” he proclaimed, “is the way to live! None of your middle-class +fripperies. Plain living, high thinking—this is the life!” + +They came to the studio at last, and all stood about in silence while +Manning explained its charms—the clear light, the plain old woodwork, +the lovely view of the square, the remote, old-world atmosphere. In +the midst of his oratory Mr. Ross sidled up to Mamma Ross and reached +stealthily for her hand. + +“Do you remember, Minnie,” he whispered, “this room—this old +place—those old days—” + +“Hush,” said Mamma Ross, “the children will hear you.” + + + + +AMY’S STORY + + +I + +When Amy Martin was thirteen years old she read, in a book she had +borrowed from the Fortnightly Library, something that interested her a +great deal. She liked the thought so much that she accepted it quite +thoroughly and kept it with her as a delightful secret. It was to the +effect that each person’s life is an interesting plot and that, if +written out, it would make a fascinating story. + +To Amy the idea opened up infinite avenues of adventure. Until then she +had taken for granted her life in Belleville. Now, other things seemed +just about to happen to her. + +Amy was one of two children. Her brother Clarence was two years +younger, a slow, shy, blond boy. Her father was a fat, soft fellow, +with bushy reddish hair which stood up in a stiff halo from an always +slightly red forehead. He had no chin at all, but he did have rather +a thick neck, so that below his mouth his chin and throat formed a +sagging, uneven line. He carried his head a bit high, and his prominent +nostrils seemed as peering as his eyes. + +Mrs. Martin was a neat, dark-haired woman, a trifle sleek and oily +as to complexion and hair. She liked to spend her time mixing not +particularly good cakes or talking with her neighbours, taking hours +to elaborate over trifles. She liked to give the impression of being +always busy, though she kept one servant and did not do much of +anything. + +Mr. Martin was in the retail hardware business. On the front of his +store and on his letterheads he used the picture of an ax, in red, with +the irrelevant motto: “It Pays to Trade at Martin’s.” There was only +one other hardware store in Belleville, so he had quite a good trade. + +The Martins lived in Myrtle Street, one of the nicest streets in +Belleville. The house was of clapboards, painted a cheerful yellow +with white trimmings, and had a wide porch with a scroll-work railing. +The yard had several nice fruit trees and a variety of bushes placed +without regard to landscaping. The house was cut up into small and not +particularly attractive rooms. + +At thirteen Amy was a freshman in High School and already a recognized +member of Belleville’s “younger set,” with dancing school Saturday +afternoons, parties on Friday nights and many Christmas-week +activities. After she read that every life is an interesting story, Amy +began to visualize herself as the heroine of a definite romance, still +without a plot, but alluring and pleasant. The thought became personal, +immediately. She forgot that every other life in Belleville contained a +plot for a story, too. The thought seemed to belong only to her. Life +stretched out, fragrant with possibilities of living. + +Crossing the street on an errand—to borrow a cup of sugar from Mrs. +Oglesthorn—Amy noticed the shadow of a tree on the dusty street. She +made up sentences: + +“As Amy crossed the street, the sunshine and shade cast contrasting +shadows on her—” + +“Amy ran across the street, enjoying the warm sunlight—” + +She made up frequent sentences. Why not? Wasn’t she a person in a +story? Wasn’t anything liable to happen to her at any time? Often, +after that, she thought of herself in the third person. + +Amy’s first year in High School was pleasant enough. She envied Luetta +Corman when, in the Christmas cantata, Luetta was chosen Queen of the +Good Fairies and wore white tarlatan and spangles, while Amy, as one of +the Pleasant Dreams, had to be content with a silver-starred wand and +pink cheesecloth. What did that matter? Later, she was going to live, +to have important things happen to her. She could laugh at these little +disappointments in Belleville. + +The next year Amy had a real ambition. Because several people had +praised her singing, she decided she had a good voice and should become +a singer. The Martins had an upright and rather tinny piano, a symbol +of small-town gentility, and Amy had had three years of piano lessons. + +She had no talent or real love for music, and she hated to practise. +She felt that learning to sing would be more pleasant than learning +to play. She was rather a pretty girl, with light brown hair and +indefinite blue-grey eyes. In her imagination she saw herself on the +concert stage and in opera even, costumed in any of the rôles she could +think of. On the stage she would find real romance. + +Her vocal teacher came to her house for two half-hour lessons a week. +She was not an inspired teacher, but Amy needed nothing better than +Miss Patten could give. She hated scales and breathing exercises. +But she sang, eagerly enough, sentimental songs. Those by Carrie +Jacobs-Bond were her favourites. After six months of lessons she sang +“Spring Rain” in a thin, uneven voice, noticeably weak in the lower +register, at a pupils’ recital. Her parents were quite proud of her. + +Two months later she sang at a concert given for a local charity. +On the program was a fairly well-known visiting soprano. This woman +listened to Amy’s singing, and when Amy eagerly asked her opinion about +“keeping on with lessons,” told her truthfully, though brutally, that +she could never learn to sing. + +Amy gave up her singing quite willingly. She had really lost interest, +anyhow. She was becoming interested in boys. She had a chum now, Lulu +Brown, a dark-haired, bright-eyed girl with rather boisterous manners, +and they were reaching the giggling stage. They put themselves in the +way of masculine attentions, invitations to play tennis or go walking, +with a soda at the Central Drug Store as an objective. + +Lulu was more attractive and vivacious than Amy, but her family was +not as high socially. Lulu’s father was a bookkeeper. In Belleville +the “society set” was composed of the families of professional men +and those who owned businesses. Lulu went with the same crowd as Amy, +though her parents did not go into society. Amy was fond of her, but +sometimes she was ashamed of her on the street, and she was always +afraid that Lulu would do something unconventional. If it had not +been that boys sought Lulu’s company and that Amy received many of +her invitations through her chum, it is possible that she would have +dropped her altogether. + +The next summer Amy decided to be an artist. Three times a week, during +vacation, she went to Miss Matson’s “studio,” the second-floor front +room of the Matson home. + +Miss Matson had had several years of study in New York. On the wall of +her living-room there was a picture in oils that, it was said, had been +done at the Art Students’ League. Amy did not know just what this was, +but she was impressed because of the name and because her teacher had +studied in New York. + +Miss Matson’s students could do two kinds of work, copying pictures +or still-life. If they chose copying, they made meticulous replicas +of fancy heads, usually in water-colour, imitating every curve and +shadow, putting on daubs of red where the originator had put daubs of +red, unquestioning. The homes in Belleville were filled with these +pictures in elaborate gold frames, the work of Miss Matson’s pupils. +The “still-life” studies were groups of fruit or vegetables, a yellow +mixing bowl, a red tomato and a green pepper, or, perhaps, a pitcher, +two lemons and a slice of cake. + +Amy copied pictures all summer. Then some one told her that this was +not art, so she joined the still-life group. + +So—she was going to be an artist. She tried to see colour in everything +that year. She read the lives of the painters. She knew that years of +hard work lay before her, but she felt she wouldn’t mind that. She knew +she would do something remarkable. Life was seizing her—going to make +an artist out of her—to think that her romance, her story—was coming +out this way. + +The next winter she went to High School and spent three afternoons a +week, after school, with Miss Matson. At the end of the year she could +do a “still-life study” of a couple of eggs, a mixing bowl and a bunch +of radishes with fair skill. She went to parties and enjoyed them. She +giggled with Lulu over the boys. But she felt that life stretched out +beyond Belleville. + +That summer she persuaded her father to let her go to a near-by city +and take a summer course at an art school. She was only sixteen, but +there were cousins with whom she could stay. Her mother and Clarence +wanted to go to Benton Springs, near Belleville, where her father could +go for week-ends. + +Her father laughed condescendingly and told her that she could study, +that he thought it would be very nice to have an artist as a daughter. + +The art students were older than Amy and greatly in earnest. Amy lived +near the school and worked hard. All summer she didn’t pay attention to +anything else. She always felt embarrassed when she met a model from +the life-classes, wrapped in a bathrobe, waiting to pose. Amy was not +in the life-class, but knew that drawing from the nude was all right +“for art’s sake.” She even peeked into a life-class and pretended that +she didn’t mind, though she really felt that she was doing something +wrong. + +She attended a series of lectures and learned something about anatomy +and the history of art. She even learned a little of colour and +composition. + +She found art a serious thing. She met men and women who had been +working for five or six years—and still were doing charcoal drawings. +She hated charcoal as a medium. Others spoke knowingly of schools of +art and new interpretations, and these things annoyed and puzzled her. + +At the end of the term she had done half a dozen drawings from casts, +three compositions and a few outdoor sketches. She had thought of art +as a way to produce pretty pictures quickly. She saw how inadequate she +was for such a big subject and that she lacked ability and ambition. +She was glad to be back in Belleville for the opening of High School. +After all, life offered many things beside music and art. + + +II + +Amy had a good time during her junior year in High School. She and Lulu +were invited to all of the Friday night parties. She was not as good a +dancer as Lulu, but she always had all of her dances taken. On Sunday +she and Lulu and two of the boys would go for a walk, calling at the +post-office for any possible mail and then stopping for sodas. + +But that wasn’t life. Amy wanted something above Belleville and High +School parties and a father with a hardware store with red axes on its +windows. She read a great deal of fiction that year—everything in the +Fortnightly Library that had large print and wide margins. While she +read she remembered that, to her, too, romance would come, that her +life would be an interesting story. + +She fell in love with Reed Maddon when she was seventeen. He was a +tall, black-haired boy. His father kept a leather and harness store. He +played on the Belleville High School football team and was rather shy. +He didn’t pay much attention to Amy, at first. It was pleasant, being +in love with him. He sat back of her in the High School study hall, so +she kept a little pocket-mirror in her desk and could find his face in +it whenever she wanted to. + +She tried to make Reed be nice to her. Lulu saw through her little +tricks and laughed. Lulu, at seventeen, was already making eyes at +grown-up men. + +Amy dreamed of Reed, thought of him all day. Being in love seemed a +beautiful prelude to living, to the story that was going to happen. She +pursued Reed so patiently that finally he did pay a little attention to +her. He took her to a couple of dances. One night, on the way home, he +put his arm around her and, in the shadow of the climbing rose on the +side porch, he kissed her. + +His kiss lifted her into an ecstasy. She lay awake nearly all night +thinking about it, about his hair, the curve of his cheek, the feel of +his lips. She whispered “Reed, Reed, Reed,” over and over. Only once +more did Reed make love to her. That was a week later, when he came +to tell her that he was going to St. Louis to work for his uncle. He +put his arm around her as they sat in the hammock on the porch. Amy +trembled delightedly. She never remembered what they said. + +She thought of Reed all summer. He wrote her a couple of letters with +no particular charm and sent her a poorly-taken picture post-card of +himself, which she cut to fit her locket. + +Amy went to the state university when she was graduated from High +School. Lulu Brown went, too. Because of Lulu’s inferior social +position and a tendency to make amorous eyes at the boys, she was +not asked to join a sorority. Amy was, and she gloried in her social +supremacy, treating Lulu with great condescension, though they shared +letters from home and frequently spent a night together. Lulu was more +popular than Amy, but Amy thought some of the boys Lulu went with were +“fast.” She no longer regarded her as a rival and did not feel as +jealous of Lulu as she had in High School. + +Amy watched, eagerly, for something to happen. At first, she was in +love with Reed, but the activities of the university made her a bit +dulled toward him. A letter from him, around Christmas of her first +year away at school, gave her only the smallest thrill. She could +think of his mouth and his eyes with great calm. She rather missed not +thinking about him. + +Amy did not fall in love at the university, and no one fell in love +with her. She went to dances and the other entertainments, treated the +boys with the usual half-comrade, half-coy attitude of the other girls, +and was fairly popular. + +But this was not life, really. It was just waiting for things to +happen. Things _must_ happen. She felt that. She was going to have a +real story happen to her—would probably have exciting adventures and +meet a wonderful man and fall in love with him. + +In the evenings, at dusk, she would sometimes get away from the other +girls and take long walks by herself. + +She would get so restless and eager for something to happen that +she wanted to cry out for it. Every new face might bring romance. +She almost trembled when she passed any one or when she made a new +acquaintance. She often woke up early, and, after trying to read, would +lie in bed, half-awake, and imagine things that might happen. + +Life—what did it mean? Would she fall in love again? Being in love +with Reed had just been puppy love, of course. Was the real man only +a little way off? Was she destined for great happiness or great +unhappiness? Even that— + +She learned little things about men, was even humble enough to +profit by Lulu’s wisdom, even while she disapproved of Lulu’s +unconventionality. Lulu seemed to know, instinctively, things that she +had to learn. + +Two years at the university, a smattering of history and French and +German and literature, and Amy was home, ready for “society.” She felt +another ripple of triumph—Lulu’s social position would not warrant +formal social entrance—the Martins planned to introduce Amy with a +party at the Elks’ Club. + +The party was quite a success. Mr. Martin, his chin and neck a bit more +indistinguishable, Mrs. Martin, smooth and sleek, buttery almost, stood +in the “receiving line,” together with several “socially prominent” +friends. Amy wore a white organdie that came from Chicago. There +was Robinson’s Orchestra and dancing. For supper, the local caterer +had sent to the city for fresh lobster, a delicacy unobtainable in +Belleville. The party was not surpassed by the other four débutante +parties of the season. + +Amy went to innumerable social affairs that winter. When a theatrical +company came to Belleville she was always one of a box party, composed +usually of the débutantes and four of Belleville’s most desirable young +men, all in evening clothes, the girls in dresses bought at the New +York Store or made by Madame Jackson, Belleville’s one modiste, the men +in rather wrinkled suits, but unmistakably their own. + +Something was missing, Amy felt that. Reed came back to Belleville, but +he was not attractive any more. He went with Claudine Harper, and Amy +did not care. Nothing thrilled her at all. + +Sometimes, at a dance, an especially good dance with a good partner +would awaken her just a little. A chapter from a popular novel could +be mooned over half a day. A play sometimes had a moment which lifted +her above things. She read poetry, and soothing rhythms pleased her. +Sometimes she tried to write, but never achieved anything beyond a +vague scribbling about longings and life and love. This was not living. +She wanted to scream out, to batter down something which seemed to +stand between her and the story that ought to be happening. + + +III + +Amy went with her father and mother and Clarence on a trip to Niagara +Falls, Buffalo and New York City. She pretended a great wonder over the +falls, but in reality she did not care for the scenery. + +In New York she felt something of the same emotion she had felt when, +at the University, she had taken long walks by herself. She wanted to +thrust herself into the city, yet, she remained apart, aloof, watching +it. Her father, who had been to New York before, took the family on +tours of inspection, pointing with his cane—to Amy’s embarrassment—the +things of interest. Amy saw the tallest buildings, rode in the subway +and busses and taxicabs, visited the museums and Chinatown. In Fifth +Avenue she bought some frocks and hats for twice as much as she had +ever paid in Belleville. In the lobby of their hotel, a commercial +hotel of tremendous size, Amy glanced eagerly at the men who stood +there, and thought she recognized famous faces, actors or writers +or politicians. Once she even smiled at a man who seemed unusually +handsome. He started to walk toward her and she became frightened and +took the elevator to her room. On the street she wanted to know people, +any of the busy, well-dressed crowd. There were men who looked as if +they might be just the sort she liked to read about, clever, cultured. +She did not meet any of them. + +Back in Belleville, she took up her usual activities, telling of the +theatres and show places she had seen in New York. Things seemed duller +than ever. Men in Belleville were so definitely unattractive. She +wished she lived in New York. But, even as she wished it, a fear of the +city came over her. She realized how dreadfully lonely she would feel +if she were there alone, how inadequate she was to fit into any of the +groups she had seen. + +That winter, by putting her mind to it, she became rather a good bridge +player. She was made a member of the Hospital Board League and spent +afternoons planning how to raise money for various hospital needs. + +Lulu Brown married a man whom she had “picked up” in front of the +Belleville House. It happened that he was a New York business man, in +Belleville about the new cracker factory, and quite wealthy. + +Amy went to the wedding in the small Brown cottage. She gave Lulu a +small travelling set of imitation ivory. She envied Lulu in her blue +going-away suit more than she had ever envied her before. The man +Lulu married was named Fredericks and was a striking-looking fellow. +Fredericks told about a New York apartment that he had taken for the +winter. Lulu was married and going to live in New York. She—why she was +richer and better-bred than Lulu and she had to stay in Belleville, and +nothing happened to her. + +Two months later Amy went to another wedding. Reed Maddon married +Claudine Harper. Amy went with the crowd to the station to see them +leave for Chicago on a wedding trip. She was surprised to find how +little she cared. Outside of a breathless moment of jealousy she didn’t +really feel it at all. Yet Reed was the only man she had ever cared +about. But, of course, that had been when she was a little girl. She +would fall in love soon and life would begin. + +Amy spent the next two winters in Belleville. She and her mother went +to Benton Springs for the summers, and her father and Clarence, who +was now a partner with his father, came up for alternate week-ends. +Her father was more condescending than ever now, because she had not +married. He was fatter than ever, and Amy did not like to look at his +profile. + +At Benton Springs Amy flirted with the men at the hotel, colourless, +small-town men who were trying hard to get pleasure out of an +inexpensive holiday. She did not find them very entertaining. She +attended the hotel dances on Saturday nights and went to another hotel +for Wednesday evening festivities. She played tennis and golf. + +She had a mild love affair with a young lawyer from Texas, and he +kissed her one night as they were walking toward the hotel. + +After she had gone to bed she thought about him. He was not the sort +of man she had planned to marry at all. He did not attract her, but +the masculine smell of his coat had been pleasant and he was not +bad-looking. Amy decided that, if he asked her to marry him, she would +accept him. He did not propose. He left the hotel three days later. +With the exception of a picture post-card, she never heard from him +again. + +Something like a panic seized Amy the next winter. The girls in her +set were getting married one after another and new débutantes were +appearing each season. Great adventures did not come to her. Even +little things did not happen. She felt almost trapped. What if she were +wrong about life, about the story? + +She visited, with new clothes as aids, her mother’s cousin in Harperton +and her Aunt Ella in Demont. She had good times. Girls gave bridge +parties for her. Men took her to parties. She did not have a love +affair nor any other adventures. She felt she was just as attractive +as other girls. They found beaux. Still, to others, she might seem +popular, too. She got candy and flowers and invitations. It was just +that nothing really came close enough, love or marriage or any sort of +happening. She still felt as if she were not really living, as if life +were waiting for her, outside of some gate. She was bound to find it, +if she waited. + +She returned to Belleville in January, and the next month Millard +Kenton came to Belleville on business. His cousins lived there, so he +was included in the town’s social affairs. Amy met him, as she always +met visitors. + +Kenton was attentive to her immediately. She disliked him at first. He +was small and had brown hair which was getting thin at twenty-eight. +There was nothing forceful or vital about him. His strongest opinions +seemed to have no importance. Nothing he could do ever could have any +significance, Amy felt. + +Yet, because he liked her, Amy ignored Kenton’s colourlessness and made +herself as attractive as she could. She was slender and had nice eyes +and hair and wore pretty, small-town, fluffy dresses. + +When Kenton called, they sat in the living-room and talked or played +bridge with other couples or went to the theatre. + +Sometimes, when she was alone with Kenton, Amy looked at his +indefinite, uninteresting face and wondered how she could keep on +talking with him. What a bore he was! She liked him a little better, +but felt that he was more insignificant than a man ought to be. + +Kenton’s home was in Minota, Oklahoma, where he was with an oil +company. He went back to Minota and wrote to Amy on his business +stationery in a small, slanting handwriting. His letters were +colourless, too. + +Kenton came back to Belleville in April and asked Amy to marry him. +She had encouraged him in little ways, listening with flattering +attention to his opinions, answering his letters with half-finished +sentences that were meant to show that she liked him. + +Amy had never had a real proposal of marriage. She felt that the great +romance, as she had dreamed it, would never come to her. But all the +other girls were marrying. Being married would open new avenues. Maybe, +after marriage, she would have adventures. If things did happen—she +could leave Kenton any time she wanted to— + + +IV + +They had a church wedding. Amy wore a very elaborate wedding gown and +veil, and six of her best friends were bridesmaids, in pale green. Amy +showed her artistic training by designing huge fans for the girls to +carry, instead of the usual flowers. + +Amy and Kenton went to housekeeping in an apartment in Minota, +Oklahoma, which they furnished with huge overstuffed chairs and +mahogany furniture. + +Amy did not like Minota. It was an oil town and the smell of the oil +permeated everything. Minota was a little smaller than Belleville and +definitely newer and flimsier. She knew several former Belleville +people there, so, after a first loneliness, a feeling of not belonging +to any place, she settled down comfortably enough. Soon she was one of +the set of “younger matrons” and went to bridge games and parties quite +as she had done at home. + +She missed Belleville. After six months she went home on a visit. When +she got there she was at once restless and dissatisfied and didn’t +know what to do. After she had seen her parents and her friends and had +walked down the familiar streets, she was quite willing to go back to +Minota again. + +She grew to like Kenton a great deal. Now that she could read while he +was at home or ignore him altogether, he did not bore her. They had so +many things in common—their home, their friends—that at times he seemed +almost interesting. + +A year after Amy married, Millard, junior, was born. Amy had read and +thought that motherhood was a thing apart, almost an exalted state. She +welcomed it, frightened but eager. It left her much the same, without +the ecstasy she had anticipated. + +Two years later Mary-Etta came. Amy was very fond of her children. + +When Millard was four Arnold Thompson came to Minota. He was +good-looking and had the reputation of being popular with women. Amy +encouraged him to notice her. The Kentons were living in their own +home, now, a white bungalow, and they had a coloured maid who took +almost entire charge of the children. + +Thompson telephoned and asked to call one afternoon. + +Amy sent the maid out with the children and dressed in a great flutter +of excitement. Thompson came about four. They talked, and Amy listened +attentively, though to her surprise, Thompson’s conversation was just +like the other men’s she knew and did not interest her. She played a +little on the piano. Before she knew it, Thompson had put his arms +around her, was kissing her. She lay passive in his arms for a moment, +even kissed him in return. The thrill she had expected was not there. +She felt cheapened instead. She pushed him away, not angrily, but +rather with indifference, and told him “You’d better go.” + +For weeks after that Amy suffered keenly from remorse. It was the +deepest emotion she had had in a long time. Kenton was so good—and +she had let another man kiss her. What must Thompson think of her? If +Kenton should find out? She was ashamed of herself. She was greatly +relieved when, a month later, she heard that Thompson had left Minota. + +Life in Minota went on pleasantly enough, punctuated with visits to +Belleville and even a visit to New York, after a successful business +deal. Kenton was doing well in business. The children were growing +nicely. + +Sometimes Amy felt the old desires, the wanting to live. She would grow +restless and walk in her room, up and down, and long for something to +happen. Then would come a reaction, a hope that nothing would take +place to change her comfortable state as a nice little married woman. + +Things did not change until Amy was thirty-six. Then Kenton took cold +and died of pneumonia after only four days’ illness. Amy grieved +sincerely. She missed Kenton a great deal and told every one that +theirs had been an ideal life. + +She sold the house, and she and the children went back to Belleville to +live with her parents. + +In Belleville Amy took up, in a quiet way, the activities of the women +of her age. Kenton had been insured. The hardware store with the red +axes on the windows was still prosperous. Amy’s father was bald, now, +and quite fat. Her mother was complacently busy about home and church +matters. Clarence was married and had a home of his own. Life in the +Martin home was comfortable, in a quiet, uneventful way. + +Lulu Fredericks came through Belleville on her way to California and +stopped for a visit with relatives. Amy was rather awed and resentful +at Lulu’s clothes and her grand manner and Eastern accent. Lulu had +travelled in Europe even. Lulu, who had been of so much less importance +in Belleville, had had adventures. And she, Amy, hadn’t lived at +all—nothing had happened. + +Amy remembered the book she had read when she was a little girl, that +had said that each person’s life contains a plot for a story. It made +her angry to think of it. Her life hadn’t been a story. Nothing had +happened to her. She was sorry she had read that book. If it hadn’t +been for that she would never have felt the way she did about life. She +might have enjoyed things more, one at a time. Now, though she couldn’t +touch them definitely, she felt that she had missed pleasant things, or +ignored them, because she had wanted bigger things, instead. + +The author of that book had cheated her—life had cheated her. How could +any one have written such nonsense? Amy knew there was no story in her +life—in most lives. Yet she knew that there always would be people like +Lulu to remind her of the fact that there were people whose lives were +like stories, after all. + +After the children were in bed, Amy sat at the window and looked out +on the little lawn. The trees and the bushes looked badly taken care +of, neglected. She must see that the yard was fixed up, right away. Her +life—it was all she had—it did seem too bad that nothing had happened +to her—school—parties—marriage—babies—widowhood—nothing—no story at all. + + + + +CITY FOLKS + + +I + +Joe and Mattie Harper lived in Harlem. They lived in a four-room +apartment in the second of a row of brown, unattractive-looking +apartment buildings—six of them just alike—in One Hundred and +Thirty-second Street. + +They lived in Apartment 52, which means the fifth floor, and there was +no elevator. But the rent was reasonable, fifty dollars, and both Joe +and Mattie said they didn’t mind a “walk-up” at all—you get used to it +after a while, and Mattie knew it kept her hips down. Then, too, by +going to the fifth floor, you get a much better view, though why a view +of the building across the street—another brown barracks of exactly +the same age and design—is desirable, only Joe and Mattie and other +similarly situated folks know. The air was cleaner, though, on the +fifth floor—they felt that any one would know that. + +One Hundred and Thirty-second Street, Harlem, lacked all outstanding +features. If the street signs had suddenly disappeared, there would +have been nothing to identify it, to pin it to—a bleak street, without +trees, a fairly clean street, decent and neat looking (after the +garbage man had passed and the tins had disappeared), wide enough to +lack misery, narrow enough to lack grandeur. + +We are about to have two meals with Joe and Mattie—the most important +meals of their day, for Joe’s lunch was usually a sandwich and a glass +of milk at the Automat, or beans or a beef stew in the lunch room +across from his office; Mattie’s a glass of soda and a sandwich or a +dish of ice cream, if she were down-town—it is a shame about the new +price of sodas—a scramble of left overs from last night’s dinner, if +she spent the day at home. + +Breakfast: + +The alarm clock had buzzed at six-thirty, as it always did. It was a +good alarm clock and had cost $1.48 at Liggett’s, two years before. + +Mattie’s little dog, who slept in the front hall, had heard the alarm +and scrambled into their bedroom with his usual yip of pleasure—he was +rather deaf, but he could make out sounds as definite as the ringing +of a bell and he listened for the alarm each morning. He was a nice +fellow, a white poodle, overly fat, with red-rimmed eyes. If you didn’t +molest him nor try to pet him nor step on him, he wouldn’t snap or try +to bite you. Mattie and Joe were quite fond of him and took him for +walks in Central Park on Sundays or around Harlem in the evenings. His +name had, in turn, been, stylishly, Snowball, Snoodles and Snookums and +had at last reached Ikkle Floppit, all of which he answered to with +stolid indifference. + +Joe had heard the alarm, had jumped up and turned it off, and had waked +Mattie, who slept more soundly. Ikkle Floppit had jumped, wheezily, +upon the bed and licked all visible portions of Mattie’s face. Mattie, +then, had given up trying to doze again and had stroked the dog’s +uneven coat with a fond hand. + +Toilets followed, rapid plunges into the dwarf-sized white tub with its +rather insecure shower attachment—Joe talking while he shaved, about +the office, the men who worked with him, his boss who didn’t appreciate +him, the weather that was still too warm for comfort, their friends, +the Taylors, who they both agreed were too stuck up for words since +Taylor had got his new job. + +“His people aren’t anything at all,” Mattie had said, “awfully +ordinary—and the way they do put on airs, you’d think they amounted to +something. Why, my cousin Mabel knew his sister in Perryville, where +they used to live, and she said they weren’t anything at all there. And +now, how they do go on with a maid and a car. They’ve never even taken +us for a ride in their old car and they can hold their breath until I’d +step into it. It beats all—” + +And Joe, his face twisted for the razor’s path beyond the possibilities +of conversation, had grunted assent. + +Now Mattie had completed the simple breakfast, six pieces of toast, +buttered unevenly and a bit burned on the edges, as always, a halved +orange for each of them, some coffee and some bought preserves with a +slight strawberry-like flavour. She and Joe faced each other over the +almost clean tablecloth—it had been clean on Sunday and this was just +Tuesday morning. + +The dining-room was small, lighted vaguely with two court windows. Even +now, at seven-thirty, the electric light had been turned on in the red +and green glass electrolier. + +Mattie knew the electrolier was out of fashion, she would have +preferred a more modern “inverted bowl,” but this one was included with +the apartment, so there seemed nothing to do about it. She would also +have preferred mahogany to the fumed oak dining-room set, bought eight +years before—she had bought the mahogany tea wagon with her last year’s +Christmas money from Joe, looking forward to the time when they could +buy a whole new mahogany set. + +Mattie was not at all a bad-looking breakfast companion, seated there +in her half-clean pink gingham bungalow apron—she wore these aprons +constantly in the house to save her other clothes. She was a slender, +brown-haired woman of about thirty, with clear brown eyes, a nose +that turned slightly upward, a mouth inclined to be a little large, +rather uneven but white teeth—indefinite features, a pleasant, usual, +hard-to-place face. + +And Joe, across from her, was equally pleasing, with a straight nose +and rather a weak chin, dark hair starting to recede just a little at +thirty-three, sloping shoulders inclined a bit to the roundness of the +office man. + +“What’s in the paper, Joe?” asked Mattie, already nibbling toast. + +Joe, deep in the morning _World_, threw out interesting items—the +progress of a murder trial, news of an airplane flight. + +They talked about little things, a friend Joe had passed on the street +the day before, the choice of a show for Friday or Saturday night—they +tried to attend the theatre once each week, during the winter. + +The door bell rang, three short rings. Ikkle Floppit gave three +asthmatic yips. Mattie threw down her napkin, sprang to her feet. + +“I’ll go,” she said, as she usually said it, “you go on eating or +you’ll be late again. I bet it’s nothing but a bill, anyhow.” + +She returned in a moment with a thick letter in her hand. + +“From your mother, Joe,” she said. + +She knew the printed address in the corner of the envelope, “The +Banner Store, General Merchandise, E. J. Harper, Prop., Burton Center, +Missouri,” the neat, old-fashioned handwriting, the post-mark. + +Mattie and Joe had come from Burton Center, Mattie eight years and Joe +nine years before. They had grown up together in Burton Center, one +of the jolly crowd who attended the High School, went to Friday night +dances, later were graduated into the older crowd, which meant a few +more dances, went to the Opera House when a show came to town, had +happy love affairs. + +Joe and Mattie became engaged three years after Joe left High School, +which was the year after Mattie graduated. Joe went to work at the +Banner Store, under his father. But youth and ambition knew not Burton +Center, so, a little later, Joe had come to New York in search of +fortune. + +He had not obeyed the usual law of fiction and forgotten Mattie, nor +had Mattie changed while she waited. No, though Joe found neither +fame nor fortune, he did get an office job that looked as if it might +support two in comfort, if Mattie and Joe were the two concerned, +took a vacation, went back to Burton Center, found Mattie even more +alluring and dimpled and giggling than he had remembered her—how much +prettier Burton Center girls looked than those in New York!—and they +were married. + +Eight years, then, of New York, of subway rides, of the weekly theatre, +the weekly restaurant dinner, of apartment hunting about every second +October, of infrequent clothes buying, of occasional calls on stray +acquaintances, of little quarrels and little peace-makings, weekly +letters from home—little lives going on— + +Joe tore open the letter. + +“Gee, it’s a thick one,” he said. + +Then: + +“Well, I guess they are all well or ma wouldn’t have written so much. +Listen, Mattie.” + +Joe read the letter, a folksy letter—Mrs. Harper, senior, was well and +so was “your father,” as all mothers speak of their husbands to their +children, in letters. She had seen Millie’s mother a few days before +and she was looking well and hoping to see them soon in Burton Center. +The youngest Rosemond girl was engaged to a Mr. Secor from St. Louis, +who was in the lumber business. + +Then there followed, long and unparagraphed, something that made Joe +and Mattie look at each other, hard and seriously, across the table. +For Joe’s mother had written something that they had always thought +might be suggested to them but they had never discussed, even with each +other: + + “Your father isn’t as well as he once was, nor as young, you know, + and, though you need not worry about him, he is eating and sleeping + fine, even in hot weather, I think it would be better if you and + Mattie came here to live. You could step right into the store and + take charge of things as soon as you wanted to. It is not a big store + as you know, but your father has always made a nice living from it + and Burton Center is growing right along. The Millers have put up + some new bungalows out on Crescent Hill, you’d be surprised to see + how it has grown up out there, all of the young people are moving + out there and with the new Thirteenth Street car line it is very + convenient. The cottages are all taken but two, both white with green + blinds and room back of them for garages and we could get you one of + them if you wanted us to. The George Hendricks are living there and + Mr. and Mrs. Tucker and the Williams boy, Phillip, I think that’s + his name, you used to go with. The new country club isn’t far from + there and you could play tennis after work, which would be good for + you. I wish you could make up your mind at once, so you could get + here before long or your father will have to get a man to help him, + for he really ought to have more time to himself and take a nap after + dinner, now that the season’s trade is starting. Talk this over with + Mattie and let us know as soon as you can. I hope you are keeping + well in this changeable weather. Your father sends love to both and + so do I. + + “Affectionately, your Mother.” + +Mattie and Joe looked at each other, looked and looked and forgot their +toast and coffee. But they saw each other not at all. Nor did they +visualize One Hundred and Thirty-second Street, New York, drab and +bare, nor even Fifth Avenue nor Broadway. + +They saw a little town, with rows of old trees along its quiet streets, +little white houses on little squares of green, each house with its +hedge or its garden or its hammocked lawn, peace, and the smell of +growing things after a rain— + +“What say, Mattie?” asked Joe. “Sound pretty good? Of course, you’ve +always said you loved New York and I don’t want to persuade you against +your will. Perhaps you wouldn’t care to move—still, Burton Center, +we’ve got some good friends there—it’d be sort of fun, seeing the +old crowd, belong to a country club, tennis, things like that, even +managing the business. But, of course, if you wouldn’t want to leave +the city—” + +Mattie, mentally, had far outdistanced him. + +She clapped her hands, pleasantly excited. + +“Joe can’t you just see that little house—I bet it’s awfully cute. Last +summer, when we were out in the country, I certainly did envy people +living in little houses—I get so tired of New York, sometimes. But I +never wanted to say anything, knowing how much you liked it here. But +that little house—we could sell all of our furniture except the tea +wagon and the table in the living-room and my new dressing-table—it +really would be cheaper to buy new things than to pay for shipping. And +we could find out how many windows there are and I could get some new +cretonne here—sort of set the styles in Burton Center. It sure would +be funny, living back there and knowing everybody. Here I never see a +soul I know in weeks, or talk to anybody. Honest, sometimes I get just +hungry for—for people. The trouble is, we haven’t really got anything +here.” + +“I know,” Joe nodded. “New York’s all right for some people—if you’ve +got money. It’s a great city all right, but we don’t get anything +out of it. I get so sick of being squeezed into subways night and +morning—hardly standing room all the way home—and no place to go +Sundays or evenings but a movie or a show or to see people who live +miles away and don’t care anything about you anyhow and who you see +about twice a year. Burton Center will look awfully good—folks take an +interest in you, there.” + +“You bet they do.” + +“And it isn’t as if I’ve failed here. I haven’t. I’m due for another +raise pretty soon—but we aren’t putting anything aside, getting any +place. It isn’t as if we were terribly poor. You look awfully well in +your clothes on the street, but we are always having to skimp and do +without things—we never have the best of anything, always cheap seats +at shows or cheap meals in second-class restaurants, a cheap street to +live on—it gets on a person’s nerves.” + +“Why, I didn’t know you felt that way, Joe. I thought you liked New +York. Why, it makes me so jealous, going down Fifth Avenue, seeing all +those people in limousines, not a bit better nor better looking than I +am, all dressed up, lolling back so—so superior, with nasty little dogs +not near so nice as Floppit—and with chauffeurs and everything. Why, +in Burton Center we’d be somebody, as good as any one. We could fix up +that house awfully nice—and have a little garden and all that. But you +said you hated the Banner Store so—now don’t go and make up your mind—” + +“You needn’t worry about me. The Banner Store is all right—I think +differently about things than I did years ago. I thought the city was +just going to fall apart in my hand—but I found someone else got here +first. I’m not complaining, you know. It isn’t that I’ve failed—why, +in Burton Center they’ll look at us as a success, we’ll be city folks, +don’t you see. They know I haven’t failed. I didn’t come sneaking back +the year I left, the way Ray Wulberg did. No, sir, when folks came to +New York to visit, we showed them a good time, took ’em to restaurants +and shows—they think we got along fine here—that we’re all right—” + +“You bet they do, Joe. But I just can hardly wait to see that +cottage—and everybody. I bet Crescent Hill is awfully pretty. To-night, +you write to your mother—don’t make it too sudden, you know, or too +anxious—for you know how she is—she means fine, but she’ll like to +spread the news about us coming back. You just say that, under the +circumstances, as long as your father is getting old and needs you, you +feel it’s your duty to go there and as soon as you can arrange your +affairs and resign your position and train one of your assistants so +that he can take care of your work—” + +“You leave that to me. I can fix that part up all right.” + +The buzzer of the dumb-waiter zinged into their talk. + +“Joe, there’s the janitor. It’s late. You’d better hurry. You know the +call-down you got last week for being late.” + +Mattie and Joe arose simultaneously, Joe grabbed his paper, folded it +conveniently, hurried to the door, Mattie after him. + +“Going down-town to-day?” he asked. + +“Thought I would, when I get the house straightened up. I want to look +at a new waist. My good one is starting to tear at the back.” + +“All right. I’ll be home early, about six-thirty—won’t have to stay +over-time. In a few months, I’ll be my own boss, no hurrying off in the +morning or rushing home in subways—we’ll fix that letter up to-night.” + +He brushed off his mouth with his hand and gave Mattie the usual and +rather hearty good-bye kiss and, closing the door behind him, Joe and +Mattie parted for the day with visions of little houses nestling in +green gardens uppermost in their minds. + + +II + +Dinner: + +Dinner times with the Harpers varied slightly according to the way +Mattie had spent the afternoon, the amount of work at Joe’s office and +where the Harpers were dining. They usually dined at home, but, once a +week, usually Saturday, when they followed the feast with a visit to +the theatre, they ate at one of the table d’hote restaurants some place +within ten blocks of Broadway and Forty-second Street. + +They thought themselves quite cosmopolitan because they had been to +Italian, Greek, French, Chinese, Russian and Armenian restaurants, +choosing in each the dish prepared for the curious—and eating it +according to American table customs as they practised them. + +This particular Tuesday they were dining at home. + +Joe reached the apartment exactly at six-thirty, the trip home taking +nearly an hour. Joe had been watching the clock for the last twenty +minutes of his business day so as to escape at the first possible +opportunity. + +Mattie, in the kitchen, heard his key in the lock and hurried to greet +him. They kissed quite as fondly as they had in the morning, Floppit +gave a little yip of welcome and received a pat on the head in reply. + +Dinner was nearly ready, Mattie informed Joe, table set and all. + +Joe hurried with his ablutions and reached the dining-room, accompanied +by his newspaper, the _Journal_ this time, at a quarter of seven. He +divided the paper so that Mattie might have the last page, where are +shown the strips of comics—he had read them hanging to a strap in the +subway. Then he helped Mattie to bring in the hot dishes from the +kitchen. + +There was a small platter of five chops, fried quite brown, two for +each one of them and one—to be cut into bits later—for Ikkle Floppit. +Mattie always fried chops or steaks the days she went down-town, and +sometimes other days besides. + +There were potatoes, in their jackets to save her the trouble of +peeling them, a dish of canned corn. There was a neat square of butter, +too, and some thinly sliced bread on a silver-plated bread plate—a last +year’s Christmas present from one of Mattie’s aunts—and a small dish of +highly-spiced pickles. + +Besides this, on the new tea wagon stood two pieces of bakery pastry, +of a peculiarly yellow colour that had aimed at but far surpassed the +result of eggs in the batter. + +They sat down. Joe served the chops, Mattie the potatoes and corn. +Mattie had put on her bungalow apron as soon as she returned +home—so as to save her suit from the spots and wear incidental to +dinner-getting. Joe looked just as he had in the morning, plus a small +amount of beard and minus his coat and vest. + +Yet, as the morning’s conversation had been spontaneous and +enthusiastic and happy, this evening’s meal had a curious cloud of +restraint over it. + +“Good dinner,” said Joe, after his first mouthful. + +“Yes, it does taste good,” agreed Mattie. + +“Go down-town?” + +“Uh-huh, I went down about eleven. Just got home an hour ago. I looked +at the waists, but didn’t get any—they seemed awfully high. I may go +down and get one to-morrow or Thursday. Any news in the paper?” + +“Not much doing,” Joe rustled his own sheets. + +He never really read at dinner but he liked to have the paper near him. + +“Look at Floppit, Joe. Isn’t he cute, standing up that way? I’ve just +got to give him a bite. It won’t make him too-fat, not what I give him. +Come here, Missus’ lamb.” + +Silence, then, save for the sound of knife against plate, a curious +silence, a silence of avoidance. Then meaningless sentences, bits about +anything, a struggle to appear happy, indifferent. + +Joe, then, + +“See any one down-town you know? Where’d you have lunch? Thought maybe +you’d call up and have lunch with me.” + +“I did think of it, but I didn’t come down your way. I stopped at +Loft’s and had chocolate cake and a cherry sundae. No—I didn’t see any +one I knew—exactly.... Anything happen at the office?” + +“Well, nothing much. We got that Detroit order.” + +“Did you, Joe? I’m sure glad of that.” + +A silence. Then, Joe, suddenly, enthusiastically, as if some barrier +had broken, as if he could no longer stay repressed, upon the path he +had set for himself. + +“Say, Mattie, guess what happened this afternoon! You know Ferguson, +the fellow who used to be in our office, whose brother is in the +show business? Well, he came in and gave me a couple of seats to see +‘Squaring the Triangle’ for Friday night. They say it’s a good show and +in for a long run, but they want to keep the house filled while the +show is new, till it gets a start.” + +“Did he, honestly? Say, that’s great, isn’t it? Where are they, +downstairs?” + +“Sure. You don’t think he’d give away balcony seats, or at least offer +them to me, do you? Remember, he gave us some last Spring. That makes +three times this year we’ve been to shows on passes. Pretty good, eh, +Mattie?” + +“Well, I guess yes. We’re some people, knowing relatives of managers. I +tell you, I think—” + +A pause, then. + +Mattie’s face lost its sudden smile and resumed its sadness of the +earlier part of the meal. + +“What’s the matter?” asked Joe. + +“Nothing the matter with me.” + +“Something else happened, too,” Joe went on, enthusiastically, “at +noon, I’d just left Childs’—and guess who I passed on the street?” + +“Some one we know?” + +“We don’t know him exactly.” + +“Oh, I can’t guess. Tell me.” + +“I know you can’t—well, it was—William Gibbs McAdoo! Honest to +goodness—McAdoo. It sure seemed funny. There he was, walking down the +street, just like I’ve seen him in the movies half a dozen times. It +sure gives you a thrill, seeing people like that.” + +Why the mention of William G. McAdoo should bring tears to the eyes of +a woman who had never met him may be inexplicable to some. But tears +came into the eyes of Mattie Harper. She wiped her eyes on the corner +of her bungalow apron, sniffed a little, came over to Joe, put her arms +around him. + +“I just—just can’t stand it,” she sobbed. “I’ve been worrying and +worrying. Your seeing McAdoo seems the strangest thing, after what +happened to me.” + +“What was it, Mattie?” + +Quite kindly and understandingly, Joe pushed his chair back from the +table, gathered his wife on his knee. + +“What was it, honey? Come tell Joe.” + +“It wasn’t anything—anything to cry about. I—don’t know what’s the +matter with me. It—it was in Lord & Taylor’s, this afternoon. I was +looking at gloves—and I looked up—and there, right beside me, not two +feet away, stood Billie Burke. Honestly! I know it was her. She looked +exactly like her pictures—and I saw her in ‘The Runaway’ years ago, and +not long ago in the movies. Yes, sir, Billie Burke. Joe, she’s simply +beautiful.” + +“Well, well, think of seeing Billie Burke!” + +“And Joe, when I saw her, the awfulest feeling came over me. I tried +not to tell you about it—after the letter this morning. I’d been +thinking about Burton Center—but seeing Billie Burke just knocked it +all out. Joe, you know I love you and want to do what you want—but, +I—I just can’t move to Burton Center—unless you’ve got your heart set +on it. I’d go then, of course—any place. But I don’t want to be—buried +alive in that little town. Imagine those people—never seeing or doing +anything—no new shows or famous people—nor any kind of life. And here I +went down-town and saw Billie Burke and you—” + +Joe’s pats became even fonder. He smoothed her hair with his too-pale +hand. + +“There, there, don’t cry. It’s all right. Nobody’s asking or expecting +you to go to Burton Center. Funny thing, that. I had the same feeling. +First, passing McAdoo—and then those theatre tickets. I guess there’s +something about New York that gets you. They’ve got to forget that +stuff about Burton Center, I can tell you that.” + +Mattie jumped off Joe’s lap, took the used dishes from the table, put +on the pastry and sat down in her own place, across from Joe. + +“This is good,” said Joe, taking a bite; “where’d you get it?” + +“At that little new French pastry shop we passed the night the black +dog tried to bite Floppit.” + +“Oh, yes, looked nice and clean in there.” + +They ate their pastry slowly. Mattie dried her eyes. Joe spoke to her: + +“Say, Mattie, don’t worry for a minute more about that Burton Center +stuff. After eight years of living in the city, seeing famous people, +living right in the center of things—didn’t we see all the warships +and airplanes nearly every day? They can’t expect us to live in a rube +place like Burton Center. We’re used to more, that’s all there is to +it.” + +“I know,” said Mattie, “I’d just die if I couldn’t walk down Fifth +Avenue and see what people wore. It’s just weighed on me, terribly. I +just saw us on the train going out there, and living in an awful little +house without hot water or steam heat—and seeing Billie Burke just—” + +The ’phone burred into the conversation. + +Mattie answered it, as usual, assuming a nonchalant, society air. + +“Yes, this is the Harpers’ apartment. Yes, this is Mrs. Harper +speaking. Who? Oh, Mrs. Taylor. How do you do. I haven’t heard your +voice in ages. We’re fine, thank you.... No, I don’t know much news. A +friend of Mr. Harper’s, a brother of Ferguson, the theatrical producer, +invited us to see ‘Squaring the Triangle’ as his guests on Friday. They +say it’s a wonderful show. We saw ‘The Tattle-tale’ last Saturday. Yes, +we liked it a great deal.... Saturday afternoon? Wait and I’ll ask Mr. +Harper if he has an engagement.” + +Hand over telephone mouthpiece, then: + +“Want to go riding with the Taylors in their new car Saturday afternoon +and stop at some road house for supper?” + +Resuming the polite conversational tone of the telephone: + +“Yes, thank you, Mr. Harper and I will be delighted to go. Awfully +nice of you. At four? Fine. By the way, did I tell you I saw Billie +Burke to-day? I did. She looked simply beautiful, not a day older than +she looked last year. Wonderful hair, hasn’t she? And Mr. Harper passed +William G. McAdoo on the street. Yes, New York is a wonderful city. +You did? Isn’t that nice! All right, we’ll be ready on Saturday—don’t +bother coming up, just honk for us, that’s what all our friends do. +Thanks so much, good-bye.” + +Mattie sat down at the table again. + +“Well,” she said, “it’s time they asked us—they’ll take us now and be +through for a year. Still, we may have a nice time. But—what we were +talking about—you sure you are in earnest about Burton Center?” + +“You bet I am. The folks at home had the wrong dope, that’s all. Why, +I’ve got my position here, too important to give up at any one’s beck +and call. Didn’t the boss congratulate me to-day on the way I wrote +those Detroit letters? I bet I get a raise in another three months.” + +They folded their napkins into their silver-plated napkin-rings, rose +from the table, walked together into the living-room, stood looking out +into the drab bleakness of One Hundred and Thirty-second Street, across +to the factory-like, monotonous row of apartment houses opposite, where +innumerable lights twinkled from other little caves, where other little +families lived, humdrum, unmarked, inconsequential, grey. And from the +minds of Mattie and Joe faded the visions of little white houses and +cool, green lanes. + +They remembered, instead, the city, their city—Mattie had seen a +moving picture taken, once, from a Fifth Avenue bus—three years ago +Joe had been introduced to—actually taken the hand of—William Jennings +Bryan—they had both seen James Montgomery Flagg draw a picture for the +Liberty Loan on the Public Library steps—a woman in a store had pointed +out Lady Duff Gordon to Mattie—they had seen, on the street, a man who +looked exactly like Charles M. Schwab—it might easily have been.... + +“I’ll write that letter right away and have it over with,” said Joe, “I +won’t hurt ma’s feelings—she and Dad mean all right. Living in Burton +Center all their lives we can’t expect them to understand things. It’s +ridiculous, of course. I don’t know what came over us for a minute this +morning. Of course we’ve got the crowded subways, here, and it costs a +lot to live and—and all that. You can’t expect a place to be perfect. +But—New Yorkers like us couldn’t stand that dead Burton Center stuff +for five minutes. Why, we’re, we’re—city folks!” + + + + +INDIAN SUMMER + + +I + +Evelyn Barron dressed rather mechanically for the evening at the +Durlands’, quite as she always dressed to go to places. She chatted +pleasantly with her husband as she arranged her hair. Martin Barron, as +usual a little ahead of her, paused to smoke a cigarette before putting +on his collar. Evelyn looked at him. She congratulated herself because +he was good-looking, awfully nice, in fact. Nothing extraordinary, of +course, but she had been married ten years and he was pleasant and she +was used to him. He seemed nearly everything that a husband should be, +and quite satisfactory when compared with most other husbands she knew. + +Evelyn was thirty-five. Even as she looked at herself in the glass, and +was pleased, she sighingly admitted that they were both—well—getting +rather settled. She was not wrinkled or anything like that, of course, +but she had gained ten pounds in the past year. She pulled viciously at +a grey hair. She was glad that she was not really turning wholly grey, +the way some women did. + +Well, it wasn’t as if she were getting on alone. Martin was aging, +too. His rather sandy hair was receding from his forehead. His skin, +always slightly pink, was a bit redder now after meals. He had taken to +wearing low collars, and with his newest lowest ones his flesh formed +two rolls over the top. But Martin was awfully good. Evelyn knew that. +He preferred a man as a private secretary and even at parties he never +paid much attention to other women. A few years before Evelyn had +rather hoped that he would look at other women. It would have added +spice to things. Still, it was of no use to borrow trouble. Good old +Martin! She liked him the way he was. He gave her everything he could +afford. + +Theirs had been practically a love match—that is, what usually passes +for a love match. Martin had fallen in love with Evelyn, brown-haired, +brown eyed and jolly and vivacious, at twenty-four. Evelyn, with no +other love affair in the immediate foreground, had recognized his +sterling qualities and his good business position and had fastened her +rather nebulous affection upon him. She hadn’t made a mistake. She +knew that. There hadn’t been any one else she had cared for since. She +had settled down into comfortable domesticity, one-half of a “little +married couple” in an upper-middle-class New York set. It was not +especially exciting. Sometimes she longed for thrills, but she had +longed for them more years before than she did now. She was pretty well +satisfied with things, now, most of the time. Especially with Martin. +They had quarrelled a bit, of course. About trifles. But, usually, +Martin was awfully good. + +To-night, even. Here he was, going to the Durlands’ without a word, and +he hated that sort of thing. Yet he went because Evelyn liked to go. +Of course he would spend most of his time smoking with the men. But he +went, anyhow. Evelyn couldn’t go alone. In her set, though they were +awfully modern about a lot of things—all of the women smoked and you +could go to teas with men if you liked—it wasn’t quite the thing to go +to formal parties without your husband. In any case, Evelyn couldn’t +have gone without _some_ escort, and no other man had ever asked her to +go any place with him. + +She wondered, just for a minute, why she wanted to go to the Durlands. +Whenever she and Martin were invited she always made quite a point of +pretending to like it. She wondered if she really did. She always felt +a bit out of things. But it was different from the affairs she usually +went to. Maud Durland was a writer, the only writer Evelyn knew well. +She was one of those serious writers of little things who occasionally +get into some of the newer literary reviews with half a column, or +write a two-inch filler for a second-rate all-fiction magazine. These, +when Maud Durland wrote them, seemed to have a special significance. +She talked them over with her friends and her friends spoke of them +when she was not with them. + +She wrote exclusively about people she knew. You could pick out whom +she meant if you knew her crowd. She made no money by her writing, +of course, but she felt that she was in the midst of a career. Fred +Durland had some sort of a remunerative, though inartistic, position +connected with the coal industry, and Maud Durland spoke of it +slightingly and with a patronizing sneer, though she never encouraged +Fred to neglect coal for a more artistic employment. + +One or two Sundays a month Maud Durland entertained with teas in +her studio. Why the Durlands had chosen a duplex studio, instead of +an ordinary apartment, except that it was a better setting for tea +parties, no one ever knew. But all of Maud’s artistic friends liked +it. At these Sunday affairs, Maud gathered together as many kindred +souls as she could find. Usually they were mostly married couples, +one-half of each couple being a mild devotee of some one of the arts. +Sometimes, though, couples like the Barrons were asked to fill in and +appreciate. There were always a few single people, too, yearning young +women in wrong colours, effeminate young men trying to remember their +poses, young business men attempting, once a week, anyhow, to dip into +a higher culture than their routine office work afforded them. + +The Durland apartment was removed from the stigma of mere pretence by +being uptown, a couple of blocks from the park. Sometimes Maud managed +to get real celebrities, a man or a woman who had had things in the +big magazines or who had written—and sold—a book, or verse writers who +filled out the pages when fiction stories ran too short and who turned +an honest penny by working part time for the advertising agencies. + +Evelyn had been to a number of these parties. She liked the atmosphere, +the being with people who counted. Always, on the way home or the next +day, she reflected on Martin’s stolidity and wished he “did things” +instead of being in the wholesale leather business. It always took +several days to make her feel kindly toward him again. + +Evelyn and Maud Durland had known each other about four years. While +they were not chummy and found little to talk about when they were +alone, they did manage to have long telephone talks. Like most women, +they found more to say over the telephone than when they were face +to face. Occasionally they met at luncheon or tea. Evelyn was always +awfully pleased to be included in Maud Durland’s parties. + +Now, her hair arranged and her face made up—Evelyn used rouge and +powder, but not with any degree of cleverness—she slipped into her +dress. It was rather a simple frock of dark blue Georgette crêpe, a +ready-made, with conventional “smart” lines, the sort of dress hundreds +of women between twenty-five and fifty were wearing. It was not an +inexpensive dress, but it lacked personality and effectiveness. + +Evelyn pulled Martin’s coat a bit, straightened his tie, kissed him +carelessly on the cheek. She felt she was really very fond of him. + +“All ready, old dear,” she said cheerfully. “And please don’t make +Jeffry crawl along so. It’s late now. Other people drive faster than a +mile every two hours without being arrested or having accidents.” + +When they arrived at the Durlands’, the guests had assembled—were, +in fact, already eating and drinking. Guests usually started on the +refreshments immediately on arriving or as soon afterward as things +were ready. Evelyn removed her coat in Maud Durland’s room, an exotic +room, like all of Maud’s things. It was done in peacock blue and +lavender enamel and was heavy with odd perfume. + +Martin was waiting at the studio door, and they went into the studio +together, nodding to people they knew. In fifteen minutes Martin was +with a group of business husbands of artistic wives who were smoking +in one corner. Soon Evelyn was listening to the usual conversation. +This night there was so much talk of the punch, which was pronounced +extraordinarily good, that Evelyn drank several glasses of it. She +joined a group who were discussing the newer lighting for the theatre. + +“You see, with this new lighting the foots are merely incidental. Get a +few thousand watts and a few baby spots for a real moonlight effect—” + +Then, + +“Here’s the man who knows about things like that—all about the +theatre—writes for the stage—wrote the lyrics for ‘Here Sat Miss +Muffet’ and ‘Why Didn’t You Phone Me?’ Hey, Northrup—” + +A man turned, smiled, came toward them. Evelyn gasped. He was the +sort of man she liked—the sort she had fallen in love with, vaguely, +whenever she fell in love, years ago, before she met Martin. She had +almost forgotten that there were men of that type. It made her feel +different, alert, to realize that men still looked that way. Of course, +he wouldn’t notice her—men didn’t notice her any more—hadn’t ever +noticed her a great deal. + +His name was Franklin Northrup, she learned. She felt, in some way, as +if she knew quite a lot about him. She was a bit confused as to whether +lyrics meant the words or the music to songs, but she knew it was one +of them. But that didn’t matter. Franklin Northrup! He was the sort +that had liked her, when she was younger. Younger? Well, she wasn’t +old—Northrup wasn’t so young himself—her age or older. Why, she had +been asleep, had forgotten what men were! It had been years since she +had really looked at a man—really noticed— + +He was good-looking. He was the type she admired, always. Blonde. +Martin was blonde, of course, but Martin was blonde in a heavy, red, +sandy sort of way. Northrup was slender, almost thin. His hair was +shining and smooth. She wanted rather to put her hand on it, to see +if it felt as smooth and soft as it looked. What a foolish notion to +have when you are married and thirty-five! His skin was pale, too pale, +really, and he had lines around his mouth and rather deep shadows under +his eyes. Those eyes were dark and sleepy-looking, not bright blue and +stupid, like Martin’s. She knew that type, cynical and yet sentimental +and intense. How silly to think of such things! She liked his mouth, +the upper lip rather thin, the under lip quite full. His nose was a bit +aquiline. She liked him awfully well. + +She wished, then, that she had not worn dark blue. You can’t bring +yourself out—show who you are—in dark blue. Evelyn felt suddenly that +it hid her personality. A decent dark blue dress is a sort of a cloak +of invisibility. Unconsciously she ran her hand through her brown hair, +loosened it a trifle, pulled it a little farther over her face. She +was glad she had shampooed it that morning. She was glad, too, that +her eyes were brown and didn’t need any make-up. She bit her lips, +moistened them, leaned forward. + +The others, chatting on about stage lighting, became suddenly +unimportant. Every one else became unimportant. Northrup lounged on the +arm of a chair. + +“This new lighting is all right, in a way,” he said; “that is, they’re +making an effort. But, except in night scenes and things like that, I +believe in enough light. These new birds really haven’t anything on +Belasco, though they kid his realism. Half of these new artists don’t +know what they’re trying to do. Take that show they put on last year—” + +His voice, quite deep, drawled pleasantly. Evelyn shivered with +enjoyment. He was nice. She would force him to notice her. What should +she do? He knew so much about things. She leaned a trifle closer to him. + +Another man came up. Evelyn barely glanced at him. He talked. Evelyn +lost interest. She caught Northrup’s eye. + +“Warm, isn’t it?” he asked. He rose, came up to her chair. “An awful +crowd here, too.” + +“You mean?” + +“Oh, these groups amuse me. They talk so much of things they don’t know +anything about. The theatre, for instance. You interested in stage +lighting?” + +“I’m one of those who don’t know anything about it,” Evelyn laughed. + +“I know a little and it bores me a lot,” said Northrup. “What about a +sandwich and some punch? The old girl put a big stick in it—quite like +the old days, eh? Maybe she knows that is the only way she can get a +crowd.” + +Evelyn rose. They walked off together. Evelyn felt Northrup’s hand on +her elbow. She moved a trifle closer to him. His fingers tightened +around her arm. + +They drank several glasses of punch, nibbled at sandwiches. Evelyn was +not used to drinking. + +“Wouldn’t you like to get out of this mob?” Northrup asked. “This +chatter and near-music—I don’t know why I came to this place. I live +on the floor below—in one of the little un-studio apartments. Maud +Durland’s been worrying me for weeks to come to one of her tea fights. +I didn’t know they could be as mad as this. I usually don’t go in for +this sort of thing.” + +Then, + +“Let’s go down to my rooms and get a real drink. What say?” + +“Wouldn’t it seem a bit—unusual?” + +“Unusual, nothing. There’s been so many women in those rooms that the +hallboy thinks it’s a girls boarding school. Honest, though, it’s +better than this racket. And a real drink. We’ll just stay a minute. +Oh, come on—” + +“I’d love to,” said Evelyn. + + +II + +They left the studio without any one noticing them. In the hall +Northrup took Evelyn’s hand and they ran down the one flight of stairs. +Evelyn felt young and buoyant and carefree. + +On the floor below Northrup inserted a key in the door, opened it, +turned on a light. + +It was the usual bachelor apartment, but Evelyn had seen few bachelor +apartments. Once, when a friend of Martin’s had been ill, she and +Martin had visited him. Once, with an aunt, she had visited the aunt’s +brother-in-law’s quarters. This, now, seemed wicked and pleasant and +mysterious. + +There was a little hall, a living-room, and beyond it the dim outlines +of bedroom things. And she and Northrup were here, all alone! How much +alone they seemed! There was a divan near the fireplace, Turkish rugs +in rather bright colours, tables and smoking things on them, lamps with +red-orange shades. These were lit now. The place was not especially +artistic. The furniture was modern mahogany of rather uncertain +Colonial design. But Evelyn thought it delightful. + +“This is more like things, isn’t it?” asked Northrup. “The air up +there, cheap perfumes and vile cigarettes—how do they stand it? You go +to that sort of thing much?” + +“No, I’ve just been there a few times. Maud Durland is an old friend of +mine and she insisted that I come. It’s rather fun, though, watching +people.” + +“Fun enough. I like this.” + +“This—oh, yes.” + +Northrup went into the little kitchenette. He made a great clatter with +shakers and glasses and returned in a minute or so with two rather warm +cocktails. Evelyn had to make a face over hers. Then they each had +another. Evelyn declined a third, but Northrup finished them. + +“It’s a good thing,” he said, “that drinking never affects me. I’ve +been pouring things down all evening. Some miserable high balls Ed +Benchley had at dinner, then a lot of that awful punch upstairs and now +these. If I couldn’t stand a lot, now that prohibition is here, I don’t +know how I’d ever get along—” + +Northrup sat near Evelyn on the couch. He touched her hand, caught her +fingers and smiled. + +“We’re going to be friends, aren’t we?” he asked. + +Evelyn felt, suddenly, as if all of her youth had come back to her. +She felt the way she had felt, years before—before she had met Martin. +A funny little choking feeling, far down in her throat—she had nearly +forgotten that—not in years—. She felt a sudden lightness, almost an +ache of happiness. So—she could still care—could thrill—Northrup—how +handsome he was! + +Northrup got up lazily, punched at some logs already laid in the +fireplace and touched a match to the paper under them. It flared up. +The logs blazed a moment later. He turned out the orange lights. + +“This is what I like,” he said, “just you and I. Somehow, from the +minute I saw you, you seemed different—the sort of woman who gets +things—not like most women ... as if I’d known you a long while.” + +“I—I felt like that, too,” admitted Evelyn. “There was something about +you that reminded me, some way, of some one I must have known ages ago. +I—you’re rather different from most men—you seem....” + +“You’ve noticed that, then? It’s only with a few women—just a few, that +I dare to be myself. Most women are a stupid lot, crude. I shrivel up, +mentally, when I am near them. But there is something about you—I can +be myself with you. You have a sympathy....” + +“I’m—I’m glad you feel that. I can’t express myself with most people. +But you....” + +Northrup talked about her—Evelyn talked about him. They said +sentimental, romantic things, the sort Evelyn had almost forgotten. +A moment later Northrup’s arms were around her. She should have +resisted, of course. She knew that. But, instead, she hid her head +in his coat, a nice coat, pleasantly smelling of tobacco. Martin’s +clothes smelled of tobacco, too, but this was different, more +masculine—something. + +With one hand Northrup raised her head, looked at her. Then he kissed +her. It was a pleasant kiss. She had forgotten—perhaps had never +known—that any one could kiss like that. It left her a bit breathless. +The choking thrill was in her throat again. How nice it was to be +kissed—like that—and by a man without a moustache! Martin’s kisses +were so hurried and moustachy and bristly—you couldn’t feel his lips, +even—and unemotional. + +They stood up, then. Northrup went to the piano. + +“I shall make up a song for you,” he said, “a song just as dear and +lovely and sweet as you are, a song that will always remind me of you—” + +His fingers struck indefinite chords. Then he played a plaintive, +sentimentally pretty little air, improvising words in a husky, deep +voice. Suddenly he stopped with a crash, turned around, caught Evelyn +in his arms and kissed her again. She loved the roughness of his caress. + +“You dear, you dear!” he said, over and over, very softly. + +“I must go—I really must,” Evelyn said. “I—I—don’t know why I act this +way. I don’t do this sort of thing, you know—really. What do you think +of me? Coming in here at all and now....” + +“I think you’re a dear, a darling ... why, child, I love you ... I do, +really....” + +“I must go....” + +“Tell me you’re fond of me....” + +“Of course....” + +He caught her, kissed her again. She went to the door. They were out +in the hall ... up in the studio again. The lights seemed brighter and +more glaring, the voices shriller than ever. No one had missed them. +They joined a group who were discussing plagiarism—how much it was +possible to take—not steal, of course—from some other writer, without +really doing anything wrong. Evelyn was surprised at herself when +she voiced an opinion. The lights were dancing a bit. She felt as if +she were breathing something much lighter than air. Northrup drawled +replies. She caught his eye, dropped her own eyes, met his again. A +delicious secret was between them. These other people—how stupid they +were—they didn’t know—couldn’t guess what had happened—while they had +been talking about nothing at all. + +Couples began to leave. Evelyn went to the dressing-room, added powder +to her face, pulled her hair out a little more at the sides than she +usually wore it, put on her coat. In the hall, as Martin stopped to +speak to some one, Northrup joined her. + +“You’re going to see me?” he asked. + +“Of course.” + +“May I telephone you?” + +“Yes.” + +“When?” + +“Any time you like. Not—not in the evening, though.” + +“Oh, no.” + +He put a card into her hand. + +“Here’s my ’phone number. I’m here most of the time. I do my work here, +you know. We’ll have tea—some day this week....” + +“Lovely....” + +Other people separated them. He was gone. Evelyn slipped the card into +the pocket of her coat. + + +III + +On the way home Evelyn scarcely noticed Martin. She was very happy, +thinking. They must have talked, though, for later she remembered that +she had answered questions that he had asked her. The ride seemed +rather bumpy. That’s all she remembered definitely about it. + +At home, she undressed slowly, in a sort of a daze, still with the +lovely, breathless feeling in her throat. In bed she snuggled in the +pillows, closed her eyes. + +It didn’t seem possible—and yet—this had happened to her ... +Northrup—Franklin Northrup—his hand ... his lips on her lips—kisses—his +arms about her, roughly tender. + +She slept restlessly, waking up for long periods of pleasant thoughts. +When she awoke in the morning Martin was already splashing in the +bathroom. + +“You don’t mind if I don’t get up for breakfast?” she called. “Marie +will have things the way you want them. I’ve a headache.” + +“Sorry. Don’t bother about me. Lie with your eyes closed—you’ll feel +better.” + +A few minutes later Evelyn heard Martin awkwardly pulling down the +shades. She was more annoyed that he was there at all than she was +grateful for this thoughtfulness. He interfered with her thoughts about +Northrup. + +Martin finished dressing and stood beside her bed, put a hand on her +shoulder. + +“Feel better?” + +“Yes, a little. I’ll be all right.” She didn’t like the feel of his +hand, shrugged it away, pulled the covers higher. + +He stamped out of the room in an attempt at quiet. She heard him in the +dining-room, a faint clatter of dishes. Finally he left the house. She +sighed with relief when she heard the door close. + +Northrup ... now she could think comfortably of him again. He seemed +vague now, but still dear. She knew she should have felt guilty. She +knew Martin’s theory about things like that. She had heard him express +it so many times. If a woman has an affair with another man—and this +was an affair in a way—not only is the woman cheating her husband, +but the other man knows he is making a fool of the husband, too, and +thinks of him accordingly. In theory it seemed quite all right. Evelyn +didn’t want any one to make a fool of Martin—he was her husband. But +she remembered Northrup, his sleek light hair, his full underlip, his +half-closed eyes—how dear he had been when he had kissed her. He did +care, of course. He’d ring her up to-day—this morning. Of course he’d +telephone, just to talk to her, to assure her she hadn’t imagined +things.... + +She bathed slowly, taking as long as possible. She put some of her best +bath powder in the water. Then she dried briskly and rubbed talcum +powder into her skin. She examined her body in the long mirror of her +bathroom. She did have rather nice lines—for thirty-five. Her body +was straight and white. Of course—that was silly—thinking things—she +might kiss Northrup again, of course. But nothing further. It would be +dangerous—more than that. She was quite comfortably settled. She had +heard often enough that you can keep a man caring for you only as long +as you don’t yield too definitely to him. A few kisses ... yes. She +closed her eyes and imagined herself in Northrup’s arms again. + +She knew that he would not call, especially this morning, without +making an appointment. But she put on her best negligée of +rose-coloured chiffon and braided her hair in a long braid down her +back. She felt it made her look younger arranged that way. + +He would telephone about eleven. Of course he was the sort who rose +late. Until ten she busied herself with little things, a bit of +torn lace on another negligée, reading the newspapers and her mail. +What uninteresting mail—impersonal things from a lot of women—and +advertising! Why had she ever let herself get so settled? + +That was it. Really, she was not old or settled at all. Thirty-five +isn’t old. Why, summer was barely over. This was a coming back to youth +again—a sort of Indian summer. Of course. She would be as lovely as she +had ever been. Lovelier! She had learned things about life, about men, +that a young girl could never know. After all, ten years of marriage +ought to have taught her something—how to get along with men, anyhow. + +The telephone did not ring at eleven. But Northrup could ring up at any +time—in the afternoon, even. He’d said something about tea. Maybe he’d +ask her to-day.... + +What could she wear, to tea? + +She went to her clothes closet, opened it wide, examined her things. +Suddenly a great truth about clothes seemed to come to her. She knew, +vaguely, that she had known it before, that some young women knew +it—some older ones, too—but that she had forgotten it entirely. The +truth was that there are definitely two kinds of clothes—clothes that +women wear for men and clothes that women wear for other women. She +knew now, as she had known, years before, that some women dress just +for men. She saw them every day. Yes, she had degenerated in clothes, +if she had ever been different. For her clothes were picked out because +they were “stylish,” because they were the clothes other women liked. + +She took down a black satin dress. Yes—that was it—for women. Seated +on the edge of her bed, she snipped at the neck. It was too high, of +course. Lower, a bit of dainty lace. That’s what men like—plain things, +but striking and dainty and cuddly. Of course, she had known that all +the time. How could she have let herself go? Yet she had felt that she +had been keeping up with things. She felt that she knew, instinctively, +now, the kind of clothes she wanted. + +She finished the black dress, altered another gown with a few stitches. +She’d have a seamstress in the house. She knew what her clothes +needed—shorter sleeves, lower neck and touches of lace at the throat, +hats that were little and trim and would show her hair at the sides, +or big hats, floppy and mysterious. How could she have forgotten? Why +hadn’t she dressed that way always? She would show Martin that she +really needed clothes, get him to buy her some. + +Martin ... what a stupid, impossible fellow he was! How could she have +ever thought differently? How stupid to let her put things over him. +Why, she could put anything over Martin. + +Then it came to her that she didn’t want to put things over Martin, +that she didn’t want to consider him or have to worry about him at all. +Why, his being around, the necessary thoughts about him, were really +too stupid, too dreadful. She didn’t want him near her at all, in any +way. + +Martin—how could she have stood him, all these years? How could she +have liked him—stupid and awkward and dull, with his bristly moustache +and his unfeeling kisses? She couldn’t stand any more. That was +certain. If she went away.... + +She dreamed, then, over her sewing. After all—if she left Martin ... +could get a divorce ... Martin would be good enough to let her get it +... then she could marry Northrup. That was it—marry Northrup, be with +him all the time ... wait for him in the evening, as she waited for +Martin now. + +Martin ... what good was Martin, anyhow? She remembered that Martin +had increased his life insurance. It was all made out to her. If +anything happened to Martin ... an automobile accident ... Martin made +Jeffry drive very carefully, but didn’t accidents happen every day? +Twenty-five thousand dollars—that was something. Even the interest on +that, with what Martin had saved ... not so much, but she wouldn’t have +to go to Northrup penniless, anyhow. She pictured Martin dying of half +a dozen painless illnesses or accidents, saw herself his devoted nurse, +saw herself in widow’s weeds, very becoming ones ... afterwards ... a +few weeks afterwards.... + +She ate luncheon, hardly noticing what was served to her. It was two +o’clock. Northrup had not telephoned. Martin telephoned to tell her he +had got seats for a play she had wanted to see—she was to meet him at +the hotel where they were to dine at seven. Plays, restaurants ... they +seemed stupid now, empty, without Northrup—if he could be there—if she +were with him. + +What if he didn’t know her telephone number? She had told him, of +course, but it was a difficult number to remember. It was not in the +telephone book. Maybe he didn’t even remember her name. That was +delicious—and he had kissed her! + +She got his card from her dressing-table drawer, where she had put it +the night before, fingered it, went to the telephone. She would call +him, say just a word, ring off. He’d want to talk more with her, then. +She felt that she must hear his voice, low, deep, tender. What lovely +things he had said to her! + +She gave the number to the operator. Her voice broke into a falsetto. +The line was busy. She drew little idle squares on the fancy telephone +book cover some woman had given her for Christmas. A minute later she +rang again. She heard central ringing the number this time. A minute’s +ring. A masculine voice. Then, + +“Well?” + +“Is this Mr. Northrup?” Evelyn asked in her softest tones. + +“No. It’s Northrup’s apartment.” + +“May I speak to him, please?” + +A pause, then, + +“Who is this, please?” + +“Mrs. Barron.” + +He was at home, then. She would hear his voice in just a minute. He had +company—of course that was why he hadn’t telephoned her. + +“I’ll see if Mr. Northrup is at home.” + +She waited. It wasn’t a servant’s voice. Northrup had said that he had +a Japanese valet who took rather good care of him, but Evelyn felt +sure it wasn’t a Japanese who had answered the telephone. How could a +visitor not know if Northrup was at home? + +The same voice, + +“I’m sorry, but Mr. Northrup isn’t in. If you’ll leave your number I’ll +have him call you when he returns.” + +Evelyn gave her number, hung up the receiver. What did it mean? +Northrup not at home—and the other man had to find out—in a two-room +apartment! The voice had sounded rather amused, but of course that was +imagination. But, if he weren’t at home, why hadn’t he telephoned to +her? If he were at home, why didn’t he want to speak to her? Because +another man was there? It hadn’t been Northrup’s voice, though. Of +course that wasn’t possible. + +She wandered around the apartment. The day had turned from grey to +a misty rain. It was not nice enough to go out. Evelyn hated rain. +Anyhow, until seven there really was no place to go. She telephoned the +garage, so that her car would call for her at half-past six. + +She played a little on the piano, but she did not play very well. Then +she put a roll in it—it was one of the reproducing players that played +not badly for its kind. She chose several sentimental rolls, and then, +seated on the couch in quite the same position she had sat the night +before on Northrup’s couch, she thought of him. She tucked one hand +under her cheek, the way his hand had been under her cheek. Didn’t he +care, really? + +Her restlessness grew greater. She must talk to some one. She rang up +two women friends. They were not at home. Then she thought of Maud +Durland. Of course! Maud could tell her things about Northrup. She +wouldn’t say much—nor let Maud suspect. Maud was always having affairs +with other men, but she was the first to talk if any one else had a +little affair. Maud was at home. + +“You had the most wonderful party last night,” Evelyn started in gaily +enough. “You do have lovely parties.” + +“Yes.” Maud’s tone was pleasantly self-congratulatory, “every one +seemed to have a nice time. Some punch, eh? Rogers and Maxwell and +Hamilton each brought bottles and I said, ‘Oh, be a sport and dump +’em all in the punch,’ and they did, and see what happened. Nothing +exploded, at that, but it did add quite a lot of pep to the party.” + +“It certainly did. I didn’t neglect the punch, you bet. By the way, +tell me about a man I met—rather interesting—Northrup his name was—” + +“Franklin Northrup. He lives in my building. Does lyrics. A dear, isn’t +he?” + +“Rather nice.” + +“Northrup had a beautiful bun on, did you notice? Still, he’s more fun +with a bun on than not. Knows how to carry it. He’s rather a dignified, +retiring fellow when he’s strictly sober, if at all. He—he didn’t by +any chance make love to you, did he, Evelyn?” + +“Why—the idea—why of course not....” + +“Yes he did, Evelyn. Naughty, naughty! Don’t tell fibs to mamma! But +don’t let that worry you. He’s forgotten all about it to-day. Meet him +to-morrow, sober, and he’ll be a perfect gentleman. Meet him a bit +stippled and he’ll start in all over again. He’s the lovin’est man any +one ever saw. No harm, you know—you needn’t feel ‘ruint’ over it or +anything like that. He’s just sort of soft and sentimental. And Evelyn, +he’d make love to a post or one of the Hartman girls if he were in the +mood. When he’s sober he’s in love with Marjorie Blake. He dedicates +all of his music to her. And did you notice a tall, dark-haired fellow +named Millard—?” + + +IV + +Maud talked on. When she had finished, Evelyn hung up the receiver +rather limply and sank back into her chair. So—Northrup was just a sort +of a ... a town lover! He acted that way to every one! And, when he was +sober, he was in love with Marjorie Blake! And Marjorie Blake was a +dancer about twenty, slender and blonde and dimpled, a typical ingenue +with blonde curls and a naughty smile, all pink and white and young ... +and here she, Evelyn, was thirty-five and she had thought—hoped—that +Northrup.... + +Suddenly, she hated Northrup and his love-making. How dared he kiss +her—because he had been drinking? If she ever saw him again she +wouldn’t speak to him at all. And he hadn’t even had the decency to +apologize—or to talk to her when she had called him on the telephone! +What a fool he must think her. She hated herself—she had been drinking +a little, too. She hated him worst of all. + +It was time to dress for dinner. Evelyn dressed hurriedly, putting +on the gown she had altered that morning. How cheap it looked—like a +shop-girl’s with the neck cut so low! It was too late to alter it and +they were dining too informally for evening clothes. How silly she had +been this morning about dresses! Why, she dressed very well for her +position, nice things and conservative. What idiocy to think that men +like one sort of thing and women another. Northrup—she shuddered. + +The telephone rang. Evelyn ran to answer it herself. It was to announce +that her car was waiting. She put on her hat, tucking her hair in +neatly at the sides. Why—she was middle-aged ... getting middle-aged! +Indian summer indeed! She didn’t even know any men except awful friends +of Martin’s and the husbands of her friends. There wasn’t any one who +gave her any attention at all. And now—one man, after drinking terrible +punch and worse cocktails, had put his arms around her—kissed her—and +it had kept her from sleeping, worried her all day. Even now there were +dark circles under her eyes. + +Martin ... oh, he was all right. She liked him, of course. Their life +would go on, together, just the same. But now Evelyn knew that in some +way this dipping into youth or an attempted youth had robbed her of +something rather important—of really liking Martin—of appreciating +him. She had looked up to him. But from now on Martin would be just +a husband—unimportant—getting bald and fat. But then, she was just a +wife, getting grey and fat, too, without an adventure. Indian summer? +Evelyn doubted whether there really was such a season. + + + + +A LOVE AFFAIR + + +I + +When her mother knocked on her door, at half-past seven, as she +always did, Laura Morgan called a drowsy “All right, Ma, I’ll get up +in a minute.” Then she lay in bed for twenty minutes, in a pleasant, +half-asleep state and thought of Howard Bates. He seemed very close to +her when she was not quite awake, as if she were still with him in the +dream she had had. The remembrance of the dream, comforting and warm, +still surrounded her, though she couldn’t remember the details. Not +that it mattered. Laura didn’t “believe in dreams,” though she had once +had a paper-covered dream-book, in which she could look up things like +daggers and handkerchiefs and learn their significance. Half-asleep +was better than dreaming. She could change the dreams to suit herself, +could picture Howard more plainly, his soft tumbled hair, his sleepy +hazel eyes. She and Howard walking together, dancing together, kissing, +even. + +There was no reason for getting up promptly, anyhow. Her mother and +Maud could get breakfast for her father and Philip, her brother, just +as well as if she were down. Lying in bed like this was the pleasantest +part of her day. + +It didn’t seem possible to Laura, now, that less than a year ago she +and Howard had actually gone together. He had come to see her and they +had sat in the always-rather-stuffy living room and had sung popular +pieces, their heads close together at the piano, or they had gone out. +Howard had taken her to Perron’s Drug Store for sodas and sometimes to +the semi-monthly dances at Stattler’s Hall or to Electric Park. He had +brought her pound boxes of candy, pink and white bonbons intermingled +with assorted chocolates in a blue box tied with pink ribbon. They had +been to nearly every episode in “Her Twenty Dangers” which had run, two +reels at a time, at the Palace Moving Picture Theatre. Howard had made +love to her, had held her close as he told her good-night, had kissed +her. And now Howard was going with Mary Price. + +Laura never knew just how it had started—Howard going with Mary. She +and Howard had some sort of an argument about nothing at all. Then +Howard hadn’t asked her to go to a dance at Stattler’s Hall. Not +wanting to stay at home, she had gone with a travelling salesman from +St. Louis, a fat fellow she didn’t like. + +She had watched for Howard all evening. He had come in, alone, about +ten, and had danced only once with her, spending most of his time +smoking cigarettes on the fire-escape with some of the other boys or +dancing with other girls. Mary Price hadn’t been there at all. Mary +Price wasn’t even popular with the boys—hadn’t been until Howard +started going with her. + +Somehow, then, Howard had lost interest in Laura. All of her little +tricks hadn’t helped. Mary’s little tricks had. He started going with +Mary, instead. Laura knew Mary but not awfully well. Mary had only been +living in Morristown for a couple of years. She was a silly, giggly, +clinging little thing. + +Laura hated Mary. She knew Mary hated her, too. Hated and felt superior +because she was “cutting her out.” They pretended a great friendliness, +with the over-cordiality of girls who are a little afraid or jealous. +But, lately, there had been a peculiarly unpleasant smile on Mary’s +round face, a mixture of triumph and indifference, when they met. For, +now, Howard took Mary to all of the places he had taken Laura a year +before. It was just as natural in the set of which Laura was a part to +say “Mary and Howard” as it had been to say “Laura and Howard” last +year. + +Of course Laura pretended not to care for Howard nor to care whom he +went with. She felt she succeeded for no one ever teased her about him. +Laura went with other men now, travelling salesmen, Morristown boys, +too. She went with Joe Austin most of all because he spent money on her +and took her places. But they all seemed alike, stupidly uninteresting, +with little, annoying mannerisms. Even the nicest of them was nice only +because of faint echoings of Howard’s manner. Mostly, they were just a +little better than no one at all. They showed that she could get men to +be nice to her. + +Not that Howard was at all remarkable. Laura knew he wasn’t, knew that +other girls in Morristown, outside of Mary Price, didn’t seem to think +much of him. But to Laura he seemed very precious. He had rather a +deep, slow voice, a way of drawling the last words in sentences, a way +of caressing words, even, of putting meanings into them that weren’t +there at all. Little things he had said were always coming back to +Laura with a new poignancy, now that she didn’t go with him any more. + +Why had she let him go? How had she lost him? She hadn’t appreciated +him. It seemed impossible now—he was so very dear—and yet, a year ago +he had been nice to her, telephoned her, come to see her, liked her a +lot, really, didn’t go with other girls at all. + +There was no one else for her. The travelling men and the Morristown +boys were distressingly alike. Joe Austin was her favourite only +because other girls thought he was a good catch. Laura knew that she +would probably never get away from Morristown. She had no special +ambition or ability. The family had just enough money to get along, +without the girls doing anything useful. No one would ever come to +Morristown who counted. She was twenty-four and not awfully young +looking, a thinnish girl with light hair who was already getting lines +around her mouth and chin. + +There were several boys who liked Laura, Fred Ellison and Morgan French +and Joe. Joe was in love with her, actually. It always surprised Laura +when she thought of it. For she never did anything to appeal to Joe. Of +course when he took her places, dances or movies, she was nice to him, +a sort of reward for his company. Lately, too, she even went through +the pretence of coquetting with him if Mary or Howard were present, +just to show them that she was having a good time. She had invented a +sort of mask of gaiety for them, a rather tremulous, shrill gaiety. She +wanted them to see that she was always having a good time, that she was +popular, the centre of things. It was hard, keeping up, when Howard +wasn’t there. Why did she like Howard? It seemed so silly. Howard! His +mouth was rather soft and full and he had a way of raising one eyebrow +with a doubting half-smile ... his hands were the sort you want to +reach out and touch, if they were near. Howard.... + +Her mother called to her, annoyed, from downstairs, + +“Breakfast is all ready, now, Laura. You’re a great help to me.” + +“Coming right away, Ma.” + +Laura yawned and stretched and got up, putting her bare feet into the +pink hand-crocheted bedroom slippers that Julia Austin, Joe’s sister, +had given her at Christmas, shapeless things, never very pretty, +like Julia and all the Austins. In the bathroom she bathed her face +and arms and put on a blue cotton crêpe kimono, embroidered in white +butterflies, over her pink cotton gown. She inserted a couple of +hairpins in her hair and went down stairs to breakfast and her family. + +Her mother and Maud, who was two years younger, but more pleasantly +plump, were clad in starchy blue morning dresses, with checked aprons +over them. They looked agreeably capable as they placed the stewed +fruit and oatmeal on the table. Her father and her brother, Philip, +were already seated at the breakfast table. + +Laura sat down, smiled a mechanical “good morning” and took her napkin +from the plated-silver napkin ring with her initials on it. The Morgans +had clean napkins twice a week. + +“Isn’t she the merry little sunshine!” Philip ventured. + +“Let me alone,” said Laura, and her voice trembled. “If you’d been +awake half the night with a headache you’d be grumpy, too.” + +Philip subsided. + +Her father looked at her over his glasses. + +“Been having a lot of headaches lately, it seems to me,” he said. +“Running around too much to dances. If you get to bed some night before +twelve, you might wake up in a better humour.” + +Laura didn’t answer. She wanted to scream out, to tell them that +her head didn’t ache at all but that they annoyed her and bored her +terribly, that she didn’t want to talk to them, that all she wanted was +Howard Bates, wanted him there, with her now, always. + +She finished her breakfast. The two men left. Maud and her mother, in a +pleasant buzz of conversation, cleared off the table, began pottering +around the dining-room, putting it in order. + +“I’ll dust the living-room,” Laura volunteered. She had to do +something, she knew. She could be alone, there. + +It couldn’t be true—and yet last night at a dance at Miller’s Hall +there were rumours that Mary and Howard were engaged. + +Engaged! If Mary once got him—If the engagement were announced—she had +lost him, then. She had lost him anyhow. Of course. Lost him. It didn’t +seem possible. Howard! + +In the living-room she threw herself down on the couch, buried her head +in a cushion. There, on that couch, Howard had first kissed her. She +stretched out her hand along the back of it. How many times she had +found his hand there. And Howard was going to marry Mary Price. She +wanted to scream out, to stop things, some way. She didn’t know what to +do. + +She got up and dusted the living-room. On the upright piano was a pile +of popular songs with garish covers, torn. Some of those songs Howard +had sung to her—had brought to her. Howard didn’t have a very good +voice, just deep and pleasant. She had liked hearing him sing because +it was him singing. His hair, soft and always mussed looking ... his +hand.... And now he was going to marry Mary. She had tried hard enough +... everything she knew. + +She didn’t believe much in prayers—nor in God—since she was grown up. +She had often shocked her family and her friends by declaring her +unbelief in any God at all. Yet, now, suddenly, she threw herself on +her knees, in front of the couch, and buried her head in the seat +cushion. + +“Oh, God,” she groaned, “send Howard back to me. Make him love me! I—I +haven’t asked for much. I haven’t got much. He is all I want. I don’t +care ... I want him—please, God.” + +She got to her feet feeling a little better. Maybe it was just a +rumour, after all. How would Nettie Sayer know? It was Nettie who had +told her. Why, even now, Howard might be thinking of her, deciding that +he loved her and not Mary, after all. How could he love Mary, after all +the good times they had had together, little things, jokes, his kisses? + +Laura finished dusting the living-room with a little flourish, even. +Why, anything might happen. + +Her mother and Maud were in the kitchen. She joined them there, +listening for half an hour to their conversation, joining in, finally. +Wasn’t Maud silly? If only there were some one she could talk to about +things. But Maud—her mother—they didn’t know, couldn’t feel things the +way she did. Howard! + +He might be going to ring her up. Why, yes, maybe he would telephone +her. For an instant she forgot that she had thought that same thing +for a long time, months, now. This was different. She had heard of the +engagement. She had prayed. Things couldn’t go on. Howard worked in his +father’s store. It was a musty store that dealt mostly in leather and +saddles but included some hardware. Laura didn’t like it. It was a hard +store to find excuses for going into. But he could telephone her from +there, any time. Why, she used to telephone him there, lots of times. +He got down-town about nine. It was ten, now. He’d been there an hour, +more than likely. + +“I think I’ll go up and dress,” she said. “I promised Myrtle Turner I’d +attend to those programs for the Ladies’ Aid Benefit and get a proof +for the meeting to-morrow.” + +Her mother and Maud nodded mechanically. What difference did anything +make to them? + + +II + +Laura bathed and dressed rather rapidly, in a sort of a fever, +listening all the while for the telephone to ring. It did not ring. +After she had dressed and put on her neat blue coat and tan velvet hat, +she made a pretence of talking with Maud. If Howard did telephone, she +didn’t want to miss him. Then she had a feeling, suddenly, of wanting +to be out of the house. + +She hurried down-town, the business street that stretched out from the +Brick Church to the railroad depot. Just off this street she stopped +into a grimy little print shop and received smudged copies of the +Ladies’ Aid Benefit program. That was all her errand consisted of. She +had nothing else to do down-town. + +She must see Howard, of course. She invented half a dozen errands +that took her past Bates’ Harness and Leather Store, with its hideous +imitation horse of dappled grey in one window. She did not see Howard, +though she peered in, eagerly, as she passed. She must see him! Once +she fancied she did see him. What a dark store it was. + +She had bought everything she could think of, down-town. She had +talked to half a dozen people, making the conversation last as long +as possible, giggling whenever she could giggle. She had accepted an +invitation to go to the movies later in the week with Mark Henry, had +promised to dance with Archie Miller at the next dance, at Stattler’s +Hall. She couldn’t go home without seeing Howard. + +She walked past the store again. Her steps dragged. She looked inside. +She did not see him. She must go in—find a pretext for going in. What +could she get? She had thought of everything so many times. She must go +in. + +Her hand was on the door. She was inside the store. + +Ray Davenport, the clerk, a sprightly young fellow, came up to her. +Had she wasted this chance, coming in—and not seeing Howard? + +She knew Ray and smiled at him. She couldn’t ask for Howard, now. + +“Have you any—any of those new ice-scrapers?” she asked. “Not the kind +you chop ice with but the kind that scrapes it, you know, with lots of +teeth, into a sort of little cup.” + +“I don’t think so,” Ray hesitated. “You don’t mean this kind?” + +He walked back of the counter, took something from a dusty bin and held +it out to her. + +“Oh, no, we’ve got one like that—” + +In the back of the store was an office, with partitions just high +enough so you could see who was there. Inside, now, was Howard! + +She hesitated. Then, + +“Hello, Howard,” Laura called, prettily. + +Howard Bates looked up, came out of the office toward her. As he came +she grew almost dizzy, held tightly to her black leather purse. How +lovely he looked—he was dearer than she had thought him. He looked +tired, a trifle thin, even, and pale. His hair was dishevelled. +Howard—why—he had gone with her—had been hers—hers to love, once.... + +She smiled nervously as he came up to her, and held out her hand. She +wanted to keep his hand in her own, to run her hand over his face, to +put her fingers through his hair, on his lips, as she once had done. +She felt that she could have stopped loving him, quite without trouble, +if his mouth had been different. Or his hair—or his eyes. + +“I’m hunting for an ice-shaver,” she told him. “I’ve been making a +sort of a new drink we’re all awfully fond of—folks say it’s good, but +they are probably just being polite about it—and the ice has got to be +shaved. The other night one of the boys nearly broke his finger with +our ice pick—Jerome Farmer—it’s taken it nearly a week to heal. So I +thought if I could get another kind—” + +Jerome Farmer was the banker’s son—awfully popular. He had called, had +hurt his finger on an ice pick. She’d let Howard see that she didn’t +sit at home and wait for him, anyhow. + +He was sorry. He didn’t have the ice-shaver she wanted. How was every +little thing? Going to the dance, Wednesday? He’d see her, then. +Before, maybe.... + +What could she say? She had said everything she knew how to say, weeks +before. + +She was out on the street. Howard hadn’t said anything she hoped he +would. + +She walked home slowly. She was angry, now, at herself. Why had she +gone in the store at all? Wouldn’t he know that she was running after +him? He hadn’t mentioned Mary, either. Maybe they weren’t engaged, +after all. Hadn’t she prayed to God? + +At home, she took off her serge dress and got into her kimono again. +Her mother and sister were not at home. Curled up in the biggest +living-room chair she read all of the stories in her favourite +magazine. She stopped in between stories to think about Howard. +Sometimes she read a whole page before she realized that she didn’t +know a word she had read. Why had she gone to see him? Still, she +wouldn’t have got to see him at all if she hadn’t gone. What did he +see in Mary? A little thing like that! Why couldn’t she get him back +again? She was as pretty as Mary, as clever, as nice in every way. +Maybe—still—hadn’t she prayed for him? + +She read, listening for the telephone. + +At five o’clock the telephone rang. A masculine voice asked for her. +She trembled, though she knew it was not Howard. It was Joe Austin. She +had an engagement with him for that evening. He telephoned to ask if +she would prefer going to a vaudeville show to staying at home. + +“Let’s stay at home for a change,” she said, and wondered why she said +it. Usually, she wanted to be going places every minute. “I’ve been +out late every night for a week. I’ve got to get some sleep. I’ll be +awfully glad to see you, though, Joe. Around eight.” + +Half an hour later her mother came home and then Maud. There were meat +cakes for dinner and she did not like them. She had not had any lunch. +She went without lunch frequently. + +Dinner was the usual meal. The family laughed over the day’s events. +She laughed, too, even permitted Phillip to tease her when she said +that Joe Austin was coming to call. + +“Why doesn’t he take the spare room?” Philip cried. “He’s here enough. +Though he isn’t here much for dinner. You got to hand it to Joe. He +takes you places. He isn’t one of these home comforts and mealers +like Howard Bates used to be, coming in just before we sat down at the +table.” + +“Is that so?” asked Laura. + +Yet she was not angry. She was really happy when, under any +circumstances, Howard’s name was brought into the conversation. + +After dinner she dressed again putting on a cheap pink frock that +had done duty as a dance dress before it lost its freshness. She did +her hair over, puffing it out around her ears. Her face was getting +thin. She must stop worrying about things. Why, she really looked more +than her age. Little fat things like Mary Price always looked younger +than they really were—fooled men. She added an extra bit of rouge and +powder. What did it matter? She wouldn’t see Howard. + +At eight, Joe Austin came. Maud was spending the evening with some +girl friends. The rest of the family always stayed in the dining-room +when the girls had company so, as usual, Laura had the living-room for +her young man and herself. He came laden with a large box of candy, +the chocolate creams already hardened by age. Laura greeted it with +extravagant praise and made a pretence of feeding him the first piece. + +What a tiresome fellow Joe was! She looked at him critically. Stupid. +He had light hair that was rather uneven, the sort that can’t be +brushed quite smooth, but it lacked the softness of Howard’s. Already +it was starting to recede. Worse than that, there was a thin place on +the back of his head. Yet Joe wasn’t more than twenty-six or so, about +Howard’s age. He was much richer than Howard. His father owned the +Austin House, the second best hotel in town, the one frequented by +commercial travellers and theatrical companies, people like that. + +Joe was a sort of manager and clerk, and no doubt would take over +the hotel when his father died. He was more citified than Howard. He +went up to Chicago two or three times a year. He wore better fitting +clothes, with little fancy touches to them in lapels and pockets. +Howard wore awfully plain things, always in need of pressing, always +smelling slightly of tobacco—lovely things— + +Joe was rather dapper, even. “Good company,” most people called him. +He knew a lot of vaudeville jokes, and, in a crowd, could always say +something to get applause. Howard wasn’t much fun in a crowd. Howard! + +Joe was telling a long anecdote, now. As Laura looked at him, she +wondered why she allowed him to call, why he liked her, anyhow. His +nose was a trifle too short, turned up just a little. His face was a +little too thin. There were slight lines in his cheeks. Howard was thin +too,—a different thinness. Joe was so stupid and talky and useless. +Why, if he died that minute it wouldn’t matter. He had no force, no +personality. Yet he was more popular, more of a catch than Howard. She +knew that. Perhaps that, really, was the reason she kept on going with +him. What a bore he was! Should she keep on letting him call, talking +to him? + +The telephone rang. Almost rudely Laura rushed from the room to answer +it. The telephone stood on a little table in the hall. She had +hoped.... The voice was Rosalie Breen’s. + +“Have you heard the news?” she wanted to know. After the usual +hesitation she went on, “I thought maybe you had. You are one of the +people she was going to call up. Mary Price and Howard Bates. What do +you think of that? She just ’phoned me. I guess she’ll ’phone you right +away, too. She’s having us all in to-morrow night, a little party. I +heard it last night at the dance. Did you? Howard was one of your old +flames, once, wasn’t he, Laura?” + +“Oh, I didn’t mind him hanging around before I—I—had some one else,” +Laura managed to say. She managed a giggle, too. + + +III + +So, Howard was engaged. Well, that was settled. Gone! She might as +well wipe him off her slate. She knew Howard. She could never get him +back, now. She could never mean anything at all to him. Ever. Something +went out. Life was greyer, would always be greyer. Things didn’t seem +to matter as much. Maybe things had never mattered, anyhow. Of course +she’d get over it. People got over things like that in years. Years. To +keep on living.... And she had prayed to God. God! + +She told Joe. They talked about that, other things. Howard gone! Joe +was talking. She giggled over his stories. She found she couldn’t +giggle any more. She lapsed into silence. What did Joe matter? What +if she never saw him again? What did anything matter? Joe—well, he +was the nicest man she knew—now. A better catch than Howard. Mary knew +that. Why of course. Mary would have been glad to have gone with Joe. +Why, Mary had made up to Joe. He thought her a stupid little thing. She +was, too. Joe! After all, why not? It was better than no one at all, +than letting people ask her about Howard. + +She went over and sat next to Joe on the couch. She rested her hand, +carelessly, near his hand. She leaned toward him just a little. She was +glad her dress was rather low. She looked rather nice, that way. + +“I feel so nervous, Joe,” she said, “I don’t know why. A sort of a +mood. Why, I believe I’m trembling. Feel my hand.” + +She held out one hand to him. + +“Not an excuse for me to play hands with you, Laura?” + +“You old silly. Don’t you know me better than that?” + +“Bet I do. What’s the matter?” + +“I don’t know. I just felt sort of—sad. Don’t you get that way, +sometimes?” + +“Not when a girl as nice as you lets me hold her hand. I say, Laura....” + +“Now, Joe,” giggled Laura, and pulled her hand away. Holding Joe’s hand +gave her as much emotion as holding Maud’s hand—or the cat’s paw. + +“I don’t know what’s the matter with me,” she said, and sighed. + +“Now, now,” said Joe, and gave her shoulder little pats. “Cheer up and +tell papa what’s wrong.” + +She laughed at that and put one hand over his hand as it lay on her +shoulder. + +“You’re a dear little girl,” Joe said, “if I only thought you really +liked me, Laura....” + +Half an hour later he had his arms around her, was telling her he loved +her, had asked her to marry him. + +Engaged to Joe! The years stretched out indefinitely, without colour. +Why not? She couldn’t be unengaged—unmarried—all her life. She couldn’t +let Mary laugh at her—or Howard. Now, Howard couldn’t laugh. Why, +Howard had been jealous of Joe Austin, one time. She’d show them—show +Howard and Mary. She didn’t need Howard. Howard’s father was stingy. +Mary wouldn’t have nearly as much as she could have. She could have a +new house—or stay at the hotel and have no work at all, if she liked +... clothes, city things, trips ... she’d have a big wedding, too, +bigger than the Prices could afford. + +The telephone rang again. + +“Answer it, won’t you, Joe?” she begged, prettily. + +Joe answered it, came back in half a minute. + +“It’s for you—Mary Price to break the big news,” he said. + +“Want to go to her house, to-morrow night?” + +“Sure thing.” + +“Shall I tell her—about us?” + +“Go ahead, spring it. She’s not the only one with news. Good stuff. +Give ’em something else to think about.” + +She was at the telephone. + +Mary was pleasantly polite. + +“I’m having a few friends in to-morrow night.... Howard and I—” + +“Just heard it, dear,” said Laura. “I’m awfully glad. And just for +that—here’s something for you—you’re the first I’ve told. Joe and I +have decided the same thing. Must be in the air. Thanks. Yes ... isn’t +it? Won’t it be fun ... lots of parties and things together. I’m so +excited. Aren’t you? You’ve got my very, very best wishes. Congratulate +Howard for me, won’t you? I certainly know how lucky you are, too. +Howard is a fine fellow—one of the nicest boys I know. You know, I used +to go with Howard a little ... before—I—I knew Joe. Yes—isn’t he fine? +Thanks ... we’ll both be delighted. See you to-morrow evening....” + +Howard! With a smile on her lips, Laura went back into the living-room +to her fiancé. + + + + +BIRTHDAY + + +I + +It was the old lady’s birthday. She was eighty-two years old and well +preserved. To be sure, she was a trifle deaf, but not so deaf as she +usually made out. She could hear conversations not intended for her, +though she had an annoying way of saying “heh?” when she didn’t want to +hear a thing. Then, after it had been repeated two or three times she +would pass it off as of no consequence, and few things warrant triple +repetition. + +The old lady was proud of her age. After all, the fact that she had +lived so many years was the most remarkable thing about her, as it +usually is the most remarkable thing about people who live long. She +had outlived her friends, her generation, her welcome. + +She was still useful and quite paid her way. She lived with her son, +Herman Potter, a thin man of over fifty, who had leather skin and a +bald head, and his wife, Minnie, a too-fat woman of the same age, given +to useless talk, exclamations and mild hysteria. + +There were five children in the family of Herman Potter and one +grandchild. They all lived at home except Roger, who was married and +in business in Harrington. Fred, the oldest, nearly thirty, had been +married but his wife had run away two years before with a soap drummer. +Lucius and Phillip, the other sons, had never married. Fanny, the +one daughter, had had marital misfortunes, also. She had married, at +twenty-four, and a couple of years later her husband had “gone out +West to try his luck,” and she had never heard from him again. Now she +had a divorce, granted on grounds of desertion, and was ogling every +unattached man in Graniteville. She had one child, a peevish, pale +little boy of four, named Elbert. + +The old lady had had three children. The older son, Morris, lived +in Kansas City, but Morris’ wife absolutely refused to consider her +husband’s mother as a part of her household. In fact, Morris’ wife felt +that she had married beneath herself by accepting Morris at all, and +held herself aloof from Morris’ family. The old lady’s only daughter, +Martha, was dead. Martha had been her favourite child. Martha’s husband +had married again. Her only child, Helen, was married and lived in +Chicago. + +The old lady’s life was uneventful enough and not unhappy. She was the +first one up in the morning because she “didn’t need much sleep.” She +would dress quietly, so as not to wake any one. If, occasionally, she +stumbled against a chair, some one would be sure to say, at breakfast, +“Didje hear Gramma? She woke me up, knocking around before daylight.” +The old lady was not very steady and had to hold on to things sometimes +when she walked. + +There were always unwashed dishes from the night before. The old lady +would wash these and then put on the oatmeal for breakfast. There was +always oatmeal because it was cheap and filling, and the old lady was +there to attend to it. She herself didn’t like oatmeal, though she +listened each morning to Herman and Minnie who would say, “Gramma, you +ought to eat some of this. Fine. Nourishing. Make you grow young.” + +The old lady would purse her thin lips and then answer, politely +enough, “Thank you, but I’m not one that’s much for oatmeal.” + +For breakfast the old lady would drink a cup of coffee without sugar, +but with milk in it. She preferred cream but didn’t dare say so for +the cream pitcher was small and the men helped themselves to it first. +After breakfast, if there was any coffee left in the coffee-pot, the +old lady would drink another cup, standing up in the kitchen, trying +to force a few drops out of the cream pitcher to put into it. If there +was fruit for breakfast, the old lady was given the worse piece. She +contented herself with one piece of toast, sparsely buttered, for she +always felt Minnie’s eyes on her when she helped herself to butter. The +old lady didn’t have a very large appetite. + +After breakfast she would help her daughter-in-law with the dishes. +Fanny affected delicacy. She was lazy and housework annoyed her. She +spent the mornings in her own room reading magazines or running blue +ribbon through her lingeries or making rather effeminate little suits +for her son. + +The old lady was always afraid of her daughter-in-law. Minnie was fat +and slow-minded. She was constantly telling the old lady how glad she +ought to be because they were all so “well fixed.” She liked to spend +a long time discussing trifles, how Mrs. Fink’s dress hung and didn’t +Gramma think it was her last year’s dress made over—she had a blue +dress last year, remember?—and did Gramma think the butcher gave good +weight—they had just one meal from that pot-roast, and here there was +hardly enough of it left to slice cold. + +The Potters lived in a large, square house. Herman had bought it at +a forced sale when the children were small. It was painted brown and +there were big trees around it. It looked gloomy. It had been one of +Graniteville’s best streets but the business district had been creeping +close until now a garage stood across the street and a store selling +cigars and notions just two doors away. There were numerous small +rooms in the house and this meant housework. Herman always smiled +patronizingly when “the women folks” spoke of the difficulty of keeping +the house in order. He was well-to-do in a moderate Graniteville way +and was considering changing the Ford for a larger car but he didn’t +see why three women couldn’t keep a house clean without outside help. +They gave out the washing, didn’t they? + +Herman didn’t consider that Fanny did none of the housework and that +the old lady really was old, that it was almost a task to walk, +sometimes, and that on damp days when her shoulders ached it was rather +difficult to try to dust, even. + +In the afternoon when the house was in order, the old lady would +embroider. She did things for all of the family and for the friends of +Fanny and Minnie and for church bazaars. She did guest towels, making +them even more annoying by the addition of bright blue “blue-birds +for happiness” or impossible butterflies; shoe bags with outlines of +distorted footwear to explain their use; dresser scarfs with scalloped +outlines which didn’t launder well. + +The old lady did the best she could. She made things people liked and +asked for. The only times she ever received praise were when she gave +away her finished works of art. She never complained about her eyes, +though they did hurt after she bent over her sewing for two or three +hours at a time. She preferred to read, though the family took only the +cheapest magazines full of sensational stories or articles about motion +picture actresses. Sometimes the old lady would go to the Carnegie +Library and bring home novels, favourites of thirty years ago, but the +family laughed at her when she did that. + +In the evening the members of the family would go their various ways +without bothering much about her. Fanny would persuade one of the boys +to take her to the movies or she would go with a girl friend, loitering +on the way home in hopes of being overtaken by masculine admirers. The +boys would go to the movies or to a vaudeville show or play pool. They +belonged to a couple of lodges, the kind of lodges that are supposed to +have international significance—you can give the distress sign to the +ticket-seller and get a ticket to Europe in a hurry, though none of the +Potters would probably ever want to go to Europe. They liked the idea. +A boast of one of the lodges was that none of its members had ever been +electrocuted and, though none of the boys looked forward to a life of +crime, they accepted the fact eagerly and repeated it as something +pretty big for the lodge. The lodge rooms were pleasant places to waste +evenings. Minnie and Herman patronized the motion picture theatres, +too, but they cared more for cards than for the drama, even in its +silent form. Nearly every evening they went to one of the neighbours +for a game of bridge or poker or had a few guests in. At ten-thirty +there were refreshments of rye bread and cheese and sardines, known +as “a little Dutch lunch,” and appreciated each night as if it were a +novelty. + +The old lady didn’t go out much evenings. She walked slowly and +stumbled a great deal, so no one liked to bother with her. At the +movies she couldn’t read the captions easily and that meant some one to +read them aloud to her, and the family didn’t consider that refined. +She could not quite master the intricacies of bridge even enough to +fill in when another player was needed, though she tried pitifully +hard and her hand shook if she held the cards. The old lady would sew +or read. There were socks and stockings to be darned and clothes to be +mended, besides the embroidering, so she had enough to do. + +About nine she would nod over her sewing, pull herself together, +ashamed, and look around to see if any one had observed her, when there +was any one at home to observe, which was seldom enough. She would +start sewing again, drop off into a doze, start up, finally take her +sewing and retire to her bedroom. + +The old lady had a fine room. Any of the family would have told her +that. It was above the kitchen and got the winter winds rather badly, +so that the old lady frequently had sniffy colds, but it was a fine +room, nevertheless, with two windows in it. The one bathroom was quite +at the other end of the hall, but, after all, one can’t have everything. + +Two of the boys roomed in the attic, so the old lady could feel that +she was having quite the cream of things to be on the second floor. +Fanny and her little boy had the front room because Fanny often brought +home one of “the girls” to spend the night or her women friends would +run up to her room to take off their hats. Her room was done in +bird’s-eye maple with pink china silk draperies. Herman and Minnie had +the next room. They used the furniture they had bought when they first +went to housekeeping, a high maple bed and an old-fashioned dresser +to match it. On the walls were enlarged crayon portraits of the old +lady and of Grandpa Potter, who had died fifteen years before. Didn’t +having these pictures show what the family thought of the old lady? +The pictures had hung in the living-room until Art descended on the +household, a few years before, when they had been removed in favour of +two Christy heads, a “Reading from Homer,” “The Frieze of the Prophets” +and “Two’s Company.” + +The old lady didn’t have a hard life. She knew that. She was quite +grateful for everything that was done for her. She liked housework, +even. Of course, Minnie had rather an annoying way of taking all of the +pleasure out of it. Minnie did all of the ordering, all of the planning +of meals, the preparing of the salad, when there was a salad, all of +the interesting, exciting things connected with the kitchen. But, after +all, wasn’t it Minnie’s house? Hadn’t she a right? Grandma knew she +had liked doing things in her own home. She didn’t blame Minnie but +it made things a bit monotonous. Not that things weren’t nice, though, +a room all to herself, even if the furniture was rather haphazard, +lots of time to herself, things to embroider. If Grandpa Potter had +lived—but, of course, he wasn’t alive, any more than any of the other +relatives and friends of those other days were alive, the Scotts, the +Howards—Martha. + + +II + +Now it was the old lady’s birthday. She thought of it the first thing +in the morning when she woke up. She dressed a bit hurriedly as if +something were going to happen. She put on a clean morning dress of +black and white percale, stiffly starched and, over this, a blue and +white checked gingham apron. + +She went to the kitchen to straighten things up. There were a lot of +dishes for Lu and Phil had brought some boys home after the movies and +Fanny had prepared a rarebit for them, using, as is the way of all +amateur cooks, quite three times too many dishes. + +The old lady had the oatmeal done and the table set, though, when the +family came down, one at a time, for breakfast, first Minnie, then her +husband, then the boys. Fanny didn’t often appear at breakfast. + +No one congratulated the old lady on her birthday, though she made a +great point of birthdays and they knew it. However, it is easy enough +for a family to forget things like that. So, when they were all at the +table, making sucking noises over their oatmeal—no one spoke much at +meals at the Potters’—Grandma announced, primly, + +“To-day’s my birthday.” + +“So it is,” said Herman, and, with an appearance of great gallantry put +his napkin on the table, arose and went around to the old lady’s place. +He kissed her with quite a smack. + +“Congratulations and good wishes,” he said, which the others echoed. +Then, + +“How old are you, Ma? Over eighty, I know. Quite an age. I’ll never +live to see eighty.” + +“I’m eighty-two,” said the old lady. + +“Don’t think for one minute, Ma, that we forgot your birthday,” said +Minnie. “You know that we ain’t. Only this morning, hurrying about +breakfast and all, it slipped my mind. I got something for you two +weeks ago at the Ladies’ Aid Bazaar. You’d rather have it at supper +time, wouldn’t you?” + +The old lady nodded. + +“Yes, I would,” she said. + +It was the custom of the family to have rather a birthday celebration +at the evening meal. They were usually together then and gifts were +heaped up at the celebrator’s plate and there was a cake. + +“You’re all going to be home to dinner?” asked Minnie. The men nodded. + +When the men left the table, Minnie followed them out into the hall and +whispered little warnings to them about “not forgetting something for +Grandma” and answering whispers of “can’t you do it for me, Ma?” + +The day passed as the old lady’s days generally passed. In the morning +she helped Minnie with the birthday cake. It was a chocolate cake, of +which the old lady was not especially fond, but the boys all liked +chocolate. There was a white icing on it and they stuck marshmallows +on that. The old lady hoped not to get a marshmallow—they stick to +your teeth so when you wear a plate. There were to be ten candles on +the cake, for ten happened to be the number of candles left over from +Elbert’s Christmas tree, and you can’t possibly put eighty-two candles +on a cake, anyhow. The candles were of several colours. + +Minnie commented on the beauty of the cake when it was finished. She +let the old lady see how good the family was to her. It isn’t every old +lady of eighty-two who has a birthday cake. + +About ten o’clock Fanny and Elbert appeared. The old lady brought their +breakfast into the dining-room. Fanny and Minnie were going calling and +shopping and were going to take Elbert with them. Usually they left him +at home with the old lady. He was rather a spoiled child. + +Then Fanny and Minnie dressed. The old lady bathed Elbert, who cried +because she got soap into his eyes. This annoyed Fanny. + +“For Heaven’s sake, Gramma, don’t get him cross,” she scolded. “We’re +going to meet Mrs. Herron and Grace for lunch, and I want him to act +nice. He’ll be in an awful temper if he starts crying.” + +The old lady didn’t say anything. She didn’t say anything when Elbert +pinched her as she was trying to button his suit. She put on his blue +reefer and the cap like a sailor’s, and buttoned his leggins, though +she did wish he’d sit still while she did the buttons. + +At half-past eleven the others left and the old lady was alone. She +peeled the potatoes for supper and put them in water, she straightened +up her room, swept the dining-room, dusted a bit, threw away last +night’s newspapers. + +At half-past twelve she went into the kitchen for a bite to eat. She +could always “feel when lunch-time came.” Minnie usually said, when she +went out, “There’s always plenty in the ice-box for lunch,” and the old +lady never contradicted her, though she always felt rather sure that +Minnie had made a mistake. + +Now, she found a dish of pickles—she did not care for pickles—some eggs +and some blackberry jam. She was rather fond of eggs but she was afraid +that if she did eat one or two of them, Minnie might say something +about “never seem able to keep an egg in the house.” Eggs were high, +just now. So the old lady buttered two slices of not especially fresh +bread rather sparingly and spread a little jam on them. She made +herself a cup of tea and ate her lunch sitting at the oilcloth-covered +table. + +She brushed the crumbs off the table, washed the few dishes, went up +to her room for a nap. She liked to sleep, when she had a chance, +afternoons. + +She woke up, an hour later. A long afternoon stretched in front of her. +Still, all of her afternoons were long—mornings—evenings, too. She had +heard, years before, that time would seem to fly by when you get old. +It didn’t. Still, there couldn’t be many more days now—eighty-two. + +She put on her best dress of black silk, with cuffs and collar of lace +that Helen had sent years before. Helen—she was some one to think +about. Helen—Martha’s daughter. Helen was young and lovely and had +everything. Twice the old lady had gone to visit Helen. She never felt +at home with Helen at any time. Helen’s maids were trained automatons; +Helen’s home was full of strange formalities. Helen’s days were full +of unusual things. Helen herself, perfectly groomed, cool, impersonal, +looked eighteen, though she’d been married six years, did not seem like +a human being at all. + +It was nice of Helen having her old grandmother visit her, the old +lady knew that. She never talked much to Helen, never knew what to +say, yet she loved her with a strange yearning that she never felt +toward any one else—maybe because the others were so jealous of Helen, +of everything she did. The old lady didn’t especially like to be at +Helen’s—she was so afraid of doing the wrong things—yet, though she +never figured it out, Helen seemed to belong to her, was more a part +of her than any of the others could be. Maybe because she was Martha’s +child. Martha had always been so much more to her than any of the +others. + +With fingers that trembled a little, the old lady fastened her dress, +the dress that was new the last time she visited Helen. She smoothed +her hair with the old brush one of the boys had given her. She looked +at the things on her dresser, the cover she had embroidered in +violets—they were her favourite flower—the daguerreotype of her and +her husband, taken the year they were married, holding hands unashamed. +It was coloured, the old lady’s cheeks pink and her brooch shining +gold. There was a snapshot of Helen on horseback, a stiffly posed +picture of little Elbert, a picture of Phil in sailor uniform—he had +gone into the navy just before the draft law was put into effect. + +The bell rang. The postman! + +With quick little steps, the old lady hurried to the door, smiled at +the postman as she always did when she took the mail from him and said +something about “a cold day,” even while she was anxious to close the +door so that she could look over the mail. A letter for Herman from an +insurance company—a picture post-card—a letter in a lavender envelope +for Fanny—a post-card from Roger—a letter from Kansas City—Morris’ +wife’s writing—yes—she trembled a little—a letter from Helen. She +recognized the pale grey envelope, the deeper grey seal. The women +Minnie and Fanny went with didn’t use grey sealing wax with a crest +stamped into it nor grey monogrammed paper—they didn’t live in Chicago +nor wear lovely pale clothes—didn’t do anything the right way. + +The old lady put the mail, excepting her post-card and two letters, on +the hall table, took hers to her room. Morris meant all right—he and +his wife—good people in their way—she was glad Morris was doing well— + +Helen’s letter! She opened it carefully, tearing off the edge in little +bits so as not to tear the contents. The old lady got few enough +letters. She never knew you could take a letter-opener to them. She +took out the letter. There was an inclosure, but the old lady let that +lay in her lap while she read Helen’s rather smart writing. + +She smiled, read it again, put the letter back into the envelope, +looked at the bit of paper on her lap—a cheque—twenty-five dollars. + +Helen! + + +III + +The old lady took her work-bag and went down into the living-room. +She’d be careful not to get threads around—she knew how Minnie hated +that. She was working on a centrepiece, in colours, to be sold at the +March sale of the Church Circle. The old lady was glad she could do +things like that. Her glasses were of silver and quite bent. The lenses +had been fitted for her years before and she had to hold the sewing +quite close. She embroidered until it was too dark to see. Then she +folded her wrinkled hands in her lap. She didn’t believe in “wasting +electricity” by turning it on too early. + +She sat at the window and thought about things—about Minnie and +Herman—how mean Minnie was about little things, about Herman’s +stupidity and blindness about everything excepting himself. Herman—and +the boys, too—never read anything or saw anything they didn’t apply +to themselves. They were never interested in a single outside thing. +All they talked about was what “he said” and how business was going to +be. Nothing existed outside of Graniteville. They were so conceited, +satisfied. Fanny was just as bad and she whined, too—but she had +Elbert. A child is always a little better than nothing. But Helen +didn’t have any children. + +As the old lady grew older the necessity for progeny, so overwhelmingly +important in her younger life, had diminished. What difference did it +make, anyhow? Elbert, pale and in the sulks, usually—the only one of a +fourth generation. Of course the boys might marry and have children. +What of it? Of course, if it weren’t for Herman, if she hadn’t had +children, she wouldn’t have had a home, might have had to go to the +poor-house, maybe. But then, if she hadn’t had children, she might have +learned a trade and made enough money to get into one of the homes she +had read about, where you pay a few thousand dollars and have a nice +room and pictures in the evening and company when you like. Still, of +course, things couldn’t be changed, were all right—there was Helen’s +letter— + +The twilight deepened. The old lady went into the kitchen, turned on a +light, put the meat into the oven. + +At six Lu came in, then Phil. Then Fanny and Minnie and Elbert. They +had gone to call on Mrs. Harden and Elbert had fallen asleep and was +cross, now. Fanny was going upstairs to “make herself comfortable,” +would Gramma undress Elbert? + +Fanny put on a pink cotton kimono and went downstairs. The old lady +got Elbert to bed, finally. When she got downstairs she saw that Fanny +and her mother were busy in the dining-room. She heard the crackle of +paper. Discreetly she stayed in the kitchen. They were preparing her +birthday presents. + +Dinner was ready. Herman had already come home. Herman liked to eat as +soon as he got into the house. + +The old lady went into the dining-room. The boys were already seated +at the table. Herman sat down. Fanny was putting the potatoes on the +table. The old lady found a small pile of bundles at her place, the +birthday cake on the table. + +“This is very nice,” she smiled, “I thank you all even before I look.” + +She sat down, unassisted. She opened the bundles. + +There was a bottle of violet toilet water from Fred. She got that every +year. It was not her favourite brand—rather a cheaper kind, in fact, +but she liked almost any kind of violet. A pale pink satin pincushion +came next. A card was stuck on it with pins. On this was written in +Fanny’s rather stupid, slanting hand: + +“To great-grandmother from her little great-grandson, Elbert Arthur +Longham, on her 82nd birthday.” + +The present from Minnie was a hand-made camisole of rather coarse +lace—the old lady never wore camisoles, a fact of which Minnie should +have been faintly aware. Well, she could make Minnie “take it back” and +wear it herself after a month or so. It was Minnie’s size, undoubtedly. +There was a pound box of chocolates from Lu. Grandma preferred lemon +drops or any hard candies that you can suck and make last a long time, +but the family liked chocolates. A boudoir cap from Fanny—a present +some one had probably given her for Christmas—and a combination +drug-store box of soap, dental cream and nail polish from Herman +completed the gifts. Phil apologized that he’d been busy every minute +and he’d “get something to-morrow.” + +The old lady put the wrapping paper neatly together and put the things +on the sideboard next to the cut-glass punch bowl. She sat down again. +Minnie, who served, was filling the plates. + +“Thanks, everybody, again,” said the old lady. “Your things are very +nice and very welcome.” + +She looked at the group, the selfish, complacent faces. She smiled. + +“I—I got a card from Roger and—and two other presents,” she said, and +took the card and letters from the front of her waist. + +She passed the card around the table and opened a letter. + +“It’s from Morris and Ruby,” she explained. “They sent me five dollars.” + +“Not much for a rich man to send his mother,” Herman commented. “He +hasn’t any expenses from you and all he ever does is to send you five +dollars a month for spending money. I hear he’s doing better every +month and that’s all—” + +“Now, Herman,” soothed Minnie. She wanted to hear the letter. Ruby +never wrote to her. + +The old lady read the letter, about Ruby’s cold and the snow storm and +Morris’ business success. She folded it and put it on the table. + +“This one is from Helen, from Chicago,” she said. She added “from +Chicago,” purposely. She knew how Fanny longed to live in a big city. + +“Dear Gammy,” she read, and added, “Helen always uses that nickname +just like when she was a baby.” + +She knew the family hated nicknames. They thought Gramma a proper +pronunciation. + +“To think that you’re eighty-two,” she continued to read. “Quite out +of the flapper class, it seems. This is to welcome the New Year and to +send bushels of love and good wishes from the two of us. I wish you +were spending your birthday with us, but I know the family do all they +can to make you happy.” + +The old lady glanced at them all. She was glad to see they looked a +little uncomfortable. + +“We’ve been awfully busy as usual,” the old lady read on. “Since +Jimmy’s been made president of the company he’s getting so conceited +that he insists on going to horrid business meetings at night +sometimes, so, in self-defence, I have to go to dinners with some of my +old beaux.” + +The old lady looked at Fanny and smiled. + +“Helen has a good time,” she said, “I like to think of a young girl +enjoying herself.” + +Helen was Fanny’s age. Fanny had no “old beaux,” nor any other kind to +take her to dinner. Fanny was unpopular. + +The old lady went on reading: + +“But Jim gets an occasional afternoon off and that’s compensation. We +have heaps of fun driving or just trailing around together. Jim’s as +devoted as ever—I’ll say that for him. I’m afraid we’ll never quite +settle down, even if we have been married a long time.” + +“Helen’s a great girl,” said the old lady. “She and Jim—I never saw +a couple like them. She knows how to hold him. I never saw a man so +devoted.” + +The old lady smiled. Fred’s wife had eloped with another man. Fanny’s +husband had “gone out West” and never returned. This would give them +something to think about. + +“I don’t know that I think her husband ought to stand for her going +places with other men,” said Fanny. “It don’t sound right to me. When +Helen came down here to visit, when she was seventeen, she was fresh +then.” + +The old lady looked at her. + +“Yes. I guess Helen did seem fresh in Graniteville,” she agreed. +“But Chicago’s different. And as most of the folks they go with are +millionaires, each owning two or three cars and having boxes at the +opera and making a fuss over Helen all the time, I guess her ways are +all right up there. I don’t blame men wanting to take her places. She’s +just sweet to every one.” + +She went on with the letter: + +“I don’t know what to write that would interest you. We saw Mrs. +Blanchard, Mrs. Crowell’s mother, at the theatre on Tuesday, and she +wanted to be remembered to you. She looked very well.... I have a new +mink wrap, good-looking. Jim thought it was a Christmas present, but +it came the week after so I’m not counting it. It’s the only really +splurgy thing I’ve had all winter.” + +The old lady didn’t have to comment. Fanny was wearing her old coat. +She’d been begging her brothers and her father for a coat all winter, +but they complained about “hard times,” as they always did, so she had +to make her old seal, bare in spots, do for another year. + +“I went to a charity fête last week,” the old lady’s quavering voice +continued, “and wore green chiffon and was symbolic of something or +other, but had a good time anyhow. We made nearly eight thousand +dollars for the Children’s Home.” + +The old lady knew the church society entertainments in Graniteville. +Fanny and Minnie were never important enough, socially, to take part in +them, but had to sell tickets as their share. + +“I’m enclosing a birthday remembrance. Buy a warm negligée or something +else you want. I didn’t know what you needed. Let me know if there is +anything I can send you. Jim sends a big kiss and a lot of birthday +wishes. With love from Helen.” + +“How much did she send you?” asked Minnie. + +The old lady, who was served last, had been handed her plate of food. + +“Twenty-five dollars,” she answered. + +She took the cheque from Helen and the one from Morris, folded them +together, made a last gesture. + +“Here, you take these, Fanny,” she said, “and buy a dress with them. +You’ll have to have something to wear if you get a chance to go to the +Ladies’ Aid Ball. With all the things I got and my birthday presents +and all, I don’t need anything. Anyhow, Helen said to let her know if I +did.” + +It was said so simply that, if the family suspected the old lady, they +were silent. Fanny gasped, reached out her hand. She did want a new +dress. + +“Thanks, Gramma,” she said. + + +IV + +The old lady smiled as she ate her dinner. She looked around at the +faces. She felt beautifully superior. She knew that, for a moment, +their conceit, their satisfaction had been pierced—they had felt +something— + +The birthday cake was cut and the old lady passed the box of chocolates. + +The boys left for a game of pool at the club. Georgina Watson came to +get Fanny to go to the movies. Mr. and Mrs. Potter went across the +street to play bridge with the Morrises. The old lady promised to go +upstairs and look at Elbert who might have caught cold during the +afternoon—he had sneezed a couple of times. + +The old lady finished the dishes. She read the evening paper. Then +she found herself dozing, woke up, dozed again, woke up, put out the +living-room light, left one light in the hall, went upstairs. She +stopped in Fanny’s room to glance at Elbert in his crib. His mouth was +slightly open, as always, and he looked pale, but the old lady saw that +his condition was not unusual. She went to her room and undressed for +bed. + +In her high-necked flannel night-gown she stood at her dresser +preparatory to putting out the light. She looked at her birthday +presents, the cheap violet water, the unwearable camisole and cap, the +thoughtless gifts of indifferent people. She looked at her pictures—she +and Grandpa when they were first married, Elbert—Helen. Helen—she knew +how to write a letter. Why, she couldn’t have written a better one if +the old lady had told her what to write. The beaux—the car—the mink +coat—the charity fête—the attentive husband— + +Her birthday was over. She was eighty-two. Long days +ahead—housework—sewing—little quarrels— + +She thought of Helen’s letter again and chuckled. For just a moment +Fanny, Minnie, all of them had looked envious, bitter. Nothing she +could ever have done or said could have made them as angry as that +letter—and none of them dared say what they thought about it. That +letter had opened vistas to them that they could never approach. It had +lasted only a minute—but even so.... + +“A pretty good birthday,” the old lady said to herself as she put out +the light, opened the window, and got into bed. + + + + +CORINNA AND HER MAN + + +I + +Corinna had always objected to her mother’s attitude toward her +father—to the attitude of other women she knew toward their husbands. +She spoke frequently to her mother about it, even when she was a young +girl. + +“Ma,” she had said, “I don’t see why you slave so over Pa. Your whole +life is made up of worrying over him and about him. He doesn’t pay +any attention except to sort of expect it and take it for granted. +You spend hours getting dinner and having it on the table hot, the +minute he gets home. He never notices, unless something goes wrong. He +just eats. You’re always picking out things he likes or that are good +for him, and having those instead of what _you_ like. First thing in +the morning you scurry around the kitchen and make me help, getting +breakfast, and you hurry home afternoons to get dinner. You don’t dare +ask people to the house evenings, like Miss Herron, if he doesn’t +like them. You treat him so carefully, always trying not to worry him +or annoy him—always telling me ‘your Pa won’t like that,’ when I do +things. I wouldn’t live like you, you bet.” + +Mrs. Ferguson was a nervous, round little woman, full of quick, +meaningless little movements. She had a large, rather flat face, full +of small but not disfiguring wrinkles. She had always smiled patiently, +at Corinna. + +“You don’t know your Pa,” she’d say, “or men. Men have got to be +waited on, got to be treated right. Wait until you’re grown up and +married—you’ll find out. Men have got to have their meals on time and +got to have the house the way they want it, neat if they are neat, full +of people if they like things lively. You don’t know men.” + +“Huh,” Corinna had sneered, “you bet I’ll never make a slave of myself +for any man. If I ever marry, the man’ll do what _I_ want. I shan’t be +always worrying for fear I’m doing the wrong thing.” + +Yet, looking among her mother’s acquaintances and at the parents of her +own friends, she noticed the existence of this same state of affairs +that so annoyed her in her own family. The man was always being catered +to. When he was at home, if at no other time, the house had to move +along with an outward smoothness. Little unpleasant things were hidden +away. All of the plans of the household were for amusing, entertaining, +the man. If he liked to play cards, the cards were brought out +immediately after dinner and one game followed another. The man could +quarrel with the plays of the others, if he wanted to, grumble at his +own ill-luck, at the playing of his partners—it was all accepted with +an assumed merriment as part of life. If the man liked to read, his +chair, the most comfortable in the house, was drawn up before the best +light, and the children, when there were children, had to talk quietly +so as not to disturb him. + +“The man, the man, always the man,” thought Corinna. “Just because he +brings home the money. The women pretend to joke about being home on +time, about slaving for him, but they do it just the same. You bet +when I’m married things won’t be like that. This is a newer generation. +It’s about time to quit worshipping the man, making such a fuss over +him, slaving for him.” + +Corinna, who was, in her way, thoughtful, somewhat of a philosopher, +worried a little over it. She didn’t like to think that, in each +household, one person—the male head of the house—should govern things +so thoroughly, blindly. She didn’t believe especially in woman’s +suffrage, she wasn’t interested in voting, she knew women couldn’t +invent things—at least she knew _she_ couldn’t; she wasn’t interested +in science or art, things like that. She just didn’t like the idea of +being subservient to—cowed by—a man. Why—she knew men. + +In spite of her mother, she realized that men weren’t superior people, +after all. They were rather more stupid than women, on the whole, a bit +heavy, with a thick sense of humour. Men were ashamed to show emotions, +easy victims to flattery. Of course they were all right to marry. A +girl ought to marry. An old maid sort of admits that she can’t get a +man. Being married gives one a sense of being somebody. Marriage was +all right—only married women ought to learn—oughtn’t to be such fools, +making themselves servants and slaves and an admiring audience, all in +one. She wouldn’t. + + +II + +Because Corinna’s parents were poor, when she finished high school at +eighteen, she knew she had to do something to support herself until +such time as marriage should relieve her of the necessity of buying +her own clothes and helping at home. She felt that school-teaching +required too much training—would be tiresome—and, besides, most +teachers became old maids in the end. She didn’t want to go into a +store. She had no special talent or ambition. So she went to a business +college and, after eight months—she was not very clever or quick +in learning word-signs—she was able to take a business letter with +fair rapidity and transcribe it with some degree of accuracy on the +typewriter. + +She liked the profession of stenographer. It was decent, dressy. She +even looked ahead to becoming some one’s private secretary, wearing +good clothes and sweeping in, half an hour later than the other +stenographers, to an office marked “private,” being consulted on +numerous business problems—saving the firm money by her wisdom—and +maybe marrying the boss in the end. + +Her first position lasted two months, her next three. Then she got with +a wholesale hardware concern and took dictation a bit more rapidly from +the stove buyer, a married man who had four children and who was always +worrying about catching cold. She settled down, fairly comfortably, +making enough money to wear nice clothes, arriving at the office always +a bit late in the morning, always anxious to leave a little before five +at night, wasting too much time at noon or in the cloak-room gossiping +with the other girls, but, on the whole, as good as the firm expected +of her. + +Corinna’s evenings were spent at dances or the theatre or going to +bed at seven to make up for lost sleep. She accepted invitations from +any one who asked her—men she met at the office or through girls, old +school acquaintances. She didn’t care particularly for any of them, +but wanted to be with men, especially those who wore good clothes and +knew how to treat a girl. She was lively and vivacious, rather a pretty +girl in a light, indistinct way, with a nice mouth and a pretty little +nose. + +This smoothness of days at the office, and of evenings having a good +time, continued until Corinna was twenty. Then she fell in love. + +She had been waiting, poised, to fall in love for a long time. She +had been eagerly looking for love, watching every man she met with +a kind of painful eagerness, ready to yield affection at the first +opportunity. She met the fellow at a semi-public dance, where she was +taken by a boy she had met at business college. The man she fell in +love with was named Rodney Cantwell and her escort had known him and +had introduced them. + +All night, after that first meeting, the name “Rodney, Rodney,” went +through her mind. Rodney Cantwell! He was quite wonderful, all that a +man one loved ought to be. He was tall, with light, rather rough hair, +which he brushed back from his forehead in an uneven sweep. His eyes +seemed a mysterious blue-grey. He held them half-closed, squinting when +he laughed. He danced better than any one Corinna had ever danced with. +He asked her to go to a dance with him the following week. + +All week Corinna lived in a sort of delirium. She borrowed money from +her mother and bought a new evening dress of flimsy pink silk, with no +wearing qualities—Corinna usually was rather careful to get durable +things. She thought of nothing but Rodney, to the detriment of her +dictation and the stove-buyer’s temper. + +On Saturday night, when Rodney called, she met him with a delicious +lump of expectancy in her throat. She learned, suddenly, without +experience, a new coquetry. Before this, she had been, with the boys +and young men she knew, more or less natural, as natural, that is, as +girls ever are with men. There had been a sort of decent companionship. +Suddenly, this was changed. + +On the way to the dance she found herself talking with a new piquancy, +hinting at adventures she had never had, admirers she had never known, +a life that was non-existent. She tried to make herself valuable, +desirable. She became playful, indifferent. At the dance the music +seemed especially fascinating. She hardly spoke to the few people +she knew there, preferring to dance every dance with Rodney, letting +herself lie, hardly conscious, in his arms as she danced. + +At the door of her apartment, as he took her home, he put his arms +around her and kissed her. Other men had kissed her, but only after +much playful fencing, long acquaintanceship. Now, she yielded to +Rodney’s kisses in a way she had never done. After he had left her, she +lay awake most of the night and spent the rest of it and all of Sunday +morning, dreaming of him. + + +III + +Married to Rodney! That would be life! Not the slavery of her mother. +Married to Rodney, life would have, constantly, a new meaning. She +could coquette with life, play with life—living became suddenly +sparkling, many coloured. + +Before this, she had not asked for romance. She had never dreamed of +even this much romance. She had just asked that she become not like +her mother, a slave to a man who cared nothing for her, for whom she +cared nothing. Her mother did not love her father. Other women she knew +did not love their husbands. She saw that, now. They tolerated them, +because they were being supported. They slaved for them because men +wanted slaves. Married to Rodney—love, a full flowering of love— + +Rodney did not telephone her for two weeks. She thought of him every +day, more than she had ever thought of one person—one thing—in all of +her life before. Rodney—she saw his light, thick, rather rough hair, +felt his cheek against hers. She thought of him every night after she +had got into bed, picturing him in the dark, imagining herself kissing +him and being kissed over and over again. + +Then, just as she was bewilderingly accepting the fact that perhaps, +after all, he did not care for her, Rodney telephoned her and asked +her to go to another dance with him—no excuse, no discussion of his +two weeks of silence. She accepted him eagerly—and bought another new +dress, a thin white one, this time. She must look charming. + +The second dance was like the first. Her heart sang when she was with +him. She was astonished at herself, at her emotions. She had not +thought herself capable of such things. She sneered at her mother even +as she felt sorry for her. What did her mother—the other women she +knew—know about such feelings—about men like Rodney? They had never +even met men like Rodney. + +For three weeks, then, Rodney took her to a dance every Saturday night. +On a Wednesday he took her to the theatre. And, after each outing there +were kisses in the front hall of the apartment. Finally he asked her +something—but it was not to marry him. + +Corinna was surprised. Then she was furious at Rodney for +misunderstanding her, at herself for not being able to yield to him. +She went over all of the old platitudes of respectability—what kind +of a girl did he think she was? had she led him to think, by word or +action, that she would dream of such a thing—how dared he talk to +her—even think of her like that? + +And Rodney, with a stubborn sort of persistency went over his list +of platitudes, too. After all—what harm was there? He liked her all +right—would take care of her—she knew that—he would marry her if he +could—surely she knew—had known from the first—that he wasn’t the +marrying kind. She had kissed him, hadn’t she—encouraged him—led him +on? Other girls.... + +Corinna did not see Rodney any more. He never telephoned her again. She +knew where she could reach him, knew where he was employed. But what +was there to say to him? She was properly bound with all of the virtues +of her class. Kisses were all right. Coquetries were all right. Why, +she had even definitely decided to marry Rodney. Of course, her low-cut +evening dresses, her little tricks—pressing against him with her bare +shoulder, of kissing him, of touching his face with her fingers—these +were proper as long as they were baits to matrimony. They were decent +then, legitimate. But Rodney had “insulted” her. He had misunderstood +her. + +As time passed, she definitely decided that she had been mistaken in +him, that Rodney had, from the first, been unprincipled, unworthy of +her company, that he had led her on—tried to get the best of her, but +that, at the first hint of his true feelings toward her, she had sent +him from her in great and righteous wrath. She had had a lucky escape. + +For months, then, she longed to see Rodney, but she knew what seeing +him would mean. She wanted only matrimony. It was respectable, decent, +the right thing—to be married.... But now it was unthinkable that she +should even consider Rodney. + +Life became dull-coloured, tinted only by the thought of what she had +been through, of her escape—a fascinating, secret thing. She went to +dances with the men she had known before, tried to look especially +nice, in case Rodney should see her. She carried with her, though, from +that time, some of the coquetry that being in love with Rodney had +given her. She found that, even though it was artificial now, it added +to her popularity. + + +IV + +A year later she fell in love again, a faint echo of what she had felt +for Rodney. He was blond, too, but in a faded way, just as her love for +him was faded. There were some visits to the theatre—Fred didn’t care +for dancing—a few parties, his salary was small. Then she found that +Fred, too, had definite ideas against matrimony—would not marry until +his income was almost twice its present size. + +Corinna knew the type—you go with them and go with them for years +and years, and become middle-aged; finally, after every one you know +is settled, you either separate and remain single or lapse almost +unconsciously into matrimony. Not if she knew herself. + +Of course she wouldn’t be Fred’s slave if she married him. She knew +that. But—waiting years and years and then maybe his changing his mind +or his salary never growing after all—It was not what you’d call a real +opportunity. Corinna’s pale love for Fred faded out altogether. She +broke an engagement or two, failed to keep a telephone appointment—was +surprised to find how little she missed him. + +Matrimonial chances did not come in great numbers to Corinna. In +fact, during the next two years she did not have a single proposal +of marriage nor any chance that might have been twisted into a +proposal. Men took her to the theatre or to dances—she was an +excellent dancer—told her their troubles, allowed her to be pleasantly +entertaining. She coquetted and flirted and giggled—talked to the girls +she knew about what a wonderful time she was having and how popular +she was. One at a time the other girls she knew married and went to +housekeeping in little apartments. She was twenty-four. It worried her, +definitely, now, not being married. + +Then Arthur Slossen came to work at the woollen factory where Corinna +was now employed—she had left the hardware concern several years before +and took dictation now from a grandfatherly old fellow who suffered +with asthma. Arthur Slossen was not handsome. Corinna had no illusions +about that. He was insignificant-looking, rather retiring and had a +slight accent, showing unmistakably that he was foreign-born, a stigma +in the set in which Corinna moved. + +But, because he was a man and new, Corinna smiled at him and coquetted. +She was not surprised when he asked her, three weeks after he entered +the office, to go to the theatre with him. He was as unattractive as +any man Corinna had ever known. He lacked, alike, all vices and virtues +that would have made for interest. He was gentle, even gentlemanly. +He was fairly well educated, but, outside of reading the newspapers +morning and evening, he had no interest in the printed world. From +his evening newspaper he cut out the sermons written by a well-known +minister and read from them aloud occasionally. He was kindly and meant +well by every one. Altogether, Corinna found him as boring as possible. + +But, because he was a man and an escort, Corinna smiled at him, made +eyes at him, went through her whole repertoire of tricks. Almost +mechanically, she led him on, as she had tried to lead on other men +before him. + +One night, after she had “gone with” him for about six months, he +asked her to marry him. The proposal came almost as a surprise to +Corinna. Of course she had definitely played for a proposal—yet she +had always played for proposals and had never received them. And here +was Arthur Slossen—less of a catch than any man she had ever known—and +he had asked her to marry him. To be sure there was really nothing +definitely the matter with him. He was fairly nice-looking. He was a +little stoop-shouldered, a little indefinite. He had a foreign accent +and rather an embarrassed, humble way. But he was really quite all +right. As attractive as her father must have been, or her Uncle Will. +After all—a husband.... She could stop work in the office—she had never +become a real private secretary, after all, and her bosses were always +married and paid no attention to her. If she hadn’t any chances until +now, she wasn’t likely to have any after twenty-five—twenty-five is +getting on—her complexion wasn’t as good as it used to be, her face was +becoming broader, flatter, like her mother’s. + + +V + +Corinna and Arthur were married in June, and Corinna’s friends spoke +sentimentally about “the month of brides” and gave her a kitchen +shower. The couple went to housekeeping in a four-room apartment and +Corinna started in to learn how to cook—she’d never paid much attention +to kitchen arts before, being in school, first, and later busy all day +in the office. + +Corinna now had more time to notice Arthur. And when she looked at +him—and looked at the husbands of the other girls she knew—he seemed +as desirable as any of them. He had a foreign accent and round +shoulders and no sparkle of style—but what were those others? They +had other faults just as glaring. But Corinna was glad that at least +her generation did not become slaves of their husbands. And, as she +rejoiced in this, she presently made a new discovery; she found that +she actually despised Arthur. And, despising him, she watched her girl +friends, talked with them, and found that all of the other young +married women she knew despised their husbands, too. + +She knew, too, why she despised Arthur. It was because of his meekness +and his stupidity, his lack of life and excitement—because, in marrying +him, she had definitely killed any chances of a romantic marriage +that might, some day, have come to her. But, more than that. Corinna +knew that she despised him—and that other women despised _their_ +husbands—_because she had been able to marry him_. All other men she +had known—Rodney and Fred and the others, a man named Phillips and one +named Billy Freer and Jim Henderson—they had, in one way or another, +managed to escape her. They had been cleverer than she—and avoided +matrimony altogether, or at least with her. It had been a duel, her +wits and tricks against theirs—and they had won. Only Arthur had lost, +simple Arthur, too stupid to get away. So she despised him because he +had allowed himself to be caught—and to be caught by her tricks—old +tricks, worn-out tricks, tricks at twenty-five, tricks that had failed +to ensnare the others. + +Life settled down, monotonously. Because she despised Arthur, Corinna +was able to disregard him almost entirely. She would spend whole days, +slovenly, in a soiled negligée, washing her face carelessly half an +hour before he came home, or allowing it to remain daubed with cold +cream, serving delicatessen dinners or cold meats and beans. She had no +scruples about cheating him. She was true to him because no pleasant +opportunities presented themselves. + +Finally, bored at staying home so much, she met men she knew down-town +and had luncheon with them or went to the matinée. She even flirted +with good-looking men on the street or in hotel lobbies and then +had tea. The men were not very interesting nor were the flirtations +very exciting—the most desirable men wouldn’t notice her and those +who did got awfully “fresh”—but it was better than nothing. What if +Arthur _did_ find out? What could he do? Kick her out? She’d like to +see him. What if he did? She hadn’t done anything actually bad. She +was a married woman, had “Mrs.” in front of her name. It wasn’t as +if she were a poor worm, like her mother had been. She was a good +stenographer, could get a position any day, she knew that. Of course +it was easier, spending her days in negligée reading magazines or +eating candy, or down-town shopping or flirting. It was a lot better, +more comfortable, than working. But, if the worst came to the worst, +it wouldn’t be so awfully bad if she left Arthur. It wasn’t as if she +couldn’t get along. Poor old Arthur—he ought to be glad he had her—who +was he to be considered, anyhow? + +She thought of Rodney. His proposal no longer seemed insulting now. She +remembered Rodney—his wonderful rough blond hair, his narrow grey eyes, +his kisses. She was no longer a young girl with a necessary virtue. +She was a married woman now, a woman of the world, not a silly little +working girl. If she wanted a little affair.... + +She tried to reach Rodney over the telephone. He had left that position +years before. No one there knew where he was. She sent a note to him, +addressed to his former home. It was returned to her. Of course, she’d +meet him on the street some day. In the meantime.... + +She spent as much money as she could on clothes, as little as possible +on the household. Arthur was pretty good about money. He was getting +ahead, too. He had two raises the first year of their marriage. +Wouldn’t it be wonderful if, after all, he made good? She had never +thought of that possibility, of his making money. He had been a pitiful +way out—a way out of working and the stigma of being unmarried. What if +he became something—improved? + + +VI + +When they had been married a year and a half Arthur was promoted +to assistant buyer in his department with quite a definite raise +in salary. Then, suddenly, for the first time since her marriage, +Corinna stopped despising him. He became almost important, some one to +notice, to pay attention to. He could and did give her small luxuries +far beyond those she would have been able to earn had she still been +employed. + +Almost unconsciously he took up more of her time. They could not +afford a servant, although they were living in a more pretentious +apartment—and Arthur, after a long day in the office, often came home +tired, out of sorts. He needed cheering up, entertaining. His digestion +was not good and he complained of “delicatessen slops,” so that Corinna +was forced to cook a regular dinner in the evening. She did it a bit +grudgingly, but she was a little afraid of Arthur when he complained or +when he quarrelled with her. After all, it was his money that was used +to run the house—he deserved a little something from it.... + +A few months later Corinna’s father died and her mother gave up her +own small apartment and came to live with Corinna. Arthur liked +his mother-in-law, in an indefinite sort of way, and agreed to the +arrangement without a word. But, after that, when matters of money for +the household came up, he sometimes dared to assert himself, mentioning +that, after all, as long as he was paying for the running of the +household and was supporting, unaided, both Corinna and her mother, +perhaps his opinion might be listened to and his desires fulfilled. + +The next year Corinna’s daughter was born. Corinna did not especially +want a baby. Still, all of her friends were having them.... When she +knew the baby was coming, she yielded herself deliberately to having +it, spending more months than necessary in the house in negligée, +ashamed to go on the street on account of her figure. She lay on the +couch then, ate huge amounts of chocolates and read sentimental stories +in the magazines. After the baby came she did not regain her figure, +but retained some of the plumpness which characterized her mother. + +There was a maid, now, an ill-trained, slow girl, but, even so, Corinna +did not resume the pursuits of her early married life. There were +fewer teas with men acquaintances. Perhaps because she was heavier and +less entertaining, perhaps because the baby took up much of her time, +perhaps because her mother and Arthur seemed to question her more, +there seemed fewer chances for “fun.” She associated more with women +and talked babies and servants and played bridge. At the end of two +years another baby came, Arthur, junior, and before another two years +had passed, Corinna’s third child, Archie, was born. + +Corinna was definitely middle-aged, now, although she felt that she +was still young and didn’t look her age, nearly. She spent her time +with the children mostly, for even with the help of her mother and the +one maid, the children were always falling down or crying or needing +attention. + +There was always a lot to do. When she went down-town, it was usually, +definitely, on a shopping trip, with a list of things in her purse that +had to be looked after. She wore rather expensive things, a bit flashy, +too full of ornament, not very carefully made, sometimes torn where one +of the children had pulled, but quite “in style” as to the cut of the +skirt and the colour. + +Arthur did very well in business. When Beatrice, the oldest child, was +twelve, he became buyer for his department. With the years, Arthur had +changed a little, too. He was a nervous fellow and, when he was home, +he insisted that the children be kept quiet. He was on rather a strict +diet, which precluded most good things to eat and did not help his +disposition. But he retained his quiet habits and his love of home and +did not develop any new desires outside of his business ambitions. + + +VII + +It was when Beatrice was thirteen that she said something which +surprised Corinna. + +“Mother,” she said, “when I get grown up and married, you bet I’m not +going to be a slave to a husband, the way you are to Dad.” + +“The way I am, Bee? How can you talk like that? Your father is the +kindest man. Doesn’t he give you everything? He never....” + +“He’s good to us, of course,” the child persisted. “It isn’t that. +It’s just—you’re sort of a slave to him. I guess all women are. You +bet I won’t be when I’m grown up and married. You were worried all day +yesterday for fear Miss Loftus would call last night, because she gets +on Father’s nerves.” + +“You know how nervous he is; mustn’t be bothered....” + +“Oh, I know. Only it doesn’t keep you from being a slave. You worry +about what he eats—and if he’s a little late, coming home from the +office—and if company stays too late—and if the matinée lasts too long +and he’ll be home first—and about his meals and clothes.” + +“Nonsense,” said Corinna, “you don’t understand men, dear. They like to +have their meals on time, things regular. When you are grown up....” + +When her daughter had gone away, Corinna looked back a little at her +own life, started to think about things, puzzled over things as she +had done when she was younger. With the children and all, there had +been little time for introspection. She remembered what she had said to +her mother, years before. She had believed—all this time—that she had +followed her original plan of independence. She—a slave—to a man—as her +mother had been—nonsense! Why—Arthur was no one to slave for—Arthur! + +She had thought—all these years—indefinitely—that she still looked down +on Arthur, did as she pleased. But she knew, finally now, that after +the first year or two of matrimony she had never done that. She knew +that her daughter was right, as she had been right. All she was living +for was peace and quiet, a regular household, the children well, Arthur +satisfied. + +There had been quarrels, a few years before. But Corinna had found that +Arthur hadn’t greatly minded quarrelling. There were always quarrels +in the office, it seemed. One quarrel more or less, in a day, hadn’t +mattered to him. But Corinna’s day was so tasteless—children, the +household—that it was Arthur’s coming home that added flavour to her +life. Arthur—whom she had so despised! She had wanted peace in the +evenings, because evenings were the pleasantest part of the day. She +knew now, as she must have recognized subconsciously then, that Arthur +was the important thing in her life, that his home-comings were the big +events for her. + +Now she was fat and thirty-eight and already slightly wrinkled. +There was nobody—nothing—she was interested in. The children—her +home, of course—but outside of that. She doubted if she could take +shorthand notes if she tried. She knew she could no longer operate a +typewriter—older women couldn’t get positions, anyhow. + +She thought of long days of dictation in an office, and shuddered. +Arthur made a good living. There were two servants, now, and a good +sized apartment and a little place up in the country for the summer. +They might even afford a small car next year. Arthur was particular, +of course, a bit cranky, even. He still cared for her, never looked +at other women, she knew that. He was not very affectionate, never had +been. She had been glad of that, at one time. Now she almost wished he +were a bit more demonstrative. But he still spoke of their marriage +as a success, of their affair as a “love match.” She was glad he felt +that way. After all, life was pleasant enough; little household things +during the day, shopping, bridge, matinées—Arthur in the evenings. +Other women envied her—her home and her children and Arthur. Why, +Arthur was nicer than most husbands. She went over in her mind all of +the women she knew—all the same—as they had been when she was a little +girl—all struggling, working to please the man—the man— + +Corinna remembered how strongly she had felt against this when she was +a little girl. She knew how her daughter was beginning to feel now. It +wasn’t fair of course. It didn’t seem right—that the man should always +come first, that his wishes should come first—that she should spend +hours—her days—her life—planning for him, doing things for him—always +the man—the man. + +Yet Corinna thought of the women she knew who had never married—fearing +each day that they’d be too old to be allowed to keep on +working—discontented, lonely. She knew that women, like herself, who +had accepted matrimony—or who had reached for and found matrimony—were +slaves. It wasn’t fair. But life wasn’t fair to women. You couldn’t +get out of it—do anything about it. If you weren’t married—and didn’t +have money—you were lonely, worked hard—had a difficult time of it. +If you were married—Corinna knew people only in her own class—you +were a slave—as much of a slave as if you had lived hundreds of years +ago. Life was not beautiful nor romantic nor lovely. She did not love +Arthur—yet, she certainly did not despise him—she really admired him +a great deal—getting ahead without pull or anything like that. He +worked hard—didn’t get much out of life, either, deserved peace and +quiet, things the way he wanted them at home. Life was funny, not +especially interesting—children—little things.... She was a slave, of +course—still, life was better than it might be—some one to look forward +to seeing in the evenings—to worry about pleasing—to do things for—a +man. + + + + +THE END OF ANNA + + +I + +Anna Clark committed suicide. She did it stupidly, with no striving +after effects, no dramatic value. Her death seemed as unfinished as her +life. At thirty-five, after ten years of an apparently happy enough +marriage, early in the afternoon of a calm, clear day, she swallowed +a dose of rather unpleasant poison and died before any one found out +about it. + +The incompleteness of Anna Clark’s death lay in her own +thoughtlessness. She did not leave even one short note to tell of her +reasons. There was nothing well-rounded about the affair. One expects +at least a note from a suicide. It is little enough, considering the +annoyance the whole thing causes. Hurriedly, hysterically written, left +on the dresser to be discovered by the first horrified intruder, a note +forms the final, definite thing to talk about. Anna Clark never liked +to write. She proved her own incompetence, her inadequacy, her love of +avoidance of duties, by neglecting note-writing now. No one ever knew +why she chose to escape from a continuance of life as it had come to +her. + + +II + +Anna’s younger sister found the body. It was late afternoon. Anna must +have taken the poison about one o’clock, it was proved later. Ruth, as +was her wont, came by to get Anna to go for a walk or a call. Ruth, who +was married to a clerk in a haberdashery—a well-appearing chap, too, +who could criticize your cravats and tell you if your trousers were of +a proper cut—lived in an apartment similar to Anna’s, though a trifle +less expensive. Anna’s husband, a city salesman for a spice concern, +was doing well and his commissions were far above what they had been +at the time of his marriage, almost far enough to make him talk, +ambitiously, of a permanent savings account in a year or two. + +Ruth usually called for Anna about three o’clock. If it was a nice +day, the two women would meet other women of their acquaintance, +whom they called “the girls,” and, in groups of three or more, would +go down-town, spending a pleasant hour or two looking in the shop +windows on Fifth Avenue or on the less pretentious, but to them, more +accommodating side streets. + +Then Anna would go home, stopping in at a neighbourhood combination +meat and vegetable market to purchase her supplies for the evening +meal, cooking it so that it would be ready just when Fred Clark got in, +which was usually about half-past six. Fred did not dress for dinner, +but contented himself by washing his hands, hurriedly, as adequate +preparation. Fred liked his meals on time. + +Sometimes “the girls” spent the afternoons sewing at the home of one +of them or calling on more distant acquaintances. They all lived in +practically identical apartments, differing only as to a choice of wall +paper, of fumed oak or highly polished mahogany for living rooms and +of four-poster or brass beds in the sleeping chambers. Sometimes each +“girl” spent the afternoon alone, but this was restricted, usually, to +rainy days or days too threatening to venture out. On those days, “the +girls” spent their individual afternoons doing their less nice darning +and sewing, washing garments too fragile to be trusted to the laundry +or making batches of fudge, according to their individual needs and +desires. + +Ruth had a key to her sister’s apartment, an extra key, made for Anna’s +mother-in-law, who lived in Canton, Ohio, and came up each Spring for +a visit. Anna had given it to Ruth a few weeks before so that Ruth +might get a package in her absence. So, when her ring failed to bring +response, Ruth did not need to summon the janitor in order to gain +admission. She thought that perhaps her sister had gone out earlier and +left a note for her on the table. + +Ruth opened the door with the key, which had lain next to her own in +her purse, and went in. The living room was in its usual condition, +fairly neat, stiffly arranged, dusty in the corners. The mahogany +“set” of three pieces, green velour upholstered, a gift from Fred two +Christmases ago, the wicker chair with the broken arm, the oval centre +table with its rose-coloured silk shade, which Anna had made with the +help of “free instruction” given when you buy materials at one of +the department stores, all stood in their accustomed places. In the +bedroom, the bird’s-eye maple set looked as impudently clean as ever. + +In the bathroom, Ruth found Anna. She screamed. Then she went closer +and examined the body curiously, as if Anna were a stranger. Anna was +fully dressed. She was wearing her new waist and her tan spats. + +Ruth screamed again. + +She got out into the hall. + +A bill collector for an instalment furniture house was coming out of +one of the other apartments and heard her. He went to find the janitor. + +In less than five minutes a crowd had gathered. Two policemen were +there, questioning every one, writing in small notebooks with thick +fingers and stubs of pencils and giving out sullen, inaccurate +information. + +Ruth gave her name and Anna’s and Fred Clark’s name and business +address and told about finding the body. In half an hour Fred Clark +was there, questioning, being questioned, sorrowful, melancholy, yet +conscious of his importance. + +The funeral was two days later. “The girls” all sent flowers and the +spice firm employés sent a large wreath bought from money collected by +the bookkeeper, who always did such things. Every one said Anna was +well remembered and that it was a nice funeral. + +After the funeral, Fred let Anna’s two sisters, Ruth and Sophie, and +his brother Philip’s wife take what they wanted of the household +things, and sold the rest to a second-hand dealer, where they brought +little enough, and he went to live with Philip, who had a room for him, +since his oldest boy had gone West on business. + +Ever since she discovered the body, Ruth had tried to find out why Anna +committed suicide. It was such a terrible thing to do—the worst thing +you could do—just to end things—like that. How Anna must have suffered +there, alone! Yet she never left a note or anything. Ruth couldn’t +quite understand it. She knew that she never could do away with +herself. She was prettier than Anna had been, rather plump and blonde, +with little, fine lines around her mouth and light eyes, which had been +very blue when she was sixteen. + +After a few days, when things began to settle down a little, and Ruth +had become accustomed to thinking of Anna as being dead and no longer +fell asleep meditating on getting black clothes or the awfulness of +finding Anna in the bathroom, she began to reason out for herself why +Anna had committed suicide. And, after a while, it came to her and she +didn’t blame Anna at all. In fact, she wondered why she herself didn’t +do it. + +Anna had committed suicide, of course, because she had been in love. +Ruth knew now whom Anna had been in love with. Why hadn’t she suspected +it sooner? Of course, Anna was in love with Martin, the clerk at the +Good Measure Grocery and Meat Market. + +It was very plain to Ruth, as she thought about it. She remembered how, +when the other girls suggested buying things at grocery departments +of down-town department stores, Anna always said; “Oh, let’s not do +that, and carry all the bundles home on the subway.” And, if any one +suggested having things sent, Anna always reminded them how long it +took for deliveries—days sometimes—and down-town stores never would +deliver fresh vegetables and fruits at all. “I like the little stores +in my own neighbourhood,” Anna would add. + +Ruth remembered that Anna had remarked, many times, on the beauty of +the clerk Martin’s eyelashes. They were beautiful—long and dark and +heavy, and his eyes were an odd shape. Ruth remembered how Anna often +lingered with Martin, after the others had given their orders and +teased him about things or pretended to scold because she had not been +given full measure. And Ruth remembered, too, how Anna always got the +pick of everything. + +Of course Martin—Ruth never even knew if that was his first or his last +name—was the social inferior of their family. No one she knew had ever +worked in a grocery store. But, even so, that couldn’t keep Anna from +being in love with him. Of course, there hadn’t been anything between +them. Ruth knew that. She had been with her sister every day and knew +Anna was absolutely moral and all that, but, no doubt, it was the +hopelessness of it—loving Martin and seeing only a glimpse of him every +day and maybe even knowing that he didn’t love her in return. It was +quite too awful. And yet Ruth knew how Anna had felt. + +For Ruth was in love too. If Anna had only confided in her, she could +have confided in Anna. It just shows how little sisters really know one +another. + +Of course, Ruth knew that her love was far different from Anna’s, far +deeper and truer and more lasting. Though, at that, hadn’t Anna’s love +lasted as long as she had? But, of course, there was a difference. For +Ruth was in love with no mere grocer’s clerk. She was in love with +Towers Wellman, her husband’s best friend. + +Towers Wellman worked at the same haberdasher’s shop as her husband +even, but there the resemblance ended. For, while Dick was a nice +little fellow, quite loving and attentive, he never quite understood +things. His mind was wrapped up in collars and underwear sales. But +Towers Wellman was a man of the world. He belonged to a bowling club +and a political club and went to stag dinners. He was not married and +he made jokes about matrimony. + +Ruth knew three women who were hopelessly in love with him. Towers had +told Ruth about the women himself. Dick would bring Towers home to +dinner and Ruth would spend the whole afternoon preparing things he +liked, and, in the evening, the three of them would attend a moving +picture show, and, sometimes, before she knew it, when there was a dark +scene, Towers would be holding her hand. + +Ruth thought of Towers the last thing before she went to sleep at +night, visualizing his dark, lean profile, his deep-set eyes, his +black, waved hair. No wonder women, rich women, were in love with him. +And yet, Ruth felt that he loved her alone. Frequently, half in fun, he +had told how he had broken an important social engagement to come to +dinner, but Ruth knew that the look he gave her had a double meaning, +for he _had_ come to dinner, and there wasn’t a reason in the world why +some rich woman hadn’t invited him first. + +So—Anna had been in love too! And she had felt so badly over it that +she had taken poison! Maybe the affair had gone further than Ruth +suspected! Yet, how could it? Wasn’t Fred home every evening and hadn’t +she seen Anna every day? + +Ruth almost wished that she had the courage to kill herself, or +something. It was mighty hard, living with one man and loving another +one. And spending the days chatting about other things, never talking +about what you want to talk about or getting near the one you care for. +Never daring to tell any one about things! Maybe, if she and Anna had +confided in each other.... But, it was too late for that now. Anna had +loved and found it hopeless, and gone out. + +Ruth knew her love was hopeless, too. For, though she loved Towers and +felt that he loved her, she knew that he was too little to take her +away with him. She loved him none the less for his prudence, for she +was rather a coward and hated scandals and things like that herself. +Anna’s suicide was bad enough. The family would never quite recover +from it. Oh, well, life was pretty messy after all. Here she had to +keep on, day after day, and Towers was the only one she cared for. +Nothing else, no one else mattered. If only Towers and she could go +away some place, away from every one and be happy together! And she +never could do that, she knew. After all, hadn’t Anna done the wiser +thing? + + +III + +Sophie missed her younger sister a great deal. The girls were orphans, +their mother had died when Sophie was fourteen and their father three +years later, and Sophie, though just a few years older, had really +raised Anna. + +The last year Sophie didn’t see Ruth and Anna frequently, for Sophie +had four children and children take time. Sophie’s husband was a union +tailor and was on strike a great deal and she couldn’t dress well or +have things as nice as the two younger girls. Not that she envied +them, only—well, there wasn’t much use feeling bad by trying to go with +them anyhow. They had their own crowd and were younger and smarter and +different. But fine girls, of course. + +Sophie thought about Anna as she mended always-torn blouses and washed +always-dirty dishes. Why had Anna done such a thing? After all the time +she had spent raising her! It seemed as if Anna were only a little +girl, instead of a woman of thirty-five. But even thirty-five is young +when one has a lot to live for. Didn’t Anna have? Sophie had always +thought of her two younger sisters as rather happy and fortunate. +Surely, Anna had always seemed happy. And yet.... + +What had made Anna hate the world enough to want to get out of it? She +had a nice home, nicer than Sophie would ever have. There surely were +no debts. Certainly they got along well enough together, Anna and Fred. + +But did they? + +People thought that she and Steve got along all right too. You can keep +people from finding out things like that, if you’re careful. Hadn’t she +done it? For years and years? And she probably would keep on, until the +kids were grown up and then—oh, how could she get along any other way? +It was more than a habit. + +Still, Fred didn’t drink. At least, at first, Sophie was pretty certain +he didn’t. You couldn’t be too sure. People didn’t all know about Steve. + +Though Steve was working, now, Sophie shuddered and walked quietly, as +if he were asleep in the next room. For Steve got paid on Saturday, +when he “worked steady,” and on Saturday night he came in, his pay +envelope pitifully depleted, smelling horribly of cheap whisky, and +cursing. She’d pray the children wouldn’t hear and she’d get him to bed. + +In the morning he’d be sick and lay there saying things he shouldn’t, +though usually he’d be up and able to work on Monday. It wasn’t that +Steve drank more than most men. It was just that he was the sort that +shouldn’t drink at all. Even the doctor said he had a delicate stomach +and couldn’t stand it. But he did drink, though not so terribly often +like some men. + +But even when Steve didn’t drink, things weren’t so much better. He +had a mean disposition, the kind that can take an innocent phrase and +boomerang it into a sneer. He was never quite satisfied about things, +about his home, about his children. He hated the Government and joined +various political societies, getting into fights with the neighbourhood +leaders and hating them in turn. Steve wouldn’t read several of the +newspapers, because he “had it in for them” and their policies. He +disliked Sophie’s friends and her relatives, and quarrelled because +he had to spend the evening with them occasionally. He called Dick a +“damned white-collared little snob” and Fred was a “sick roach who +hadn’t the liver to have a will of his own.” Steve was not a pleasant +person to live with. + +Thinking over her life since her marriage and the life of Anna, since +her marriage, as she knew it, little things came to Sophie which showed +her that Fred was not all that Anna tried to picture him. She saw, +now, clearly enough, that Anna had been brave, that she had tried to +conceal Fred’s failings, but that, underneath, she hated him for his +cruelty to her. Little things that Anna had said proved this. It could +be nothing else. + +Why hadn’t Anna left Fred? Sophie felt that she would have left Steve +years ago, if it hadn’t been for the kids. Anna could have left—any +day. Only herself to look out for and she had been a cashier before +her marriage and could have always made a living. Still, maybe she +did think of that way—and decided against it. Sophie felt that there +was something noble, something brave, about what Anna had done. She +wished she could do it. She wished it on Saturday nights, when Steve +was drinking and on many other nights when he wasn’t. There wasn’t very +much use in living, most of the time. + +And yet—the kids. They were sweet. They had mean tempers sometimes, +especially little Steve, who could be really bad. But then, again, +sometimes when they were in bed, they’d let her put her arms around +them, tight, some nights, and kiss her in return, too. They were sweet, +the kids, and worth a lot of hard things. + +But Anna hadn’t any kids. Not a one. If the baby hadn’t died, maybe she +could have stood it, too. Still, what is the use of it all? You can’t +tell how kids’ll turn out, even if you spend years sewing and cooking +and cleaning for them. It’s taking a chance. And the other things ... +it’s best to get away from them. + +Anna, without any one but Fred, and he mean to her and she trying to +conceal it with smiles and jokes and changing the subject ... she +had been brave. And one person can’t stand everything. And, looking +ahead and seeing nothing but years of Fred and bad treatment or of +working to try to make a living, maybe, after all, Anna had figured it +out that her way was best. Fred had said they hadn’t quarrelled. But +then, Sophie never did trust Fred too much from the first. Of course, +he’d have said that. They had probably had an awful quarrel the night +before, and rather than go through with it all again.... + +Well, Anna was dead. It must be good to simply quit and stop +quarrelling and working. If she had Anna’s chance to go out, without +harming any one else, without leaving any kids for maybe worse +treatment ... Sophie knew, in her heart, why Anna had committed +suicide, and though she shed many tears over her sister, understanding +things as she did, she couldn’t blame her. Maybe Anna had picked out +the right path. + + +IV + +After his wife’s death, Fred Clark went to live with his brother Philip +and Phil’s wife, Myrtle. Fred missed his wife a great deal, especially +during the first few months after her death. A companionship of ten +years—and as close a companionship as a married couple, living together +in a city apartment, without children, are bound to have, is not easily +forgotten. + +But, in a few months, Fred grew accustomed to life at Phil’s house, +which was not much different from his old life. It was the same social +stratum. Fred enjoyed the company of his two little nephews and liked +to bring small presents home to them when he came in early on Saturday +afternoon. He got along quite well with Myrtle, a pleasant-faced +pale woman, who was glad of the extra money that Fred paid into the +housekeeping fund. + +Fred’s share of the expenses, as proportioned by Phil, was much less +than he had ever paid for the upkeep of his own apartment and he was +able to begin saving money immediately after the funeral expenses were +paid. + +Often, when he was alone in his room, Fred thought of Anna and of her +death. + +At first he had been too startled, too numbed into silence to think +that there had to be a reason for her suicide. It had seemed more like +an accidental death, something that had taken Anna unawares as it had +taken him. He and Anna had shared so many of their sensations that it +seemed hard for Fred to believe that Anna had done this thing herself. + +But, gradually, the unreality of the situation wore away and Fred +came to know that Anna was really dead—and by her own hand. And, as +he realized that she had killed herself, at the same time came the +realization of the motive for it, the only possible motive. Anna had +killed herself because she was poor! It had been under the burden of a +continued poverty that must have eaten into her spirit as he had often +felt it eat into his, that Anna had decided not to live any more. Anna +had never said anything to Fred about it. He was surprised, now, that +she never had—for he thought that she had told him everything. And yet, +he had felt the same thing so often himself that he was not surprised +to find that Anna had felt it and that it had been too much for her. + +They had never really experienced the pangs of poverty, it is true. +Fred felt that it would have been easier to bear if they had. He had +always “done well,” in that he had made a living. Each month, by +hurrying around to dozens of little, retail groceries, he had sold +enough spices to maintain his simple household. + +But each month there had been the fear that, perhaps, there wouldn’t be +enough for the month to come. + +Each month some household article had advanced in price and had to be +purchased less frequently or not at all. If he and Anna went to the +theatre—balcony seats—there could be no other luxuries that week or the +week that followed. Even a guest in to dinner—and the Clarks had little +company—made a difference in the household money. New shoes were to +be talked over, several weeks ahead, at the dinner table. A new suit +meant that they had to start saving for it a month or two in advance, +and, if one made a mistake and bought the wrong suit, which happened +quite often enough, the suit had to be worn just the same, throughout +the season. Fred had to look neat all the time. And Anna had a certain +position to uphold too. She had to prove to “the girls” and to the rest +of her small world, that she was the wife of a prosperous city salesman. + +Anna was not extravagant. Fred knew that. He could picture her, +brow-knitted, looking over small household bills, trying to find which +could be reduced without radically altering a fairly comfortable manner +of living. Anna cleaned her own gloves and her own thin waists. Outside +of a few ice cream soda “treats” for “the girls” she spent little money +foolishly. + +Fred knew that Anna had always been a true wife to him. He knew that +he was the only man she had ever cared about and that she had cared +for him sincerely and devotedly. He knew that there could have been no +other trouble. He knew only too well why Anna died. + +Fred had felt like that—himself. He and Anna must have lain on the same +bird’s-eye maple bed and thought the same things about living. Only, +Anna had ended it and he had kept on. + +He hadn’t wanted Anna to work. He didn’t believe that married women +ought to have positions. A woman’s place is in the home, he always +maintained, and a position for Anna, as a possible way out of their +poverty, had never entered his mind. + +But, how often he had wished for money, for some of the smaller, +cheaper luxuries! He had often gone to sleep wondering how many years +more he could keep up the strain of spice-selling, the constant +hammering of it, the continued striving to make a living. Always, in +the end, he felt himself beaten, saw himself, before he had reached +old age, being overtaken by real poverty, finding that he was unable +to sell enough spices to support himself and Anna. There was nothing +else he could do as well. He knew that. Selling, selling, day after +day, just for the privilege of living in a little, stuffy apartment and +never enough left over to put some by. No wonder the outlook had been +too much for Anna. He hadn’t known that she had felt deeply about it—or +cared. And she had cared, so very much. + +Now that Anna was dead, things were different. Fred wondered if Anna +ever looked down from Up There and saw that her sacrifice had not been +in vain. The burden of supporting two was lifted. He paid Myrtle each +week, bought little things for the boys and little extras for himself +that he never could have afforded before—a more expensive brand of +cigarette, a new cane, some collars of an odd shape, and each week he +put a little money into a savings account. + +Fred felt years younger. He was preparing for old age. There was +something to look ahead to. But—to have kept on the other way ... +trudging always to a poorer future.... It had looked mighty black. Too +black, sometimes. Fred had considered, often enough, the very thing +that Anna had done. He had been insured for three thousand dollars, in +her name, and he felt that her sisters would both rather look out for +her—they had good homes—and she could have stayed with them and gone to +work at an easy job, if necessary. It seemed such a cowardly thing to +do—to step from under, and he had never quite got to it, after all. And +now—he was free. + +But Anna—wasn’t she free, too? Hadn’t she taken the way out, as she saw +it, a way that meant no more scraping and saving, no more using up of +left-overs, of planning for new bargain shoes three weeks before the +soles ran through the old ones? It was sad enough, losing Anna, but +when he thought it over, Fred understood perfectly. It was the simplest +solution. He didn’t blame Anna at all. Compared to living on, doing +without nice things, planning to keep on doing without them, and with +the strain drawing tighter and tighter, Anna had certainly chosen the +better way. + + +V + +On the morning that she committed suicide, Anna Clark waked up at +seven. The round nickeled clock on the bird’s-eye maple dresser awoke +her as usual. She yawned and stretched her arms above her head as she +did every morning. Then she nudged Fred, sleeping rather noisily with +his mouth not quite tightly closed, as he always slept. Then, as she +never missed doing, Anna got up and shut off the alarm, went into the +bathroom, hung up the towels that Fred had thrown on the floor the +night before, and took a hurried bath. She put on her “morning clothes” +that hung in the disorderly, tightly-crowded closet. They differed from +her “best clothes” in that the cheap lace edging of the underthings was +badly worn and that, instead of a dark skirt and a georgette waist—her +usual afternoon outfit—Anna wore a checked gingham dress. Anna had +three morning dresses. Two were blue and white and one pink and white. +The pink and white one was slightly faded. By wearing aprons over them, +when she cooked, one dress looked plenty clean enough to wear mornings, +and when she got dinner, for a whole week. + +After she had bathed, Anna went back into the bedroom to dress and +again waked Fred, who always fell asleep after the first waking. This +time, Anna talked to him about what had happened to both of them the +day before. She had been with Ruth to call on Mrs. Ambier, an old +friend, who had just had her third baby at a neighbourhood hospital. + +“She doesn’t look strong,” Anna said. “She ought not to have any more +children.” + +Fred didn’t remember whether or not Mrs. Ambier had looked strong the +last time he had seen her—for several months, Mrs. Ambier had not +performed her accustomed social duties—but agreed that, if she looked +badly, there should be no more children. + +Fred told Anna about old Klingman, one of his regular customers, and +how he made him taste the pickled herring and other Klingman-prepared +specialties. + +“He’s quite a character,” Fred added. + +While Fred shaved, Anna got breakfast. It was the usual breakfast. +There was half of a large orange for each. When oranges were smaller, +Fred and Anna each had a whole one, but grapefruit and large oranges +were always divided. Then there was oatmeal, cooked the night before +and left standing, wrapped in a towel, on the radiator all night. +It’s just as good that way, Anna always told her friends, as if +prepared in a fireless cooker—and a great deal less trouble. There +were two soft-boiled eggs apiece—on alternate mornings the eggs were +scrambled—but to-day was the day to soft-boil them. + +Some mornings there was toast, but this morning the bread was soft +enough to be eaten without toasting—and coffee. Before putting the +eggs in water Anna went to see how far Fred had progressed with his +dressing. He was putting his shirt on, which meant that Anna would have +to hurry things a little—as she always did towards the end. + +Breakfast was at eight-thirty. Before sitting down, Fred got the paper, +which the boy had left at the door, and read it as he ate. He was not +too absorbed in the news to listen to what Anna had to say nor pass +morsels of the last twelve hours’ happenings to her. + +After eating, Fred looked at his watch, a $2.50 Ingersoll, which kept +just as good time for him as a gold one that he had had given to him +when he was twenty-one, and found that he was a trifle late. He tried +to be at the office at nine-thirty, starting from there on his rounds +of spice-selling, after dictating a few business letters and handing in +reports that he had not attended to the night before. + +As usual, Fred was a trifle late. He folded his paper irregularly +and thrust it into his overcoat pocket. It was early in the fall and +slightly cool. He kissed Anna good-bye a bit hurriedly, as usual, but +he remembered later that the kiss she gave him in response was no +warmer, no colder, for that matter, than the kiss she usually gave him. +It was the last time Fred saw Anna alive. + +After Fred left, Anna gathered together the breakfast dishes and washed +them in the sink, without a dishpan. She preferred this method because +it was quicker. The water was not very warm. It scarcely ever was warm +enough to wash dishes properly and she frequently spoke to the janitor +about it. With the use of a cleaning powder, she got the dishes fairly +clean and dried them slowly. + +After putting the dishes away, Anna made the one bed. Then, with a +carpet sweeper which needed oiling and squeaked badly she went over +the brightly coloured rugs in the living and dining-rooms. She did the +bedroom on alternate days. She dusted the furniture with an irregularly +shaped piece of cloth, the tail of one of Fred’s old shirts. + +A package she had ordered the day before came up the dumb-waiter. Anna +opened it. It was a bargain shirtwaist and she noticed that one of the +sleeves was sewed in crooked. She took it into the bedroom, glanced at +the clock and saw that it was nearly ten-thirty. + +Anna tried on the shirtwaist. It fitted well enough, except where the +sleeve was wrong. She could wear it that afternoon and fix it—in half +an hour—some other time. The collar was rather nice. + +She picked up a woman’s magazine—she had subscribed to it and two more +a few months before, “to help a boy through college”—and read two +stories in it. The second story was quite pathetic and she wiped her +eyes at the ending. + +She looked over the back of the magazine at the cooking recipes and +found a simple recipe for spice cakes with one egg. She found she +had all the ingredients in the house and Fred and she both liked +spice cakes. She went back into the kitchen, propped the magazine +against the built-in cabinet, using a yellow mixing bowl, and made the +cakes, following the recipe carefully, humming a little to herself +as she cooked. Anna was not especially fond of cooking. She had been +housekeeping for ten years. + +While the little cakes were baking—she had poured the batter into +muffin tins—she read some more of the magazine. When the cakes were +done, she spread them on a clean towel, and, as soon as they were cool +enough, bit into one. It was quite good. If the cakes had failed, +those who wondered about her suicide might have found the spice cakes +and considered them as a motive. But the cakes were so good Anna ate +two of them. She put the others into the cake box along with a stale +piece of baker’s cake, left over from three days before, gathered up +the crumbs, washed the dishes her baking had soiled and went into the +bedroom. It was eleven-fifteen. + +She washed and started to change into her “afternoon clothes,” choosing +the new waist that Ruth found her in. The ’phone rang just before she +finished dressing. It was Marie Cluens, one of “the girls,” asking her +to come over in the afternoon. Marie was expecting a few other callers. +Anna said that Ruth was coming for her and if Ruth had made no other +plans she’d be glad to go. + +She was all dressed, and looking at herself in the bird’s-eye maple +dresser mirror. She approved of her looks, for, at thirty-five, it was +quite all right to have a few wrinkles and a sprinkling of grey hair. +Most women of thirty-five looked older. + +Then Anna remembered that she had neglected to put on her spats. She +had bought some tan ones, a few weeks before, while shopping with Ruth, +who had bought grey. Spats are awkward things to button, after one is +dressed, when one hasn’t a maid, and Anna had taken on a few extra +pounds recently. She finally managed to button them. Then, suddenly, +button-hook still in her hand, after she had finished buttoning her +spats, Anna sat upright on the bird’s-eye maple chair and thought, for +the first time in months, about herself. + +Here she was—buttoning spats! She hated to button them. What a bore, +what a terrible bore it was, to button them! And, to-night, she would +have to unbutton them, and to-morrow afternoon, she would have to take +the spots out of them, if there were any spots, and button them again. + +And it wasn’t only spats. Of course she didn’t have to wear spats. +It was the other things. Anna thought of all of the other pieces of +clothes she wore, her vest, copied after its more expensive Italian +silk sisters, her “Teddy-bears,” the delicate and modest name “the +girls” had taken to calling their combinations, then corsets, +stockings, camisole, skirt—every garment requiring buttoning or +fastening or tying or pinning. Each one had to be pulled in place or +puffed or tied. And, in the evening, each one had to be taken off again. + +Anna thought of how, each morning, she had to go through the same +process of bathing and putting on a number of things. Then, she had +to get breakfast and wash the dishes. Then she had to clean and do +some washing, usually those same underneaths, and then dress again. +And then go out and then come home and cook dinner—and eat it—and then +wash more dishes and then spend an evening at something tiresome—and +then undress again. Life stretched out before Anna—a void of little +things—punctuated only by dressing and undressing. + +The worst of it was, after she was dressed, there was nothing to do. +There is some object in dressing if one has an appointment, a little +secret meeting, a half hour’s flirtation, a dinner, the meeting of +new people, adventure, anything. Then, indeed, may one dress without +heeding the buttons. But Anna knew that there were no surprises in her +day—that there never could be—that nothing could come that would be +pleasurable enough to make up for the thousand unbuttonings. + +Sitting there, button-hook held in her right hand, Anna went over her +life as it drifted back to her. First, years of school, slow, stupid +years, of little quarrels with playmates, little misunderstandings with +her teachers, lessons at night at a round table, with Sophie and Ruth; +occasionally very dull parties on Friday evenings. Then, the death of +her parents. Then, school days were over and the dull years stretched +into long days of working and long evenings with “the boys” and “the +girls.” “The boys” were the masculine set, who, attracted by “the +girls,” took them to possible social diversions. Fred had been one of +“the boys.” Three years of a dull monotone of a courtship and she and +Fred were married and the years had gone on—and she had dressed each +morning for a day of colourless calm and undressed in the evening to +get rest for another. + +All things had come to Anna, and yet nothing had come. School, +courtship, marriage, and then, after two years, a baby, a sickly, +crying boy baby, who had taken all of her time from useless things to +the doing of little, constantly repeated things for him. And then, +after a year of the baby, he had died and she and Fred had decided that +they did not want another. Mourning, then, calm, placid. And then two +years of absolute blankness. + +Then, Anna had had an admirer. It had seemed the one experience that +her grey life had missed, the one thing that might have had some +significance. Her admirer had been the family dentist, a ruddy young +fellow, getting bald too young. In the unpicturesque pose of being +open-mouthed in a dentist chair she had fallen in love with him and he +had seemingly reciprocated her affection. + +Anna’s passion had been brief, shallow. There had been a number of +pseudo-appointments, which had been given over to love-making. + +Then the dentist, his first name was Harvey, had called during the +mornings, when Anna knew “the girls” weren’t likely to come in. Harvey +had stayed for lunch, and, as that was the one meal of the day which +Anna did not usually have to prepare, she rebelled at having to cook +it for her lover, who had a large appetite. After only the smallest +glimmer of pleasurable excitement, Harvey had dimmed into the monotony +of her regular life, his visits, the lunches with him, the fear of +being discovered with her lover gradually blotched into the background. + +And, as unexcitedly as he had drifted in, Harvey, perhaps finding Anna +as monotonous as she found him, perhaps because a prettier patient +appeared, drifted out. + +Anna did not grieve for him. Occasionally she shuddered at the thought +of what might have happened if Fred or Ruth had discovered the affair, +but even the shudders grew to lack distinction. + +After Harvey, Anna had had no more lovers. Now, thinking about it, Anna +found that she had not talked, seriously, to a man alone, for over +three years. There was no one she was interested in, no one she knew or +cared to know whom being alone with was worth the effort of planning +for it. She knew so few men. There was a stupid grocer’s clerk with +long lashes, a drug clerk who simpered at her and a friend of Fred’s, +who held her hand when he told her good-night—and they all lacked sex +interest. + +Anna knew that Ruth was having a silly affair with a friend of Dick’s, +but it didn’t bother her. It didn’t interest her enough to make her +wish that Ruth would get confidential about it. She had had her affair. +She knew what a bore affairs were. + +Anna had hoped, when she was younger, that she might have a real lover, +a great passion, but, as the years passed, and she saw her youth +slipping away, saw that her social position was not one to attract men +and that she had no special gift of attraction, anyhow, she almost +forgot about it. + +She thought of Fred, pleasantly. Fred was good, awfully good and +awfully, awfully tiresome. There hadn’t been a surprise in anything +that Fred had done in five years. Anna knew that he never could do +anything but calm, expected things. Fred had always been kind to her. +How different from Sophie’s husband, who was such a terror. Poor +Sophie! She tried so hard, always, to conceal things. Well, there was +nothing she could do to help her, so she had never spoken to Sophie +about it, let her believe that no one knew what a brute Steve was. Anna +knew she wouldn’t have stood him a week. + +Anna thought of other things, of money. She knew Fred worried quite +a lot about it. She would have liked to have money, too, of course, +but, as long as Fred made a good living, and she felt that he always +would do that, the question of finances did not greatly concern her. +She would have liked to have been rich, but, after all, they were poor +people and she had been brought up modestly. + +She still sat, button-hook in hand. And she looked at the +button-hook—and at her spats—and thought of the thousands of other +buttons that would have to be attended to, on thousands of succeeding +days. What was the use of it all, anyhow? Why keep on? Why bother? She +really wasn’t interested in living, in anything. Why, there was a way +out, a way that meant no buttons at all! + +Anna felt, suddenly, that she couldn’t stand it another day. The years +that stretched out—the years of getting old, monotonously, of hundreds +of calls on and from “the girls,” thousands of moving pictures with +Fred, thousands of dishes, thousands of—buttons. She couldn’t stand it! +Anything else! + +She threw the button-hook on the floor. It hit the mahogany door, which +she rubbed down so carefully, every week, so it would retain its shine. +And Anna smiled. She could get out of polishing that door! It had never +occurred to her before. It had never entered her mind that she washed +the dishes and talked to Fred and buttoned and unbuttoned because she +wanted to—because she chose that way. There was another way, after +all, a way that might hold something else or nothing else at the end, +but that, at least, would end, for always, the things that kept on, +unbearable, now. + +She went into the bathroom. From the top shelf of the medicine chest +she took a large blue bottle. On the label it was marked “Poison” in +large, black letters. It was an excellent germicide. + +Anna tasted it. It rather burnt her lips a little and was decidedly +unpleasant. But—after all—it would taste unpleasant for only a few +minutes. And then it would all be over—everything would be over. + +It seemed a miracle that things could be ended thus, slightly. One +drink and dirty dishes, bedmaking, dresssheitel and undressing would +cease to be. Fred would cease to be—for her. There would be no need +of trying to appear interested when he was talking to her, of trying +to say things that would interest him. No dinners to plan or cook. +Nothing to have to waste time over! No time that needed wasting! And +she had never thought of it before! Anna looked at her tan spats. They +were buttoned—and would stay that way—until some other hands than hers +unbuttoned them. If it hadn’t been for the spats, now, for that last +straw of additional buttons.... + +Anna poured the poison into a glass—she never liked to drink things +out of a bottle—and tasted it again. Then she remembered what she was +doing, and smiled. It seemed unbelievable that there could be such an +easy solution. She drank the glassful. + +Ruth, coming in, later in the afternoon, with the extra key, found her. + + +THE END + + + + + Transcriber’s Notes + + Pg 11 Changed: like furniture—curliques and frills + To: like furniture—curlicues and frills + + Pg 158 Changed: other women, chosing those that were + To: other women, choosing those that were + + Pg 280 Changed: gossipping with the other girls + To: gossiping with the other girls +*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 78464 *** diff --git a/78464-h/78464-h.htm b/78464-h/78464-h.htm new file mode 100644 index 0000000..0579751 --- /dev/null +++ b/78464-h/78464-h.htm @@ -0,0 +1,11948 @@ +<!DOCTYPE html> +<html lang="en"> +<head> + <meta charset="UTF-8"> + <title> + Picture frames | Project Gutenberg + </title> + <link rel="icon" href="images/cover.jpg" type="image/x-cover"> + <style> + +body { + margin-left: 10%; + margin-right: 10%; +} + + h1,h2,h3,h4,h5,h6 { + text-align: center; /* all headings centered */ + clear: both; +} + +p { + margin-top: .51em; + text-align: justify; + margin-bottom: .49em; + text-indent: 1em; +} + +hr { + width: 33%; + margin-top: 2em; + margin-bottom: 2em; + margin-left: 33.5%; + margin-right: 33.5%; + clear: both; +} + +hr.chap {width: 65%; margin-left: 17.5%; margin-right: 17.5%;} + +div.chapter {page-break-before: always;} +h2.nobreak {page-break-before: avoid;} + +table { + margin-left: auto; + margin-right: auto; +} +table.autotable { border-collapse: collapse; } + +.tdl {text-align: left;} +.tdr {text-align: right;} + +.pagenum { /* uncomment the next line for invisible page numbers */ + /* visibility: hidden; */ + position: absolute; + left: 92%; + font-size: small; + text-align: right; + font-style: normal; + font-weight: normal; + font-variant: normal; + text-indent: 0; + color: #A9A9A9; +} /* page numbers */ + +.center {text-align: center;} + +.right {text-align: right;} + +/* Images */ + +img { + max-width: 100%; + height: auto; +} + + +.figcenter { + margin: auto; + text-align: center; + page-break-inside: avoid; + max-width: 100%; +} + +/* Transcriber's notes */ +.transnote {background-color: #E6E6FA; + color: black; + font-size:small; + padding:0.5em; + margin-bottom:5em; + font-family:sans-serif, serif; +} + +.fs80 {font-size: 80%} +.fs90 {font-size: 90%} +.fs120 {font-size: 120%} +.fs150 {font-size: 150%} + +.no-indent {text-indent: 0em;} +.bold {font-weight: bold;} +.wsp {word-spacing: 0.3em;} +.lh {line-height: 1.5em;} + +p.drop-cap { + text-indent: 0em; +} +p.drop-cap:first-letter +{ + float: left; + margin: 0em 0.1em 0em 0em; + font-size: 250%; + line-height:0.85em; +} + +.upper-case +{ + text-transform: uppercase; +} + +h2 {font-size: 130%; font-weight: normal; line-height: 1.6em; word-spacing: .3em;} +h3 {font-size: 100%; font-weight: normal; line-height: 1.6em; word-spacing: .3em;} + </style> +</head> +<body> +<div style='text-align:center'>*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 78464 ***</div> + +<div class="figcenter" style="width: 85%"> +<img src="images/cover.jpg" alt="" data-role="presentation"> +</div> + + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> +<div class="chapter"> +<h1 class="right"> +PICTURE<br> +FRAMES +</h1> +</div> + + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> +<div class="chapter"> + <p class="center no-indent fs120"> + <em>NEW BORZOI NOVELS<br> + FALL, 1923</em> + </p> +</div> +<br> + +<p class="center no-indent"> + JANE—OUR STRANGER<br> + <span class="fs80"><em>Mary Borden</em></span><br> + <br> + THE BACHELOR GIRL<br> + <span class="fs80"><em>Victor Margueritte</em></span><br> + <br> + THE BLIND BOW-BOY<br> + <span class="fs80"><em>Carl Van Vechten</em></span><br> + <br> + HEART’S BLOOD<br> + <span class="fs80"><em>Ethel M. Kelley</em></span><br> + <br> + THE BACK SEAT<br> + <span class="fs80"><em>G. B. Stern</em></span><br> + <br> + JANET MARCH<br> + <span class="fs80"><em>Floyd Dell</em></span><br> + <br> + A LOST LADY<br> + <span class="fs80"><em>Willa Cather</em></span><br> + <br> + LOVE DAYS<br> + <span class="fs80"><em>Henrie Waste</em></span> +</p> + + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> + +<div class="chapter"> +<div class="figcenter" style="width: 85%"> +<img src="images/title.jpg" alt="" data-role="presentation"> +</div> + +<p class="center no-indent"> + <span class="fs150">PICTURE<br> + FRAMES</span><br> + <br> + <br> + THYRA SAMTER<br> + WINSLOW<br> + <br> + <br> + ALFRED A. KNOPF<br> + NEW YORK <span style="padding-left: 2em">1923</span><br> + <br> +</p> +</div> + + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> + +<div class="chapter"> +<p class="center no-indent fs90"> + COPYRIGHT, 1923, BY ALFRED A. KNOPF, INC.<br> + <br> + <em>Published, February, 1923</em><br> + <em>Second Printing, March, 1923</em><br> + <em>Third Printing, April, 1923</em><br> + <em>Fourth Printing, July, 1923</em><br> + <em>Fifth Printing, December, 1923</em><br> + <br> + <br> + <br> + <em>Set up, electrotyped, printed and bound by the Vail-Ballou Press, Inc., Binghamton, N. Y.</em><br> + <em>Paper furnished by W. F. Etherington & Co., New York.</em><br> + <br> + <br> + <span class="fs90 wsp">MANUFACTURED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA</span> +</p> +</div> + + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> +<div class="chapter"> + <h2 class="nobreak" id="CONTENTS"> + CONTENTS + </h2> +</div> + + +<table class="autotable lh"> +<tr> +<td class="tdl"> +LITTLE EMMA +</td> +<td class="tdr"> +<a href="#Page_3">3</a> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td class="tdl"> +GRANDMA +</td> +<td class="tdr"> +<a href="#Page_21">21</a> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td class="tdl"> +MAMIE CARPENTER +</td> +<td class="tdr"> +<a href="#Page_50">50</a> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td class="tdl"> +A CYCLE OF MANHATTAN +</td> +<td class="tdr"> +<a href="#Page_96">96</a> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td class="tdl"> +AMY’S STORY +</td> +<td class="tdr"> +<a href="#Page_174">174</a> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td class="tdl"> +CITY FOLKS +</td> +<td class="tdr"> +<a href="#Page_194">194</a> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td class="tdl"> +INDIAN SUMMER +</td> +<td class="tdr"> +<a href="#Page_213">213</a> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td class="tdl"> +A LOVE AFFAIR +</td> +<td class="tdr"> +<a href="#Page_237">237</a> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td class="tdl"> +BIRTHDAY +</td> +<td class="tdr"> +<a href="#Page_255">255</a> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td class="tdl"> +CORINNA AND HER MAN +</td> +<td class="tdr"> +<a href="#Page_277">277</a> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td class="tdl"> +THE END OF ANNA +</td> +<td class="tdr"> +<a href="#Page_298">298</a> +</td> +</tr> +</table> + + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> + +<div class="chapter"> +<p class="right fs150"> + PICTURE<br> + FRAMES +</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_3">[Pg 3]</span></p> +</div> + + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> +<div class="chapter"> + <h2 class="nobreak" id="LITTLE_EMMA"> + LITTLE EMMA + </h2> +</div> + +<p class="drop-cap"><span class="upper-case">When</span> little Emma Hooper, from Black +Plains, Iowa, came to Chicago to carve out +her fortune, she did not leave behind her a +sorrowing family who wondered about the fate of their +dear child in the city. Neither did she sneak away from +a cruel step-mother who had made life hard, unbearable. +Emma’s family was quite glad to see her go.</p> + +<p>Emma’s father was a member of the Knights of +Pythias and worked in an overall factory. Her mother, +a lazy, whiny woman, kept house, assisted unwillingly and +incompetently by such daughters of the house as happened +to be out of work. There were three of these +daughters besides Emma and they all worked when jobs +were not too difficult to get or keep. They spent their +spare time trying to get married. There was one son. +He was next in age to Emma, who was the second youngest. +He smoked cheap cigars and hung around the livery +stable and garage. His name was Ralph.</p> + +<p>Emma came up to Chicago because she had read and +heard a lot about that great city, and because she wanted +to get away from Black Plains. She wanted to have a +good time. There was nothing doing in Black Plains, +and she knew it. She didn’t belong to “the crowd,” as +fashionable society was called there, for she lacked both +money and family. She was twenty-two and had gone +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_4">[Pg 4]</span>with the drummers who stayed at the Palace Hotel since +she was seventeen.</p> + +<p>Emma had been wanting to come to Chicago for a +long time, but she didn’t have the money. She had been +graduated from grade school and finished at the Black +Plains Business College. Her father liked to refer to the +fact but good jobs were few in Black Plains, and Emma +had not mastered the details of her profession, such as +spelling and punctuation, and so she never could save +much.</p> + +<p>Emma’s money came rather unexpectedly. Clarence +Avery got home from college. He was the banker’s son +and had gone to grade school with Emma. At that time +he had suffered from numerous colds in the head and was +inclined to lankiness and freckles. At twenty-two he was +the average small-town college graduate. Clarence belonged +to the local society crowd, but after several years +of metropolitan living he was bored and disappointed with +the gaieties of Black Plains. When he met Emma on the +street one day he was agreeably surprised. Emma was +small and had dark hair that curled naturally and she +knew how to do it up. She and her sisters read the +fashion magazines and ordered their clothes from a Chicago +mail-order house. She wasn’t afraid of a bit of +rouge or an eyebrow pencil, either, and she had a neat +little figure.</p> + +<p>“Hello,” said Clarence, “aren’t you—why, you couldn’t +be little Emma Hooper!”</p> + +<p>“Well, I just am,” said Emma, and they stood and +talked for a long time.</p> + +<p>Then Clarence began to call and, disobeying all of the +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_5">[Pg 5]</span>rules of Black Plains society, he escorted Emma to the +Airdrome and the movies and the most prominent ice +cream parlour. This worried Avery, the banker. After +he had argued with Clarence with no apparent success, +he asked Emma to call at the bank. There he had made +a proposition to her. If Miss Hooper would leave town, +over the winter, say, a check for five hundred dollars +would belong to her. It was all right, of course, he knew +she was a nice girl, not a bit of harm meant or anything +like that, but Clarence was young, oh, a fine boy, but +young, and if Miss Hooper, now—</p> + +<p>So Emma had five hundred dollars. She didn’t like +Clarence much, anyhow. He was a silly, conceited thing, +who told long tales about himself, and hadn’t changed +much, in fact, since his sniffy boyhood days.</p> + +<p>The Hoopers rejoiced in Emma’s luck, gave her advice +about spending the money and called her a selfish thing, +so she gave one hundred dollars to the girls, and then +with the rest and a promise to write all about the new +styles—Millie, the oldest, had nearly captured a drummer +who travelled out of Kansas City—she came up to +Chicago.</p> + +<p>On the train she figured it all out. Country girls were +always important in a large city. She knew that. Didn’t +she read about them in the magazines every day? Always +“the girl from the country,” sought after, betrayed. +Huh! But it sounded interesting, anyway.</p> + +<p>“For I’m rather good-looking,” mused Emma, modestly, +“and if some country girl has got to be betrayed, it might +as well be me. I’ll read the want-ads like the rest and +apply for a job where they want girls fresh from the +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_6">[Pg 6]</span>country. I’ll try to get a job with one of those nice, +grey-haired old papas, who has a wife that misunderstands +him, and some day he’ll take me out to dinner, +and, well, of course, Clarence wasn’t a real conquest, that +old thing, but if I can’t find a nice old geezer, well, something +is the matter with this girl from the country stuff, +that’s all.”</p> + +<p>As the train neared Chicago, a travelling man got on +and sat down beside Emma. He tried to flirt with her. +He asked her where she came from, and when she said +Iowa, he said, “Oh, forget that stuff, kid; you haven’t +been out of Chi a week.” She wondered why he said it, +but it rather pleased her. She and her sisters had rather +thought that they kept up with things, watching the +fashion books and the movies, but she had been awfully +afraid she would look like a rube. She resented the +travelling man, though. What kind of a fish did he think +she was? Why, even in Black Plains she wouldn’t have +flirted with a cheap thing like him. He even held one +hand over his wedding ring. You couldn’t put a thing +like that over Emma.</p> + +<p>At seven o’clock Emma landed in the city. The lights +and noises confused her for a minute, but she liked them +then—it was like a carnival. She didn’t see a policeman, +so she went up to a fairly respectable-looking man and +asked where the Y. W. C. A. was. She knew about that +and had decided to stay there until she had time to look +around. The man looked at her and smiled. “Come, +now, girlie, you don’t want to go there,” he said, “you +and I’ll have something to eat and then I’ll show you a +nice place to stay.”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_7">[Pg 7]</span></p> + +<p>“Can you beat it?” said Emma, as she went on, with a +toss of her head. “Do they really get away with that +stuff in the city? Regular movie stuff. Can you beat +it?”</p> + +<p>She finally found the Y. W. C. A. answered a number +of questions drawled out by a peevish fat woman, and +was given a room.</p> + +<p>Emma spent two weeks looking around. She visited all +of the department stores and watched people. Then she +took an inventory of her clothes. They looked better +than she had expected. She’d spy around a bit before +getting any new clothes. By putting her hat a bit more +over her right ear and pulling her hair down over +her forehead, she felt she could look as good as the next +one.</p> + +<p>She went to matinées and discovered restaurants and +hotels and tea rooms and little things to wear. She sent +home hideously-coloured postcards, saying what a fine +time she was having, and sent each of the girls a waist +and her mother a pocketbook. She got tired of the Y. W. +C. A. and found a nice, quiet, inexpensive room on the +North Side. She liked the city.</p> + +<p>She flirted with one man in a tea room, but that was all. +She didn’t like that sort of thing. She was looking for +the old millionaire whose wife didn’t understand him and +who liked little girls from the country.</p> + +<p>Finally, she found that her money was beginning to +disappear. By this time she knew the city pretty well, +and so she began to look for a position in real earnest. +“They all like ’em from the country,” she told herself. +She answered want-ads, those that asked for “young, +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_8">[Pg 8]</span>inexperienced girls.” Maybe that was the kind the rich +old men put in. They sounded that way.</p> + +<p>Emma did not meet with much success. Usually, the +place was filled when she went to apply for it. Other +times, men with wearied, blank faces asked her questions—but +nothing ever came of it.</p> + +<p>For several weeks she looked for a position, somewhat +carelessly at first, later with hard earnestness. Was it +possible that there were no millionaires hunting for little +girls, no positions even? For a week she had a job in +a dirty, poorly-ventilated office, where the proprietor +chewed tobacco. It was some sort of a fake insurance +place. She was fired at the end of the week, but she +would have quit anyhow.</p> + +<p>She looked again. It was a tiresome job. She still +had over a hundred dollars. “Not a millionaire in sight!” +she sighed, as she went to bed. “These magazines are +sure putting it over people.”</p> + +<p>Then she applied for positions by mail. She said she +was all alone in the city, from Iowa. She had more luck. +Over half of her letters were answered, but, though she +was given interviews, she wasn’t given a job. One man, +tall, lean, sneering, looked at her for a long time.</p> + +<p>“What made you say you were from the country?” he +asked.</p> + +<p>“I am,” said Emma, “Iowa.”</p> + +<p>“Iowa. Hell!” said the man. “One look is enough +to show that the White City is the nearest the country +you’ve ever been.”</p> + +<p>The White City is a summer amusement park, but +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_9">[Pg 9]</span>Emma didn’t even know it. But she had got a hint at +the truth.</p> + +<p>A week later she met Hallie Summers. They were +both applying for the same position—“expert stenographer.” +Hallie was correctly tailored, perfectly +groomed. Her black suit had a bit of fur at the throat, +her hat was a smart rough felt, trimmed with a single +wing. Her white buckskin gloves were immaculate, her +shoes absolutely correct.</p> + +<p>Emma gave her name and answered the usual questions. +Hallie listened. She was next. As Emma +waited for the elevator, Hallie joined her.</p> + +<p>“What,” asked Hallie, “is that gag you pulled about +being from Iowa?”</p> + +<p>Emma smiled. She liked the looks of Hallie, straight +haired, correct looking.</p> + +<p>“That,” said Emma, “was the honest truth. I am +from Iowa and I don’t care who knows it. I don’t know +a soul in town but a girl I roomed with in the ‘Y. W.’ +She wears cotton stockings and is studying to be a milliner. +Why?”</p> + +<p>“Well,” said Hallie, as she led the way into the elevator, +“if that’s the truth or if it’s a stall, you’re the +worst imitation of a country girl I ever saw.”</p> + +<p>“Meaning what?”</p> + +<p>“Why, meaning, of course, my dear child, that you +don’t look the part. Where did you get those clothes, +west side of State Street?”</p> + +<p>“Iowa, but they are what most people up here are +wearing.”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_10">[Pg 10]</span></p> + +<p>Emma had on a blue and white striped silk, trimmed +with a touch of green and she liked it.</p> + +<p>“Sure,” said Hallie, “that’s what’s the matter with +them.”</p> + +<p>“I don’t quite get you,” said Emma.</p> + +<p>Hallie smiled.</p> + +<p>“You poor thing,” she said, “I believe you really don’t, +at that. Come up to the Clover Tea and I’ll buy a +sandwich, though I’m not usually that kind of a philanthropist, +and we’ll talk it over.”</p> + +<p>Hallie ordered tea and sandwiches and the girls talked. +The only girls Emma had talked to in Chicago had been +cheap and slow and stupid. She liked Hallie. Hallie +was old, that indefinite age around thirty, and she was +wise—next to things. She knew Chicago—the way she +wanted to know it. She, too, was, in a way, looking for +a millionaire, though she had found one and lost him +again.</p> + +<p>The two girls talked. In five minutes they had +bridged the distances more formal people would have +spent years over. Emma knew all about Hallie, who +wanted sixty dollars a week—and sometimes got it, and +Hallie knew about Clarence and the five hundred dollars +and the rich old papa who hadn’t appeared.</p> + +<p>“Now what’s the matter with my looks?” asked Emma.</p> + +<p>“It’s because there isn’t, in a way,” said Hallie. “You +look like the average stenographer, the twenty-dollar-a-week +kind, that’s all. Your clothes are cheap and they +are almost in style. Look at all those bits of velvet and +buttons.”</p> + +<p>“It said in the catalogue,” said Emma, “that it was the +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_11">[Pg 11]</span>latest thing. I’ve seen several in this very pattern here.”</p> + +<p>“Sure you have. That’s why you oughtn’t to wear it. +You may not know it, but people in cities have ideas +about how country girls should look, though Heaven +knows, they don’t look that way. They think that country +girls wear ginghams and never know that styles +change. You can’t wear a sunbonnet very well in the +city, but if you want to get away with the country girl +stuff you can wear plain things and look—sunbonnety. +But rouge and made-up eyes—oh, my!”</p> + +<p>“I’m pale without rouge, and my eyes—”</p> + +<p>“Sure, you’re pale. Let your eyes alone. How much +money have you left?”</p> + +<p>Hallie looked honest.</p> + +<p>“A little over a hundred dollars,” said Emma.</p> + +<p>Hallie nodded. “You can just about do it for that.”</p> + +<p>“You mean?”</p> + +<p>“Look the part—Iowa.”</p> + +<p>“Frumpy and back-to-the-farm?”</p> + +<p>“Oh, you don’t have to overdo it. All you’ve got to do +is to look like a country girl from a city man’s viewpoint. +It’s easy.”</p> + +<p>On the street, after lunch, Emma pointed to a girl that +they passed.</p> + +<p>“Like her?”</p> + +<p>“Heavens, no. She’s just cheap. Halsted or Clark +Street. Real simplicity, I mean,” said Hallie, leading +the way to Michigan Avenue. “Cheap clothes are just +like furniture—curlicues and frills and fancy velvets and +silks and things ‘in style’ come cheapest of all. It’s +simplicity that costs money. I know the shops, anyhow.”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_12">[Pg 12]</span></p> + +<p>At an exclusive little shop, Hallie picked out a plain +little frock. It was dark blue. A tiny white collar was +around the neck. In front was a touch of silk embroidery +in dull shades and a small flat black bow.</p> + +<p>“Old men, the kind you are looking for, fall for this +stuff,” said Hallie. “They all came from the country—once, +though they have forgotten what it looks like. +Musical comedy and the magazines have done their worst. +They expect frilly white aprons on the farm instead of +Mother Hubbards. They want what they think is simplicity, +so you may as well give it to them.”</p> + +<p>Emma bought the little frock. It cost forty-five dollars. +The mail-order silk had cost fifteen.</p> + +<p>They bought a hat next, black and floppy and not too +big, with a bow on one side. It cost more than six of +the stylish kind. The shoes were stout and flat heeled +and the gloves were grey. The coat was plain and dark +and had a wide belt and big pockets.</p> + +<p>Hallie came over the next day and helped try things on. +Emma’s dark hair was parted and drawn into a plain +little knot.</p> + +<p>“That’s the stuff,” said Hallie. “To be a simple +country girl you’ve got to buy the stuff on the Boul’ +Mich’, if you’re in Chicago, or Fifth Avenue, if you’re +in New York. I wish some one would expose this small-town +stuff. Why, every town the size of a water bug +has at least two stores where the buyers go to Chicago +or New York twice a year. With travelling and mail-order +houses—huh, it’s only city people that don’t know +the girl from the country disappeared right after the Civil +War.”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_13">[Pg 13]</span></p> + +<p>“You’ve certainly got that straight,” said Emma. +“Why, Black Plains people spend all of their time +trying to look as if they just came from the city. But +if they could see me in Black Plains dressed like +this!”</p> + +<p>Under Hallie’s directions, Emma answered a few more +want-ads. She picked out important office buildings. +“Go where they are if you want to catch them,” said +Hallie, and Emma did.</p> + +<p>In two days she had found a job. But the owner of +the firm was young and happily married and the only +other man around the office was a young boy who received +twenty a week. “Nothing doing,” said Emma +and she left.</p> + +<p>“Be careful, the city is full of allurements and pitfalls +for country girls,” said the happily married man. Emma +thanked him for his advice. “I wish I thought so,” she +said to herself as she left.</p> + +<p>The next week she found her real job. It was what +she had been looking for. She applied by mail and was +told to call. She dressed in her new clothes and left off +rouge and powder.</p> + +<p>A man of about forty-five interviewed her. He was +the senior partner. He looked old enough to suit Emma. +“A nice papa,” thought she. His younger brother was +the junior partner—they sold bonds—the firm of Fraylir +and Fraylir.</p> + +<p>Emma cast down her eyes during the interview and +murmured things about being all alone and wanting to +succeed. She got the job. Her work was to stay in the +reception-room and answer questions when people came +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_14">[Pg 14]</span>in. There was a little typing and stenography. The +wages were twenty dollars.</p> + +<p>“The position is an easy one, for the right girl,” Frederick +Fraylir had said. “Perhaps you don’t know what +I mean because you are new to the city. I’m glad there +are still girls like you, wholesome and sane looking. +Now—”</p> + +<p>“I can start at once,” murmured Emma. She thought +she noticed a funny little glint in his eye but she wasn’t +sure. She knew she could just about live on that twenty +dollars—for a while.</p> + +<p>“Now,” she told herself, “if Fraylir only works out +according to specifications. Rich old man, girl from +the country, wife who misunderstands—”</p> + +<p>At first Emma didn’t know that Frederick Fraylir was +married, but she soon deduced the fact from conversation +that she heard around the office and over the telephone. +The brothers lived together in a big apartment on Lake +Shore Drive and there was a Mrs. Fraylir who rang up +rather frequently. The brothers called her Belle and +she had a slow, drawling voice. “Hope she misunderstands +him,” thought Emma.</p> + +<p>Emma liked her job, as much as she liked any kind +of work. She liked Frederick and even his younger +brother, Edward, though Edward was colder, more distant. +Frederick was friendly, but not friendly enough, +for Emma, though she sometimes caught him looking at +her when the door of his office was open. The brothers +had one large private office together.</p> + +<p>In a few months she was raised to twenty-five dollars, +but she knew that this wouldn’t pay for a regular supply +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_15">[Pg 15]</span>of the new kind of simple clothes. She had actually +begun to like them. She read magazines in her spare +time and wondered how long it would be before Fraylir +would arise to the rôle of the devilish city man. At +times she was almost on the point of quitting her job—before +her clothes wore out—but she always stayed on. +She did her work as well as she knew how—really tried, +and cast down her eyes when spoken to and acted the +modest and retiring country girl.</p> + +<p>“If they could see me act like this in Iowa,” she +thought, “they’d be wondering if I was copying some +new movie star.”</p> + +<p>But she liked it. It was so quiet and peaceful. There +were no quarrels with her sisters, no whinings of her +mother, no fights between her father and Ralph, no drummers +to keep in their places.</p> + +<p>Several times Mrs. Fraylir called. She was tall and +stately and dignified. “Cold as ice,” thought Emma, +“just the kind to misunderstand a husband.” She +dropped her eyes when she answered Mrs. Fraylir’s questions. +“No use letting her suspect I’m even human. +They make trouble enough—these wives.”</p> + +<p>Then Frederick asked her out to dinner. The suddenness +of the invitation almost staggered her. It had been +a rainy day and the evening was disagreeably cold and +damp. She was putting on her simple hat and wondering +if she could buy another one soon. It was getting a bit +shabby.</p> + +<p>“Miss Hooper,” he said, “may I—will you come to +dinner with me? I have to return to the office and look +over these new papers. It’s a bit unusual, I know, but +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_16">[Pg 16]</span>if you don’t mind, it might be a change for you. I +thought—”</p> + +<p>He actually seemed embarrassed—and he had grey hair +and was getting old!</p> + +<p>They went to a cozy, quiet restaurant. Fraylir ordered +a simple, hearty meal. Emma put on her best +I’m-all-alone-in-the-city manner. But pretty soon she +began telling him her real impressions of the city and +she was surprised to find that he seemed to enjoy them. +He had a lot more sense than any other man she had +ever known.</p> + +<p>Halfway through the meal a well-dressed young couple +came into the restaurant. As they passed, Fraylir spoke +to them. Emma was introduced, under her real name, +as Fraylir’s stenographer, and at Fraylir’s invitation, the +couple sat down at their table. Emma didn’t know +things were ever done that way at all. The young couple +didn’t even seem surprised. Emma liked to hear them +talk, so quiet and well bred and clever. Emma was +careful what she said. When Fraylir smiled his approval +at her, it made her quite happy. “What kind of a fish +am I getting to be?” she asked herself that night, when +she got home.</p> + +<p>After that there were dinners and lunches and an occasional +visit to the theatre. Emma saw several dramas; +she had always limited her theatregoing to a musical +comedy and vaudeville and had scoffed at high-brow stuff. +She was surprised to find that she liked them and enjoyed +discussing the problems they presented with Fraylir. +Fraylir lent her books and she read them at night because +she couldn’t go around alone very well and didn’t enjoy +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_17">[Pg 17]</span>the other men and girls she met—silly things. She and +Fraylir went to the Art Museum and even to a couple of +private exhibitions and to musicales and she met some +interesting people. She tried to talk to Fraylir and tried +to learn as much as she could from him. After all, she +had missed a lot of things in Black Plains, stopping +school at the eighth grade and running around with a +bunch of cheap, slangy travelling men.</p> + +<p>Winter passed. Spring came. Emma stayed at Fraylir +and Fraylir’s. She knew there were dozens of millionaires +looking for innocent country girls, but the prospect +seemed less real and alluring than in the past. She felt +pretty well satisfied, somehow. She went without lunches +a couple of days and managed to get some new clothes—simple +things.</p> + +<p>She met Hallie one day, Hallie with a new job and a +new friend, more tailored looking than ever.</p> + +<p>“How’s your millionaire?” asked Hallie.</p> + +<p>“Fine,” answered Emma, “it was great of you to tell +me about clothes and things.”</p> + +<p>“That’s right,” said Hallie, “I see you’re sticking to the +styles I picked out for you. I hope your millionaire is +the real thing.” Emma, for some reason, felt almost +insulted. It had been, well, almost coarse of Hallie.</p> + +<p>Then Mrs. Fraylir went away for the summer. Emma +learned about it when Mrs. Fraylir talked over the telephone +to Edward or Frederick, whichever one happened +to be in the office when she rang up.</p> + +<p>“Now’s the time,” thought Emma, “when their wives +go away and they realize how misjudged they’ve been.” +But she wasn’t exactly enthusiastic about it.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_18">[Pg 18]</span></p> + +<p>Fraylir took her out to dinner and to the summer +gardens. She tried to show him how sympathetic she +could be. It surprised her to find out that she really +meant it. She was almost afraid to use all of the little +tricks that she had learned in Black Plains. It didn’t +seem honest.</p> + +<p>Sometimes Edward Fraylir went with them, but usually +the two of them went alone.</p> + +<p>She got a letter saying that Millie was married—she +had finally landed the drummer who travelled out of +Kansas City. And Irma, next youngest, was going with +a Black Plains boy who kept a cigar store. Emma had +to write back that she was still working and she took the +answering jokes about her city success without a murmur. +After all, there were so many things besides getting a rich +papa!</p> + +<p>And then, one night without warning—</p> + +<p>Frederick Fraylir and Emma had stayed in the office +after the others had gone. There was some work that +had to be copied and they were going to have dinner +together. As Emma slipped the last page from the typewriter, +Frederick bent over her.</p> + +<p>“Little girl,” he said, “do you know that I care very +much for you?” Emma closed her eyes. She was +afraid to say anything. Why couldn’t things have kept +on—the way they were? Her heart was beating rather +rapidly. She had never thought about that.</p> + +<p>“Don’t you care, a little?” Frederick went on. “You +must have known, how I felt, all these weeks.”</p> + +<p>“I don’t know what you mean,” said Emma. She suddenly +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_19">[Pg 19]</span>remembered that that was the right answer, though +she was afraid that she had put it in the wrong place.</p> + +<p>“Why, I mean,” said Frederick, “that I love you. I’ve +cared for you from the first. It’s hard to say—for an +old fellow like me. You are so innocent, so sweet. You +are so little and alone and unprotected. I love you, I +want to—”</p> + +<p>Well, so it was over! “What about Mrs. Fraylir?” +interrupted Emma. Mrs. Fraylir had never been brought +into their conversation before. The words seemed to +choke Emma a little.</p> + +<p>“Why, dear, she likes you too. She told Edward that +as long as I felt this way, she hoped you liked me. She +wanted to talk to you when she came to the office, but she +was afraid she’d say the wrong thing, as long as I hadn’t +said anything to you. I know you’ll like her, though. +Edward and she will be glad they won’t have to bother +with me, I guess. Ever since they’ve been married, +over seven years, I’ve lived with them. They said they +wanted me, but I guess they’ll be glad if—” he paused.</p> + +<p>“Ever since they’ve been married?” repeated Emma, +mechanically. “I thought, why I thought—”</p> + +<p>Frederick misunderstood her.</p> + +<p>“Oh, yes,” he said, “seven years, and I’d like a home of +my own. We can be married whenever you say the +word, if you love me a little and I’m not too old. I’ve +wanted to tell you for a long time, wanted to offer you a +real home, wanted you to stop work, but you were so +young, so unaccustomed to the world. I wanted you to +know me and like me a little first, so that I wouldn’t +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_20">[Pg 20]</span>frighten you when I proposed. You’re the kind of a girl +I’ve always been looking for, a simple, small-town girl +with pure thoughts about things. You’ll marry me, +won’t you, dear?”</p> + +<p>And Emma, quite overcome, put her head on his +shoulder and wept a little and said she thought she would. +After all, she was all alone in the city and only a little +country girl.</p> + + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> +<div class="chapter"> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_21">[Pg 21]</span></p> + + + <h2 class="nobreak" id="GRANDMA"> + GRANDMA + </h2> +</div> + + +<h3>I</h3> + +<p class="drop-cap"><span class="upper-case">Grandma</span> awoke with a start. She gained +consciousness with the feeling that something +was just about to happen. Then she sank back +again on the pillow with a comfortable sigh of remembrance. +Of course—this was the day on which she +was going travelling.</p> + +<p>Even on usual days, Grandma could not lie in bed, +idle. So much more reason why she should be up and +about, to-day, with so much to do. Her train left at +twelve o’clock—she had had her ticket and her berth +reservation for over a week, her trunk was all packed, +there were just a few necessary articles to put into her +bag—but the morning would be busy, as all mornings +were at Fred’s.</p> + +<p>Grandma bathed and dressed hurriedly, her bent, rheumatic +fingers grasping each hook and button with a +nervous haste. As usual, she was the first one in the bathroom. +This morning she was especially glad. For at +Fred’s, Grandma’s second son’s house, where she was +visiting now, there was only one bathroom and there +were eight in the family without her, if you count the two +babies. If you didn’t get in the bathroom first....</p> + +<p>Grandma put on her neat housedress, as was her wont. +She could change her dress later, and stuff the housedress +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_22">[Pg 22]</span>into her bag. She arranged her thin grey hair in neat +waves around her face—she could smooth that again, +too.</p> + +<p>From a room at the other end of the house Grandma +heard a baby commence to cry. It was Ruthie, Nell’s +youngest baby, just a year old, one of Grandma’s two +great-grandchildren. Grandma loved little Ruthie a great +deal, a fine baby—still, it did seem good that she wouldn’t +have to take care of her any more for a long time. Not +that Grandma minded work—she had always worked, +she liked something to do—but here at Fred’s house there +were so few moments when she wasn’t working. Not +that Fred’s family were mean to her! Grandma would +have been indignant if you had suggested that. Didn’t +they work as hard as she did, and harder? At seventy-three, +Grandma was still strong and capable; no wonder +they expected her to do her share and accepted it without +comment.</p> + +<p>Fred was a good son and a good husband and a good +father. Could you expect much more? But Fred never +had much of a business head. Here he was, at forty-nine, +just about where he had been fifteen years before, +bookkeeper at the Harper Feed Store, a good enough +position when times were better, but, with everything so +high, Fred’s salary didn’t go very far. Still, no use +complaining or worrying him about it, it was the best he +could do. Fred never had had much ambition or “get +up.” It was a good thing he had bought the house, years +before. It had seemed too big and rambling then. It +was just about the right size now, though not so awfully +modern—and quite hard to keep clean.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_23">[Pg 23]</span></p> + +<p>Emma, Fred’s wife, was a good woman and a good +housekeeper. She wasn’t like the average daughter-in-law, +either. She never quarrelled with Grandma about +things—in fact, she was awfully kind, in her hurried, +brusque way. Grandma sometimes wished she wasn’t so +quick about things, and decided—still, when one is as +busy as Emma....</p> + +<p>Emma was nearly Fred’s age. They had been married +twenty-five years and she had always been a good +wife to him. They had three children, all girls. Grandma +had been sorry there couldn’t have been a son to +help Fred share the burden of supporting the family. +But things seemed going all right now—a little better +than they had been, or so the family seemed to think—and, +as long as they were satisfied....</p> + +<p>Nell, Fred’s oldest daughter, had married, four years +before, and had gone to housekeeping. But Homer Billingsley, +the boy she had married, had been sick for almost +a year, so they had given up their little cottage and +were living “with the old folks.” They had two children +now, Freddie and Ruthie, nice good children, too. +Grandma liked Homer, Nell’s husband, though she was +sorry he was so much like Fred in his lack of ambition +and power. Now that Homer was able to work again he +had his old job at Malton’s Hardware Store. There +didn’t seem much chance of his getting ahead there. +Still, he was a good boy and awfully fond of Nell and the +children.</p> + +<p>Edna, Fred’s second daughter, was stenographer at +the First National Bank and made fifteen dollars a week. +Edna was fine looking, really the beauty of the family. +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_24">[Pg 24]</span>She paid her board every week, but never had much +left over because she bought Alice’s clothes, too, and, +of course, being in the bank, she had to look nice herself. +Alice, the youngest daughter, was seventeen and in +High School. Grandma loved Alice, too. Of course the +child was thoughtless, she could have helped her mother +a little more with the housework or Nell with the babies, +but Grandma knew that, at seventeen, it’s pretty hard +to sweep floors or take babies out. After all, Alice was +young, and she ought to have a good time.</p> + +<p>While she stayed at Fred’s house, Grandma did her +share of the work. Even this last morning she followed +her usual routine.</p> + +<p>She hurried to the room where Ruthie lay and soon +had her quieted. When Ruthie had her bottle—Grandma +had learned all about sterilizing, though she hadn’t +known there was such a thing when she brought up her +own children—Grandma set the table, a plate, knife and +spoon for each, salt and pepper castors that had been a +wedding present to Emma and Fred, a butter dish with +an uneven piece of butter in it, a sugar bowl containing +rather lumpy sugar and a fluted sugar spoon, a dish of +home-made plum preserves. She had the table all set +when Emma hurried into the kitchen with a cheery, abrupt +“Morning, Ma,” and started the coffee.</p> + +<p>At half-past seven all but Alice were ready for breakfast. +Grandma had got the oatmeal out of the fireless +cooker and boiled the eggs for Homer, who was rather +delicate and needed eggs for breakfast. When the family +sat down to their meal, Grandma put milk and sugar on +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_25">[Pg 25]</span>little Freddie’s oatmeal and saw that he ate it—Freddie +didn’t like oatmeal much.</p> + +<p>“Well, Ma,” said big Fred, who sat comfortably coatless, +“so to-day’s the day you go travelling.”</p> + +<p>“Yes, it is,” said Grandma and smiled.</p> + +<p>“You got a good day for it. Let’s see, you leave Lexington +to-day at noon and get to New York to-morrow at +two, don’t you?”</p> + +<p>“Yes, Fred,” said Grandma.</p> + +<p>“You know,” he went on, munching toast as he talked, +“I believe you enjoy travelling, going places. Never saw +anything like it. Seems to me a woman your age +would want to settle down, quiet. You could stay here +all the time if you wanted to, you know that. Got a +room all to yourself—more than you get at Mary’s—and +yet, off you go, after four or five months. Here +you’ve got a good home and all that.”</p> + +<p>“Well,” said Grandma, in her gentle, even tones, “you +know you aren’t the only child I’ve got, Fred. There’s +Albert and Mary.”</p> + +<p>“Yes,” Fred frowned. He disliked even hearing the +name of Albert. It was the one thing that made him +angry. “But we really want you, honest we do, Ma. +Emma and the girls always miss you after you’re gone.”</p> + +<p>“You bet,” said Emma.</p> + +<p>Grandma smiled. At least at Fred’s home she was +welcome and helpful. If she were only younger and +stronger! At Mary’s and Albert’s, there was a wordless +agreement that her visits end, almost mechanically, at the +end of four months. Only mere surface invitations +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_26">[Pg 26]</span>of further hospitality were extended “for politeness.”</p> + +<p>Fred and Homer finished eating and hurried off to business. +Alice came down, then, and Grandma served her, +bringing in hot coffee and oatmeal, as Emma started +to clear away the dishes.</p> + +<p>Alice ate rapidly, then kissed Grandma good-bye—she +didn’t come home at noon—and skipped off. Grandma +and her daughter-in-law washed the dishes and, when +the dishes were done, they made the beds, one standing +on each side, straightening the sheets and pulling up the +covers simultaneously.</p> + +<p>“Sure will miss you, Ma,” said Emma. “Nell’s no +help at all. Don’t blame her. Freddie tagging at her +heels and the baby crying.”</p> + +<p>While Emma straightened up the downstairs rooms, +Grandma helped Nell bathe and dress the babies. Then +the expressman rang and Grandma hurried to the door, +saw that he took her trunk and put the check in her +purse. Then Grandma cleaned up the room she had +occupied. It was time, then, for Grandma to get ready +for her journey. Usually, she helped prepare dinner after +these tasks were done, peeling potatoes, setting the table, +for at Fred’s one ate dinner in the middle of the day.</p> + +<p>Grandma put on her travelling dress. It was her best +dress, of soft grey silk crêpe, trimmed with a bit of fine +cream lace at the throat. Albert had given it to her +on her birthday, two years before. Over this she put +her best coat of black ribbed silk, also a gift of Albert. +She adjusted her neat bonnet—five years old but made +over every year and you’d never guess it.</p> + +<p>Emma and Nell were too busy with dinner and the +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_27">[Pg 27]</span>babies to go to the station with Grandma, but the street-car +that passed the corner went right to the station, and +Homer and Fred would be there to tell her good-bye. +At eleven—Grandma believed in taking plenty of time, +you never could tell what might happen on the way to +the station—Grandma kissed Emma and Nell and Freddie +and Ruthie, giving Ruthie a very tender hug and Freddie +a hearty kiss, in spite of much stickiness from the penny +lollypop he had been eating. She took her bag and +hurrying as fast as she could—Grandma took little, slow +rheumatic steps—she caught the surface car.</p> + +<p>In the railway station Grandma sat down gingerly on +one of the long brown benches, carefully pulling her skirts +away from suspicious tobaccoy-looking spots on the floor, +and waited for Fred and Homer and the train.</p> + +<p>Fred and Homer came up, together, puffing, just before +the train was due. Homer presented Grandma with a +half-pound box of candy and Fred gave her a paper bag +filled with fruit.</p> + +<p>When the train came in, Fred and Homer both assisted +Grandma in getting on, took her to her seat and kissed +her, loudly, before their hurried exit—the Limited stops +for only a minute at Lexington.</p> + +<p>Then, as the train moved away, Grandma waved a +fluttering good-bye to the two men and sighed again, with +happiness. She was travelling!</p> + + +<h3>II</h3> + +<p>Not consciously, of course, for she never would +have admitted such a terrible fact, Grandma looked +forward, all year, to her days of travel. Usually, each +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_28">[Pg 28]</span>year contained three trips, each of about the same length, +and these days were Grandma’s golden milestones. Not +that she wasn’t happy the rest of the time—of course +she was—but this—well, this was different.</p> + +<p>At Fred’s now—Grandma was happy at Fred’s, of +course, every one was friendly and pleasant, though her +feet and head and sometimes her back ached at the end +of the day. One isn’t so young at seventy-three and +younger people are apt to forget how tired seventy-three +becomes, after innumerable answerings of the door, step-climbing +and dish-washing. Grandma loved being useful, +of course, but she did wish that there was a little more +leisure, a little time to sit down and rest—if only Fred’s +and Albert’s homes could be combined, in some way!</p> + +<p>Grandma had three children. When they were young +there had never been much money, but Grandma had tried +to do her best for them. They had lived in Lexington +then, and the three had been brought up just alike and yet +how differently they had turned out! There was Fred, +quite poor but happy, still in Lexington, where he was +born. Mary had married John Falconer when she was +twenty-four and had gone to St. Louis to live, and Albert, +the ambitious one of the family, had gone to New York +in search of fortune and had found part of it, at least.</p> + +<p>If only Fred and Albert hadn’t been so foolish and +quarrelled, years ago! But they had. Albert had tried +to give Fred advice and Fred had resented it. They had +made up the quarrel, but there was nothing that Fred +would let Albert do for him, even if Albert had wanted +to do something. Fred liked to refer, in scorn, to his +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_29">[Pg 29]</span>elder brother as “that New York millionaire,” and say +things about being “just as well off if I haven’t got his +money.” But then, Albert probably forgot, most of the +time, that he had a younger brother. Outside of a polite +inquiry, when Grandma arrived, he never referred to +Fred at all. It worried Grandma to think that her children +weren’t good friends, but she knew she could never +do anything to make them feel differently. Years and +circumstances had taken them too far apart.</p> + +<p>Grandma had no favorite child, unless it was a slight, +natural leaning toward her only daughter. She liked +Albert and was glad she was on her way to visit him. +She just wished that Albert wasn’t so—well, so cold. He +didn’t mean anything, of course. When one is busy all +day on the Stock Exchange one hasn’t time for other +things. And, when one is as rich as Albert, there are +so many things to take up one’s time. Albert was awfully +good to Grandma. She told herself that many times. +He asked her if she needed anything, whenever she +visited him. He frequently gave her expensive presents. +She wouldn’t take any more money from him than she +had to, and her wants were simple, for that wouldn’t +have been right, though she let him give her some on +her last visit and had given it to Nell for Homer—he had +been sick then—without letting Fred find out.</p> + +<p>Grandma liked it all right at Albert’s. How could +there be anything to complain of? At seventy-three, +Grandma had learned to make the best of things. Albert +was Grandma’s oldest child and now he was fifty-two. +His ménage consisted of his wife, Florence; their +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_30">[Pg 30]</span>two children, Albert, junior, who, at twenty-four, was +being taught the business of Wall Street; their daughter, +Arlene, twenty, and six servants.</p> + +<p>The Albert Cunninghams lived in a very large apartment +in Park Avenue. Mrs. Cunningham was of rather +a good New York family. Albert had met her after his +first taste of success and had been greatly impressed with +her and her antecedents. Even then Albert had learned +to look ahead. The family had had some years of social +strivings, but now lived rather quietly. Arlene had made +her début the year before and now entertained and went +out quite a little. Albert, junior, was rather a serious +fellow, though he, too, enjoyed the social life that was +open to him. Altogether, they were fairly sensible, decent +people, a bit snobbish, perhaps, very self-centred, +but with no really objectionable features.</p> + +<p>The thing that Grandma couldn’t understand nor enjoy +in the Albert Cunninghams’ family life was the, to +her, great coldness and formality. Grandma’s idea of +how a family ought to live was the way Fred’s family +lived, only with more money and more leisure and more +pleasure and a servant or two, friendly, jolly, intimate. +At Albert’s, the life was strangely lonely and distant. +Grandma never felt quite at ease nor at home. She had +no definite place in the family life. She had the fear, +constantly, that she was doing something wrong, much +more so than at Mary’s, where her acts were criticized +and commented on. No one ever gave Grandma a harsh +word at Albert’s. Albert, dignified; Florence, courteous, +calm; Junior, a young edition of his father; Arlene, gentle, +distant, quiet,—were all kind to Grandma. But most +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_31">[Pg 31]</span>of the time they unthinkingly ignored her. She didn’t fit +in, she knew that.</p> + +<p>At Albert’s, Grandma had her own room and her own +bath, as did each member of the family. There was no +regular “family breakfast.” Albert and Junior breakfasted +about nine, going to the office in the closed car. +Florence and Arlene breakfasted in their rooms. +Grandma had gone to the dining-room for breakfast, on +her first visit there eight years ago, after Grandpa died +and her own modest home had been broken up. But Florence +decided that it would be more comfortable for +Grandma if she breakfasted in her room. So each morning, +about nine, Grandma’s tray was brought up to her by +Florence’s own maid, Terry, who asked, each time, “if +there is anything I can do?” Grandma rather resented +a personal maid. Wasn’t she able to bathe and dress +herself, even if she was seventy-three? Grandma was +always dressed when Terry knocked.</p> + +<p>All day there was nothing for Grandma to do at Albert’s. +She couldn’t help at all around the house. She +found that out, at her first visit. There was no darning +nor mending to be done—a sewing woman came in regularly +to do the things that Terry could not do. Albert +didn’t care for the home dishes that had once delighted +him and the cook didn’t want any one bothering around +the kitchen. Grandma had luncheon at one, with Florence +and Arlene, when they were at home, which was +seldom enough. In the afternoon, on nice days, Grandma +went for a drive, unless the cars were being used. +Usually Grandma went alone, getting real pleasure out +of the things she saw; sometimes Florence went with her. +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_32">[Pg 32]</span>Florence, too, occasionally took Grandma to teas and +receptions and musicales, most of which bored Grandma +and at none of which did she feel at home.</p> + +<p>Grandma wondered where all of the old ladies were +in New York. She seldom saw any. At the theatre, +where she was taken once in a while, she would see white-haired +old dowagers, carefully marcelled and massaged, +in evening gowns with very low-cut bodices. Grandma +didn’t mean that kind of old lady. She was always looking +for comfortable old ladies, with neatly parted hair, +ample old ladies with little rheumatic hands and wrinkles, +but she never found them.</p> + +<p>Dinner, at Albert’s, was at seven. When the family +dined alone, at home, the meals were about the same, good +things to eat, but everything so cold and distant. It was +hard for Grandma to remember just what to do, so that +Florence and Arlene wouldn’t think she didn’t know, +though they were always polite and gracious. Grandma +was constantly afraid she would spill things when the +maid presented the silver dishes to her or that she’d take +too large a portion for politeness. Grandma was served +first—she couldn’t watch to see the way the others did.</p> + +<p>When the family was having a real dinner party +Grandma found that it was easier for every one if she had +a tray in her room. She really liked that just as well—it +was nice, seated at the little table in her room, comfortably +unannoyed by manners. About half of the time the +Albert Cunninghams did not dine at home—Arlene and +Junior went to numerous dinners and even Florence and +Albert had frequent engagements. Then Grandma usually +dined alone in the big empty dining-room, a little, +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_33">[Pg 33]</span>lonely figure amid empty chairs, silver and glass. She +would have preferred a tray in her room, then, but didn’t +like to mention it—this arrangement seemed to suit +Florence. Grandma’s meals were always excellently +prepared and served, but eating alone in a big, still room +isn’t very jolly.</p> + +<p>After dinner, Grandma was occasionally included in +some social affair, but nearly always she was supposed to +sit in the library until about nine or ten and then retire, +as the other members of the family sometimes did when +they were at home. The family saw that Grandma was +given interesting light fiction and magazines full of stories +and current events, but Grandma had never had enough +leisure in her youth to find time to learn to enjoy reading. +She could read only a short time without falling asleep.</p> + +<p>Grandma knitted, too, so she was glad when the fad +came back so she could be modern in something. Albert’s +family approved of knitting, and on the last visit +her old fingers had made many pairs of socks and sweaters +for charity. Now she was glad to be able to get to knitting—she +had had no time for it since she had been +there before.</p> + +<p>Yes—Albert and his family were awfully nice—of +course they didn’t mean anything, when they paid no +attention to Grandma, when their days went on as +serenely undisturbed as if she were not there. They +asked her how she felt, nearly every day, a cool “trust +you are well this morning, Mother,” and gave her presents. +But thinking of the lonely hours in her room, the +tiresome evenings, the long, useless, dragged-out days, +Grandma wasn’t enthusiastic over her visit with Albert.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_34">[Pg 34]</span></p> + + +<h3>III</h3> + +<p>Mary, Mrs. John Falconer, Grandma’s youngest child, +had always been a bit her favourite. Mary still lived +in St. Louis, where she had gone after her marriage. +The Falconers had four children, two sons of eighteen +and fourteen, two daughters, sixteen and eleven. John +Falconer, a lawyer of moderate means, was quite stingy +in family matters. Although he had a great deal more +money than Fred, the family occupied a much smaller +house, though it was modern and in a good neighbourhood, +and Grandma had to share the bedroom of the two +daughters. Mary’s family had an advantage over Fred’s +in having one maid, who did all of the cooking and washing +and some of the cleaning, so there was not so much +for Grandma to do. Grandma felt that she should have +been very happy with the Falconers. But they were +disagreeable people to live with. Grandma tried not to +see their faults but it was not easy for her to be contented +during her visits there.</p> + +<p>The Falconers had the habit of criticism. Nothing +was ever just right with them. Mary always told +Grandma that if it hadn’t been for Grandma’s encouragement +she would never have married John Falconer—if +she had waited she probably could have done much +better. John Falconer was a former Lexington boy +whom Mary had met when he was visiting his old home. +Grandma didn’t remember that she had encouraged the +match except to tell Mary that John was a nice boy and +would probably make a good husband—Mary had been +the one who seemed enthusiastic. But, somehow, +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_35">[Pg 35]</span>Grandma was blamed whenever John showed disagreeable +characteristics.</p> + +<p>Mary was dissatisfied with her social position, with the +amount of money John gave her to spend, with her children. +She spoke slurringly of Albert and “his rich family +who are in society.” Mary would ask Grandma innumerable +questions about the way the Albert Cunninghams +lived, copy them when circumstances permitted and later +bring the unused bits of information into the conversation, +with disagreeable slurs.</p> + +<p>“I guess Albert wouldn’t call this dinner good enough +for him, would he? It’s a wonder you are satisfied here, +Mamma, without a butler to answer the door or a maid +to bring breakfast to your room,” or “It’s a wonder Albert +and Florence wouldn’t do something for Irene. I +bet she’s a lot smarter and better looking than their +stuck-up daughter. But not a thing does he do for her, +except send a little box on Christmas—gave Irene a +cheap wrist watch last year—you could buy the same +kind right here in St. Louis. He could keep it for all +I’d care.”</p> + +<p>The four Falconer children were badly brought up +and noisy. They interrupted each other or all talked at +once. At meals they reached across the table for dishes +of food. The one maid had had no training and, as she +did the cooking, her waitress duties consisted of putting +bowls and platters of food on the table. Then John +Falconer made a pretence of serving, always, after one +or two plates, he’d “pass the things around so you can +all help yourselves.”</p> + +<p>As there was no attempt to show Grandma any special +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_36">[Pg 36]</span>favour—she was never served first, the first plate going +to the person in the greatest hurry to get away, frequently +Tom the eldest son—usually when the bowl or +platter reached Grandma there was little left for her. +Grandma didn’t mind this, unless the food happened +to be a favourite—she had become accustomed to little +sacrifices while raising her family. There was always +enough bread and butter.</p> + +<p>What Grandma did object to at Mary’s was the spirit +of unrest, the unkindness, the disagreeable taunts of the +family, the noise and disorder. Every one criticized +Grandma, calling her attention to the way she held her +fork, though their own manners were frequently insufferable. +They criticized, too, Grandma’s pronunciation +of words, idioms of Lexington, and errors in grammar. +These were made much of and repeated, with laughter. +Then, too, if Grandma showed ignorance of any modern +appliance or invention, this was thought to be a great +joke and was introduced as a titbit in the table conversation.</p> + +<p>Grandma darned all of the stockings at Mary’s—there +always seemed to be a basketful—and took care of the +bedroom in which she slept, relieving the two girls of +an unwelcome duty. She straightened the living-room, +for Mary hated housework and grumbled about it and +the overworked maid never quite got through her round of +duties. But Grandma was not too busy at Mary’s. She +liked having something to do. It was the taunts that +made her unhappy, the little barbed things the family +said. John Falconer made Grandma feel that she was an +actual expense, that the amount of food she ate was +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_37">[Pg 37]</span>a real item in the household budget. Mary came to her +with little whines about the relatives—though they lived +in other cities and paid little attention to her—about her +husband, how stingy he was, how much better she could +have done, had she not taken her mother’s advice in her +marriage, about the children, how much money they +spent, how they quarrelled with each other, how disobedient +they were. Grandma always went from Mary’s +home to Fred’s, and though she knew the work that +awaited her, the tired hours in store, she actually looked +forward to the next visit.</p> + + +<h3>IV</h3> + +<p>So now, Grandma was travelling again. And, as the +train covered the miles away from Lexington, Grandma +put aside the worries of the visit she had just had, the +memories of the unpleasantness of the visit with Mary, +the apprehensions of the visit that awaited her. Grandma +shed, all at once, all of these things and emerged, a wonderful, +new personality, a dear, happy little old lady, travelling. +Grandma became, as she always became, three +days of each year, the woman she would have liked to +have been, the old lady she sometimes dreamed she was.</p> + +<p>First, Grandma rang for the porter. She was well +supplied with money for Albert always sent her a check +for travelling expenses. She loved feeling independent, +a personality. When the porter came, Grandma demanded, +in the gentle, well-bred tone Florence might +have used, that the porter bring her an envelope for her +bonnet, a pillow for her head, a stool for her feet. She +tipped him generously enough to make him grin his +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_38">[Pg 38]</span>thanks and hurry to her whenever she rang. There +were even porters who said, “Yes’m, you travelled on my +car before,” when they saw Grandma.</p> + +<p>From her bag, Grandma took out a small black lace +cap, with a bit of perky lavender ribbon on it and adjusted +it on her thinning hair. At Mary’s house they +were always telling her how thin her hair looked, the +young boy even hinting something about old people who +ought to wear wigs. Albert had sent her the cap in her +last Christmas box, and, as usual, she had saved it for +travelling. Grandma put on, too, a pair of gold-rimmed +spectacles. She had needed them for years, but at first +a sort of pride in her good eyes had kept her from getting +them. Then, at Fred’s, she had been too busy; at Albert’s, +no one paid much attention to her needs; at Mary’s +they had laughed at her near-sightedness without offering +a corrective. When she was at Albert’s, last year, +she had told him, finally, her need of glasses and the next +day Florence had driven her to an oculist. But she felt +that she had annoyed and disturbed Florence, that getting +glasses for an old lady wasn’t just in Florence’s pattern +of things.</p> + +<p>Grandma put the cheap candy and the fruit from Fred +and Homer into her bag. It had been awfully kind and +good of them. She took out her knitting and added row +after row, as the minutes passed.</p> + +<p>Then Grandma rang for the porter again. But, before +he came, she looked around at her fellow passengers, as +she always looked at them when she travelled. Two +seats in front of her sat a tired-looking woman of about +forty, with a thin, drawn face. Knitting in hand, +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_39">[Pg 39]</span>Grandma took slow, careful little steps up the train to +her.</p> + +<p>“How do you do?” said Grandma, with her sweetest +smile, “I wonder if you won’t have tea with me, keep an +old lady company? It seems so—so unsocial, having tea +alone.”</p> + +<p>The woman gasped and looked at Grandma. She saw +the well-dressed, comfortable little old lady, with the frill +of soft lace at throat and wrists, a tiny black cap on her +grey hair, grey knitting in her gnarled hands, a picture-book +Grandma for all the world.</p> + +<p>“Why, yes, I—that would be delightful,” she said.</p> + +<p>Grandma led the way back to her own seat. When +the porter came she ordered tea and toast and little cakes +and sandwiches, “and some of that good orange marmalade +you always have on this road.”</p> + +<p>Grandma hadn’t had any lunch but she didn’t say +so. When the little table was adjusted and the tea things +brought in, Grandma poured tea, as if, every day, in her +own home, the routine included the serving of tea at a +dear little tea table.</p> + +<p>Grandma listened sympathetically to the other woman’s +story. Grandma knew that each woman who was travelling +had a story and would tell it, if encouraged at all, +but she wasn’t much interested—she had heard so many +stories during the past years. Then, when her guest +had finished, Grandma talked.</p> + +<p>Grandma didn’t say much, really. She told about her +visits, about her two wonderful sons and her splendid +daughter. As Grandma told these things, they, too, +emerged into beauty, the journey threw a magic over +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_40">[Pg 40]</span>them as it did over Grandma. The things she told were so +real that Grandma believed them, herself, because she +wanted to.</p> + +<p>“I have three children, so, of course, I spend four +months of the year with each of them. Each of them +wanted me all the time—they are such good children—so +the best way seemed to be to divide the time. I’m +on my way to visit my older son, now. Maybe, as you’ve +lived in New York, you’ve heard of him—he has a seat +on the Stock Exchange and is a director in so many +things—Albert Morrell Cunningham. His wife was a +Mornington, and they have two such wonderful children, +a boy and a girl. Arlene made her début last year, so you +can imagine what a good time she’s having and what fun +it is to be there with her, she’s so popular and pretty. +I’ll show you her picture, later. Each day I’m there, +nearly, they do something for me, a drive in the park, +theatres and concerts. I really get too gay in the city—it’s +wonderful.</p> + +<p>“Then I go to see Mary, my only daughter, and you +know how a mother feels toward a daughter. She is +married to a lawyer in St. Louis and they have four of the +dearest children. The oldest, a boy, is eighteen and the +youngest, a girl, is eleven. Quite an ideal family, isn’t +it? Mary’s husband is quite well-to-do, but they live +so comfortably and simply, no airs at all. Mary doesn’t +care a great deal for society, just wrapped up in her husband +and children, but she goes with such nice people.</p> + +<p>“I’ve just come from my second son, Fred. And there—perhaps +you’d never guess it, people have flattered me +so long about looking youthful that I believe them—but +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_41">[Pg 41]</span>I’ve two great-grandchildren, the older three years old, +the younger just a year, the dearest things. Nell, the +children’s mother and her husband and the children +are all living right at home. Fred and his wife won’t +hear of them going away. They were housekeeping +for a while, but the family didn’t like it—they are all +so devoted to the children. There are two other girls +in the family besides Nell and they have a great big +old-fashioned home, set way back in a broad lawn, lots +of trees and flowers. Yes, it’s Fred’s own home. It’s +a good thing he bought such a big one, years ago, he +needs it with so many young people. They do have such +good times together—and, of course, it’s young people +who keep us all young, these days.”</p> + +<p>Then, from her bag, Grandma drew a bundle of photographs. +The photographers, from the maker of the +shiny products of Lexington to the creator of the soft +sepias of Fifth Avenue, had, with their usual skill at disguise, +smoothed away the lines of discontent on Mary’s +face, the bold impudence of her children, had added a +little kindness and humanness to Florence and Albert, +had made Fred’s family look placid, undisturbed and +prosperous. The pictures showed Grandma’s family to +be all she had said of them, even to the dimpled little +Ruthie, taken just a few weeks before, on a post-card by +a neighbourhood photographer.</p> + +<p>It didn’t sound like bragging, as Grandma told things. +It was just the simple, contented story of an old lady of +seventy-three, who spent her days satisfied and serene, +travelling from one loving and beloved set of relatives +to another.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_42">[Pg 42]</span></p> + +<p>When tea was finished, Grandma allowed the other +woman to return to her seat with a gentle nod and a +“thank you for keeping an old woman company.” Then +Grandma knitted and looked at the passengers again. +Always, whenever she travelled, out of the set that +presented itself, Grandma was able to find those she +needed.</p> + +<p>A tiny, plump little woman with a too-fat baby was +seated just a seat or so back of Grandma, on the left. +It was to her that Grandma went, now.</p> + +<p>“May I hold the baby?” she asked. “I know how +tired you must get, holding him all day, on a day like this. +I’ve two great-grandchildren. Your baby is just about +in between them, in age, I think. Sometimes, I hold +them for just a little while and I know how heavy babies +can be.”</p> + +<p>Deftly, Grandma took the child in her arms and settled +him comfortably.</p> + +<p>“When dinner is announced,” said Grandma, “you go +in and eat. I’ll take care of the baby. It will be a rest +for you—it is so difficult travelling with a baby—you’ll +enjoy your dinner more, alone. Sometimes, when we go +on picnics with my great-grandchildren....”</p> + +<p>Grandma told about the babies, about their mother, +about her own grown-up children, whom she visited. +She even told little things about their childhood, as +mothers tell to mothers, but, always, she came back to +the present, telling of her visits, encased in the rose colour +of her journey. Not that Grandma told deliberate falsehoods. +She didn’t claim servants or wealth for Fred nor +jollity for Albert. But each fact she brought forth was +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_43">[Pg 43]</span>broidered with the romance that travel brought to +Grandma—the stories all showed Grandma welcome, beloved, +happy, made her children kind, considerate, affectionate, +successful, capable. Grandma helped her listeners, +too, for she spread some of this haze over them. +You can’t envy, you must enter into the pleasure of it, +when an old lady of seventy-three shows you the treasures +that a lifetime has handed to her.</p> + +<p>Grandma smiled as she sat with the little mother and +her baby. And she smiled as she held the heavy, squirming +bundle, while the mother ate dinner.</p> + +<p>“It’s a real pleasure to help you even a little,” said +Grandma, as the woman came back from the dining car +to claim her baby and thank Grandma.</p> + +<p>Grandma washed her face carefully before she went +in to her own dinner. She took a clean handkerchief +from her bag, dainty, lavender-bordered, the present that +Edna, Fred’s second daughter, had given her last Christmas. +On it she sprinkled a bit of perfume, a gift from +Alice, two years before. She smoothed her hair, brushed +the dust from her waist. A new adventure always +awaited her in the dining car.</p> + +<p>She walked with stiff little steps the length of the three +cars, holding tight to the seats as she passed. And, +through the cars, she smiled at the children and to grown-ups, +smiles a bit patronizing, perhaps, as smiles should be +from such a distinguished, contented old lady.</p> + +<p>In the diner, Grandma was seated across from a stout, +middle-aged man, who was eating an enormous meal. +She smiled at him. He couldn’t misjudge her—one +doesn’t flirt that way at seventy-three.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_44">[Pg 44]</span></p> + +<p>“It’s a wonderful day for travelling, isn’t it?” she said. +“Last time I travelled, four months ago...”</p> + +<p>Grandma was telling of her children, of her journeys.</p> + +<p>Grandma ordered carefully—a steak, you are really +safe about steaks when you travel, a fresh vegetable, a +green salad, a bit of pastry, black coffee. Grandma +ordered as if the ordering of a dinner were a usual but +precious rite. She felt correct, prosperous, a woman of +the world. The man across the table, pleased with his +meal and moved a bit by Grandma’s story of her happy +and fortunate life, her devoted children, saw in Grandma +the things that made this devotion. He even grew a bit +gallant.</p> + +<p>“I can see why your children are so good to you, +ma’am. It makes me wish I had a grandma or mother +like you myself.” This during mouthfuls.</p> + +<p>Grandma was equal to it.</p> + +<p>“Why me, I’m just what my children have made me. +Just think of you, making such lovely speeches to an old +lady. You’re deserving of the best mother a man ever +had, I’m sure.”</p> + +<p>There were more pretty speeches. The man became +almost flowery. Grandma actually blushed, before she +paid her check, adding her usual generous tip—the +stranger had offered to pay but Grandma wouldn’t have +that, of course. Then, as Grandma arose, the man opposite +rose, too, and courteously escorted her through the +cars and to her seat, stopping for a moment to talk.</p> + +<p>Grandma couldn’t knit at night. The motion of the +car and the electric lights were not a good combination +for her old eyes. She put her knitting into her bag +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_45">[Pg 45]</span>and extracted a deck of cards, flamboyant, with green +and gold gift-looking backs. She chose now two young +women and a good-looking young man in his early thirties. +She approached them all with the same question.</p> + +<p>“Wouldn’t you like a game of bridge? It seems so +lonely, an evening alone, in a sleeper—”</p> + +<p>Strangely, all three did play bridge and would like +a game. The porter brought a little table, again, and +they played, rather indifferently, to be sure—Grandma +was no expert and one of the young women played even +a poorer game than she did—but several hours passed +pleasantly. Then, after they stopped playing, Grandma +brought the fruit from her bag. Grandma told them +about Fred bringing the fruit to her, and, as they ate, +she told, too, of her visits, of her children, her grandchildren, +and the two little great-grand ones. The three +card-players really seemed interested, so of course the +photographs were brought out for a round of approval.</p> + +<p>After the guests had gone to their seats, Grandma had +her berth made up. She was rather particular about +this—she wanted it made with her feet to the engine. +Grandma thought this knowing about head and foot gave +her a travelled air. Besides, she really didn’t like to feel +that she was travelling backwards.</p> + +<p>In the dressing-room she put on her violet silk dressing +gown, a gift from Florence three years before, which she +kept carefully for travelling, and a frivolous little cap of +cream lace, to keep the dust out of her hair while she +slept. She spread her ivory travelling articles in their +leather case—five years old on her last birthday—before +her, and, as she prepared for sleep, talked pleasantly with +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_46">[Pg 46]</span>the woman who happened to come into the dressing-room +while she was there.</p> + +<p>Grandma slept fairly well for travelling, waking up frequently +to pull up the shade and look out on the hurrying +landscape, the occasional lights, the little towns. She +thought it was mighty pleasant travelling.</p> + +<p>She was up at seven and dressed swiftly. A new +woman had got on during the night and now occupied the +seat opposite Grandma, a well-gowned woman in her late +thirties, with a smart, city-like air.</p> + +<p>Grandma nodded a pleasant good morning.</p> + +<p>“We seem to be making good time,” she said.</p> + +<p>“Yes, indeed,” the woman smiled, “pleasant day for +travelling.”</p> + +<p>With the air of one born traveller to another, Grandma +talked a bit, then motioned the woman to sit beside her. +The pleasant conversation gave Grandma a warm feeling +of well-being. She suggested breakfast and the two of +them went in together, the younger woman steadying +Grandma just a bit when the train swayed around a +curve.</p> + +<p>It was a pleasant breakfast. Grandma ordered three-minute +eggs. They were the way she liked eggs best, +but she seldom had them. At Albert’s it seemed so +self-assertive to ask for things like that, special directions +and everything—and at Fred’s and Mary’s!</p> + +<p>Grandma and her new friend talked about New York, +about plays they had both seen the year before. They +discussed food and the cost of living, servants, the usual +things that two hardly acquainted women talk of, when +circumstance throws them together. There was nothing +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_47">[Pg 47]</span>condescending in the new acquaintance’s attitude. Why +should there have been? Grandma was neither an unnecessary +member of a cool, indifferent household nor an +overworked old woman—she was the ideal Grandma, +cultured, clever, kindly. It was no wonder, then, that, +after breakfast, the two of them should loiter in Grandma’s +seat and Grandma should show a few family photographs +and dwell, pleasantly, on how fortunate she was +in having such splendid sons, such a lovely daughter and +such wonders of grandchildren, to say nothing of the two +babies.</p> + +<p>Then the woman suggested that she and Grandma go +to the observation car, and, before long, Grandma was +seated in a big chair, knitting again, and glancing at the +flying scenery.</p> + +<p>All the morning Grandma’s former acquaintances came +to talk to her. The thin woman with the sad face offered +her some candy. Grandma had a little chat with +the plump mother and the baby and held the baby again +while his mother ate luncheon. The stout man, reading +a magazine, dropped it long enough to come over and +ask Grandma how she was feeling and if there was anything +he could do for her. Grandma’s bridge companions, +now well acquainted, with the sudden friendship that +travel brings, gathered around Grandma for a chat, +laughing at everything. Several others, coming into the +car, stopped for a word with Grandma.</p> + +<p>Grandma and her latest acquaintance had luncheon together, +too. Then, after luncheon, Grandma prepared, +a whole hour ahead, as she always did, for the end of +her journey. She washed off as much of the soot as she +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_48">[Pg 48]</span>could. She took off the little lace cap and replaced it +with her decent old bonnet, which had been resting in its +bag all this time. She slipped on her black travelling coat +over her grey crêpe dress. She took out a clean handkerchief, +sprinkling a bit of perfume on it. Before closing +her bag, Grandma took out the cheap candy that +Homer had brought to the station and gave it, with a +gracious smile, to the woman with the baby. It was +good to be able to give something—and, besides, what +could she do with the candy at Albert’s? She didn’t care +for candy and even the servants would have laughed at +it.</p> + +<p>Grandma closed her bag then and sat waiting. Her +chance acquaintances passed, nodded, smiled and talked. +Grandma was a real person of importance, a dear, happy +old lady, with a devoted family, spending her life contentedly +divided among them. Didn’t all these people +know about Grandma? Hadn’t they heard of her children +and her grandchildren and her great-grandchildren? +Hadn’t they seen their photographs, even? Didn’t they +know that, after four pleasant months with Fred and +his happy, jovial family, she was on her way to visit +Albert, rich and prominent and kind?</p> + + +<h3>V</h3> + +<p>The train drew into the Grand Central Station. +Grandma, trembling a little—for the excitement of travelling +is apt to make one tremble at seventy-three—allowed +the porter to brush her coat, bade farewell to her +train acquaintances, followed her bag down the aisle and +into the station.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_49">[Pg 49]</span></p> + +<p>A man in a chauffeur’s uniform took Grandma’s bag +and addressing Grandma politely, gravely, told her that +Mr. and Mrs. Cunningham were sorry, but engagements +prevented them from meeting her. They would see her +at dinner at seven.</p> + +<p>Grandma, with short, unsteady little steps, went out to +the waiting car. There was something very near a tear in +her eye. After all, travelling has its difficulties when one +is seventy-three. The shell of radiance, of smiling independence, +of being cared for, important, loved, fell +away. Grandma was just a little, tired, lonely old lady +again. Another of Grandma’s romantic journeys was +over.</p> + + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> +<div class="chapter"> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_50">[Pg 50]</span></p> + + + <h2 class="nobreak" id="MAMIE_CARPENTER"> + MAMIE CARPENTER + </h2> +</div> + + +<h3>I</h3> + +<p class="drop-cap"><span class="upper-case">Millersville, Missouri,</span> was the usual +small town. It boasted, according to the Millersville +<cite>Eagle</cite> and the annual leaflet of the +Chamber of Commerce, a population of twenty thousand +souls. There were, perhaps, ten thousand actual human +beings in Millersville, including the farmers within a radius +of five miles, the few Italians and Slavs down near +the railroad tracks, and the negroes.</p> + +<p>Millersville’s main street extended nearly the full +length of the town, footed by the Sulpulpa River and the +Union Depot, and headed by the Brick Church. On +Hill Street were the Grand Hotel—five stories high; +the Bon Marché and the New York Store, whose buyers +went to New York—or anyhow Chicago—twice each +year; the Busy Bee, candy fresh every day, always two +kinds of ice cream, with marble topped tables in the back +half of it for sodas and ice creams; an assortment of +drug stores and cigar stores; garages, still carrying the +outward semblance of the stables from which they had +sprung; “gents’ furnishings,” with clerks who copied, in +their fashion, the styles in the men’s clothing advertisements, +always standing near the doors where they could +most easily ogle the feminine passerby; groceries displaying +the season’s best potatoes and onions, with sawdust +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_51">[Pg 51]</span>floors and clerks in white aprons and pencils behind +their ears; and two furniture stores with windows brimming +with golden oak rockers.</p> + +<p>On either side of Hill Street, the streets stretched +out in a regular checkerboard, the first blocks of them +devoted to the lesser business establishments that had +overflowed Hill Street, and the remaining blocks given +over to residences. The majority of these streets, a few +blocks out, were full of neat houses—old houses with mansard +roofs and cupolas; new houses in atrocious, too-low +bungalow effects, with awful, protruding roofs; simple +white cottages, each with its green lawn and over half +with a red swing in front and a small, one-car garage in +back. Then came a turning into tumbledown negro +quarters or the homes of the neighbourhood “white trash.”</p> + +<p>There was a difference in streets, too. Up near the +Brick Church the streets were respectable for all their +length, the houses were bigger, and the lawns were better +cared for. Maple Street, the last to enter Hill, was the +best of all, turning into Maple Road, later on, when it +became even more select until, when it reached Burton +Addition—the old Burton farm—it burst forth into a +spasm of country homes, a dozen of them, with pretentiously +landscaped “grounds.”</p> + +<p>Each house showed an attempt at grandeur in architecture. +Some aped Southern Colonial, with white clapboards +or brick; others aimed at English styles, with +stucco or half-timber. Each house, too, had a peculiar, +inappropriate and ineffectual name: “The Elms,” “The +Lonesome Pine,” “Pleasure,” “Crestwood,” “Hilltop.” +Miss Drewsy, of the Millersville <cite>Eagle</cite>, whose rich +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_52">[Pg 52]</span>cousins, the Horns, lived in Maple Street, which gave +her social standing, mentioned the names of these houses +in her society column, whenever possible.</p> + +<p>On the other side of town, toward Union Station and +the river, the streets became gradually less pleasing and +less important, until, when one reached Gillen Row, the +neat houses had given way to grey ramshackle affairs, a +bit tipsy as to roof or wall or chimney, with a porch +awry, a baluster missing and an occasional broken window +patched with papers or rags. These houses were +surrounded by grey lawns tufted with weeds, and around +them were unpainted picket fences with half the pickets +missing.</p> + +<p>Mamie Carpenter lived in Gillen Row, in the least +pleasing block of it. Her home was a one-story cottage +which had, in its adolescence, showed the spruce +yellow and white of a poached egg, but in its senility +one could barely see the remains of this glory. The +porch which ran across the front sagged. One of the +posts was missing. The bottom of the three steps leading +up to the porch was loose, the wood breaking into +long brown slivers under one’s foot. One went directly +from the unevenly floored porch, which held two once-green +rockers and a bench of slatted wood, into the living +room, papered in what had formerly been gold and green +but was now a more fortunate, though dirty, tan.</p> + +<p>The living room held a figured red rug, a table and +half a dozen unmatched chairs, mostly rockers, of uncertain +wood and construction. Back of this was the +dining-room, with a table and four chairs and a huge, +golden oak, mirrored sideboard. Next came a narrow +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_53">[Pg 53]</span>hallway, leading on one side to a dark green kitchen, +and on the other to the small and incomplete bath. +Beyond were the two bedrooms, one occupied by Mr. +and Mrs. Carpenter, who slept in a large bed of yellow +wood, with high head and foot board, new when they +were married, twenty-two years before, and the other, +with its iron and brass bed and rickety dresser of imitation +mahogany, occupied by their daughter Mamie.</p> + + +<h3>II</h3> + +<p>Mamie Carpenter was twenty-one. She could have +passed for eighteen; she knew it and, when meeting new +acquaintances, she often did. She was small and had +blonde hair, not white and faded-looking, but real blonde, +which needed only an occasional touching up with peroxide +to be a lovely, gleaming mass of gold. Her hair +was not especially thick nor long, but it waved naturally +and Mamie had acquired the knack of doing it high +on her head so that it looked pleasantly mussed and +fresh.</p> + +<p>Her nose was short and well chiselled. Her eyes were +round and blue and she pencilled them just a little, which +gave the necessary accent. Her mouth was perhaps a +bit too full, but her complexion was creamy and her +cheeks pleasantly pink and plump. She had learned +that if you can’t afford many things, it’s better to stick +to plain things—if your figure is good enough. Mamie’s +figure was trim and softly curved, with a roundness that +hinted of fat at thirty.</p> + +<p>Mamie clerked at the Busy Bee candy store. She +had left school in her second year of High School when, +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_54">[Pg 54]</span>after a series of small accidents at the yards, her father, +a “railroad man,” found himself more frequently out +of work than usual.</p> + +<p>She had become tired of school, anyhow, but had +kept on going until then, partly out of habit and partly +because she felt superior to her parents and her neighbours +and wanted the further superiority of a higher +education. Her mother could do nothing but housework, +and that but poorly, and would not consider the indignity +of doing menial labour for others, so Mamie, not knowing +where to turn at first, and being untrained, went +into the overall factory, one of Millersville’s few industries. +She found the work monotonous and disagreeable. +A doctor’s reception room and a cashier’s cage +next claimed her in turn. Both bored her.</p> + +<p>Then she heard that the Busy Bee was enlarging the +store and wanted pretty saleswomen. Mamie knew she +was pretty. She applied for and got the job and had +been there ever since. Mamie daily disproved the theories +that, if you give a girl enough candy to eat she +soon tires of it, that candy-shop girls do not care for +sweets, and that sugar ruins the complexion. She nibbled +at chocolates at intervals all day long, and, except +that perhaps her cheeks were a bit pinker, her hair a +trifle more blonde, she remained just the same.</p> + +<p>To the mere buyer of candy, Mamie was one of the +pretty, polite little girls in big white aprons who waited +on you at the Busy Bee. To her acquaintances and the +dwellers in Gillen Row she was old Joe Carpenter’s girl, +a reproach in itself—rather a wild piece. To Millersville, +socially, she was, of course, nothing at all. She did not +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_55">[Pg 55]</span>exist to Millersville’s smartest circle except as a purveyor +of sweets. She was below even the least important +members of the church societies, who occasionally got into +the end paragraphs in Miss Drewsy’s society column.</p> + +<p>Mamie knew how Millersville felt about her, and her +liking for Millersville was shaped accordingly. She especially +disliked the “society girls,” the ones who lived +in Maple Road, because they had good times and did the +sort of things she would like to have done. They could +flirt and not get talked about. The girls in the Busy +Bee looked up to them, whispered about them when they +came in.</p> + +<p>The rest of Millersville Mamie didn’t mind, but she +despised those girls with a keen, sharp, unbelievable hate. +She was better looking than any of them. She knew that. +Society? Good blood? Family? What did they mean, +in Millersville?</p> + +<p>Mamie scorned Millersville’s social pretensions. She +knew that in some cities, London and New York, maybe, +there was society, real people with generations of good +blood back of them, and money and breeding. People +like that Mamie could look up to. But she knew Millersville. +In Millersville, what did society amount to? A +joke; that’s what it was. No one really came to anything, +did anything.</p> + +<p>The Elwood Simpsons, the leaders of Millersville society—look +at them! There was a little grave in Oakdale +Cemetery that Mamie knew all about—and it was +closely connected with the girlhood of Mrs. Elwood Simpson—and +there were other babies who did not die but who +arrived at equally inopportune times. The Coakleys were +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_56">[Pg 56]</span>one of Millersville’s oldest and best families—and Frank +Coakley’s half-brother spent most of his time in jail, and +his other half-brother, Bill, was half-witted, went around +with his tongue hanging out and saying silly things. The +Binghams—ugh—they had to get their servants out of +town, and sometimes at the last minute had to break engagements +because some one in their third floor would cry +and scream—their oldest daughter, some said it was.</p> + +<p>Mamie knew other things about Millersville society. +The rich Ruckers made their money getting land away +from ignorant farmers. The Bilcamps made theirs selling +fake oil stocks in Oklahoma. There was some sort +of a misrun bank in the Grantly family. It wouldn’t do to +look too closely into the histories of any of them. Yet +they were “society” and had a Country Club—and lots +of good times.</p> + +<p>Mamie knew she was as good as any of them—better +than most. Her family had moved to Millersville from +Lexington when she was thirteen. Her father had got +into some sort of a scrape over a woman—or a girl—she +had never known much about it, but anyhow, it was +enough to make them move. Of course the news of it +had seeped to Millersville, made the Carpenters a bit +more outcast than they would have been, though they +wouldn’t have been anything, in any case, without money +or connections.</p> + +<p>Coming to Millersville hadn’t made any difference to +Mamie. The new house was just as unpleasant as the +old. She had had just as good a time playing with the +boys of the neighbourhood, catching on wagons for rides, +in Millersville as in Lexington. She had liked Millersville +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_57">[Pg 57]</span>all right. She had gone to school rather unevenly, +staying at home for frequent imaginary ills. But a sense +of herself had kept her in school beyond the age of most +of her friends.</p> + +<p>It was in High School that she had first felt the social +barriers of Millersville—and she had sneered at them even +as they hurt her. The teachers had all been partial to +the two stupid Redding girls, pale-haired, fat and awkward, +because Samuel Redding was president of the school +board. Their essays had been praised and read aloud in +the class. Mamie had known that hers were quite as good +and that she was just as clever—and much prettier. But +nobody had ever praised or noticed her.</p> + +<p>On Friday nights there had been parties, which “the +crowd” attended. During the week, eating her lunches +in the school lunch-room, echoes of the glories of the parties +had reached her—how Marion Smith had let Harold +Frederickson put his arm around her, how much salad +Louis Bingham had eaten. There had been clubs at +school, intimate things with secrets and pins and bows of +coloured ribbon; there had been cryptic jokes handed +from one member of the selected set to another, to be +referred to, giggled over. But Mamie had been out of it +all.</p> + +<p>There had been other sets, less desirable, the church +societies, smaller, less exclusive organizations. Mamie +had not been welcomed to these, either, though by a great +effort the daughter of old Joe Carpenter might have attained +the least of them. She had not wanted to belong. +She had not wanted to go with the “society set” of her +age, either. It had been more than that. She had +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_58">[Pg 58]</span>wanted them to want <em>her</em>. But her father, a ne’er-do-well, +had been run out of Lexington, her mother was a +slovenly woman with wispy hair, and her home was a +grey shamble in Gillen Row.</p> + +<p>So Mamie, as she grew up, did not improve her social +position. She remained old Joe Carpenter’s girl, from +Gillen Row.</p> + + +<h3>III</h3> + +<p>But, if society did not recognize Mamie, the masculine +element of it did, in a hidden, stealthy way.</p> + +<p>Even when she had gone to High School the most desirable +boys had offered her—secretly—invitations, moonlight +drives—the best people of Millersville did not allow +their daughters to drive after sundown with masculine +escorts—and other forbidden pleasures. When she +was younger Mamie accepted these invitations, but when +she grew older and came to the Busy Bee to work, she +learned how unpleasant they could be. Gradually, the +men had ceased bothering about her. After all, she was +only old Carpenter’s daughter and not a good sport—no +pep to her.</p> + +<p>In the Busy Bee, too, had come invitations from the +commercial travellers who hung around the Grand Hotel. +Mamie accepted them for a while. She wanted a good +time. She flirted and laughed, went for walks and +drives. But finally she stopped going with the travelling +men—refused their invitations altogether. She didn’t +know why—just no fun any more, nothing to it.</p> + +<p>Not that these refusals helped her reputation in Millersville. +A girl as pretty as Mamie and coming from such +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_59">[Pg 59]</span>a neighbourhood as Gillen Row and with Joe Carpenter as +a father had no reputation to lose.</p> + +<p>But when she quit “running around” it left her pretty +much alone. She even refused the invitations of the +girls who worked with her at the Busy Bee. Their homes +were neater than hers. She couldn’t return their invitations. +Anyhow, she didn’t care anything about them. +Their beaux, decent clerks, annoyed her. Occasionally, +lately, she had allowed Will Remmers, of the New York +Store, to take her to some of Millersville’s infrequent +theatrical performances. She didn’t care for Will Remmers, +a stupid fellow who thought he was doing her a favour, +but, at least, he was decent—some one to go with. +She didn’t care for any one especially. She had learned +a lot about men, being pretty and meeting them since she +was sixteen.</p> + +<p>Mamie had tried to think of some way to get out of +Millersville, but she never went far enough to plan anything +definitely. The home in Gillen Row took all of +her money; she could barely keep out enough to dress decently. +She saw no future by the route of the drummers +of the Grand Hotel. She had no profession or +training. Really, she didn’t dislike being in Millersville. +If she could have been one of the society set she felt she +would have liked it very well indeed. It was just her position +that annoyed her—having nothing, no pretty things, +being nothing—when girls like the Reddings had so much.</p> + +<p>The Reddings especially annoyed Mamie.</p> + +<p>There were two Redding girls: Sophie, the older, +rather fat and white with colourless hair, and Esther, a +bit more presentable, but a trifle more stupid, if anything. +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_60">[Pg 60]</span>The Redding girls giggled, holding their heads on +one side. They tossed their light curls. They snuggled +up to their young men. They were always coming into +the Busy Bee, the head of a little group, laughing and +chatting, selecting tables with great care, ordering elaborate +sundaes or sodas. They always had new little tricks, +new clothes. If they recognized Mamie as one of their +old schoolmates, they gave no sign. They had each had +a year at the Craig School, a second-rate boarding school +that New York maintained for rich Westerners, and liked +to forget that they had ever attended any other institution.</p> + +<p>When Marlin Embury came into the Busy Bee to make +a purchase, Mamie might have paid no attention to him +at all if Rose Martin hadn’t nudged her.</p> + +<p>“That’s William E. Embury’s son,” she said. “He’s +back in town. Do you know him? I read in the <cite>Eagle</cite> +he’s gone in with his father in business. He goes with +Sophie Redding. They say he is going to marry her, +though they haven’t announced the engagement.”</p> + +<p>Mamie looked at Embury and liked him. That nice-looking +fellow—for Sophie Redding! Not nearly as +handsome as the man who had played in the stock company +in Millersville the month before, but not bad-looking—didn’t +compare with Wallace Reid or John Barrymore, +but then they were only on the screen—pictures as far as +she was concerned, and married—she’d read that in a +magazine—and Embury was right here.</p> + +<p>She knew who Embury was, had seen him, years ago, +before he went away to college, had sort of kept track +of him through the papers. She had read, several months +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_61">[Pg 61]</span>before, that he was back in Millersville, after two years +as manager of some of his father’s oil wells in Oklahoma.</p> + +<p>And now he was going with Sophie Redding! Good-looking +and rich—the only son of rich parents—and +Sophie Redding would get him! He had a good face, +was young, couldn’t be more than twenty-four. That +young kind is easy—falls for anything. Mamie knew +that. He had gone to a boys’ preparatory school, then +to a college that was not co-educational, then two years +in a little town. Why he didn’t know anything about +girls. He’d be easy even for Sophie Redding to capture—Sophie, +with her home, “Crestwood,” out in Maple +Road, her father, grey-haired and pompous, and her +mother, fat and smiling—always giving parties—good +times.</p> + +<p>No wonder Sophie could get him, even if she was fat +and white and silly! Sophie had everything. What +chance had she against Sophie?</p> + +<p>Until then it hadn’t occurred to Mamie that she was +entitled to a chance—that there was even the possibility +of her and Sophie having aims in the same direction. +And yet—</p> + +<p>She looked at Embury.</p> + +<p>He had bought a huge box of candy. It was being +wrapped up for him. He was a nice boy with sleek +black hair, not especially tall, but then she herself was +small and didn’t like tall men. He had nice shoulders, +a slim figure, a good head, just a boy. Fat Sophie Redding, +with her pale eyes and giggles—why, she <em>knew</em> +she was prettier—smarter than Sophie! And yet—Sophie—!</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_62">[Pg 62]</span></p> + +<p>Why not do something about it? <em>Do</em> something? Get +Embury? Why not? Wasn’t his father about the richest +man in Millersville? Wasn’t he the most eligible man +in town, now that Bliss Bingham had gone to Chicago and +Harold Richardson was married?</p> + +<p>There were other men, of course, but either they were +old bachelors who knew too much about her, old and snobbish, +or poor or too young. Embury had already made +good in Oklahoma. Now his father had taken him into +business, wouldn’t disinherit him—if he married her. +Wasn’t it rumoured that Mrs. Embury—stately and dignified +enough now—had before her marriage “worked +out”? She wouldn’t dare object too strenuously to Joe +Carpenter’s daughter as her daughter-in-law.</p> + +<p>After all, Mamie had always wondered if she could do +something clever if she had a chance. Here was her +chance—she’d never have a better one, she knew that. +After all, no one would help her—all she had was herself. +Maybe, if she tried hard enough....</p> + +<p>Embury took his package and went out of the store. +He had not noticed Mamie Carpenter.</p> + + +<h3>IV</h3> + +<p>Embury was glad to get home again. He thought Millersville +a jolly place to live in after Sorgo, Oklahoma, +with its constant smell and feel of oil. He enjoyed his +old room again and the new car and being with the +crowd.</p> + +<p>He was not an especially brilliant fellow, nor a rapid +thinker, nor much of a reader. He liked a good time, +in a quiet way. He wore good clothes and liked to be +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_63">[Pg 63]</span>with others who did. He thought girls were awfully +jolly, but hard to get acquainted with. He found the +girls in Millersville unusually pleasant. But, of course, +that was as it should be; they were home-town girls.</p> + +<p>Sophie Redding—she was jolly and cute and had a +way of making him feel awfully at home. It was pleasant +at the Reddings, sitting out on the big porch and drinking +lemonade, with Sophie ready to laugh at his jokes and +some of the others of the crowd likely to drop in at any +time. Yes, Sophie was a pretty fine girl. His folks +liked her, too, always awfully glad when he called on her, +kept telling him what a fine girl she was and how much +they liked the family. Now, if he showed her a good +time all summer and autumn, did all he could for her, +maybe Sophie would care for him.</p> + +<p>Embury was driving down Hill Street four or five +days later when a pretty girl nodded to him, just a formal, +pleasant little nod.</p> + +<p>Embury couldn’t place her, exactly, but he spoke, of +course. He even took his eyes off the road ahead long +enough to glance back at her. She was pretty, and he +liked little girls who wore plain blue dresses in summer. +Some one, probably, he’d met out at the Country Club +and didn’t remember. Still, she seemed prettier than +most of the girls he had met there. Maybe some one +he used to know. He tried to conjure up a childhood acquaintance +who might have blossomed into this little +blonde girl, but he couldn’t. Anyhow, she was pretty.</p> + +<p>Two weeks later, walking up Elm Street after leaving +the office—he frequently walked home and always went +that way when he did—the same little figure overtook +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_64">[Pg 64]</span>him, passed ahead. His heart palpitated quite pleasantly. +But this time the nod was even cooler, more +formal. He returned it as cordially as he could. That +night there was a dance at the club and Embury watched +each new arrival, but there was no pretty little blonde +with big eyes and radiant hair. Sophie found him preoccupied +and told him so. He tried his best to be more +courteous to her. After all, why worry about a strange +girl? You couldn’t tell who she might turn out to be.</p> + +<p>He saw her again, a week later, when he was driving. +Again he received a cool little nod. He’d ask some of +the boys about her—she might be good fun—evidently +wasn’t one of the crowd. Millersville was a slow place, +not much to do, a little affair on the side—by another year +he might be married and settled down—might as well have +a good time while he could.</p> + +<p>He didn’t have to ask any of the boys, for the very +next day, on Elm Street, the little figure in blue held out +her hand as he overtook her.</p> + +<p>“I don’t believe you know me,” she laughed prettily, +shyly. “You’ve looked—so amazed, when I’ve spoken. +Don’t tell me your years out of town have made you forget +old acquaintances altogether. I’m Mamie Carpenter.”</p> + +<p>“Why, of course, Miss Carpenter, I’m delighted,” he +stammered.</p> + +<p>“Oh, I’m so ashamed,” she said, then hurriedly, with +embarrassed little pauses between the words: “Here, I’ve +stopped you to tell you how—how glad Millersville is to +have you back—and—I’m afraid you don’t remember me, +after all. I don’t blame you—I was such a little girl +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_65">[Pg 65]</span>when you left—and I’m not—important. But I remember +when I went to Grant School, and you were in High, +I used to stop every day and watch you practise football. +You wore a red sweater, I remember. You—you were +one of my youthful heroes, you see.”</p> + +<p>He thought, then, that he did remember her, and said +so. Little girls change—he knew that. It was pleasant +for him to think that, after all these years, she remembered +him. He had worn a red sweater—still, wasn’t +the school colour red; hadn’t all the other boys worn +them, too? Well, anyhow, he had played football. No +one else had said anything about those days. How +pretty she was—a wonderful complexion! Why, in comparison, +it made Sophie’s seem almost pasty. Of course, +Sophie was a Redding—that was different—a serious +thing, a bully girl, too. Mamie—he liked the name—it +was like her, simple, plain, pretty. She might be great +fun. To think of her remembering him all these years! +What a plain little dress she wore! Poor people, evidently. +Oh, well—</p> + +<p>Two weeks later, in Elm Street—it was a quiet street, +tree-lined—he met Mamie again. She was walking ahead +of him, as he turned up from Hill. He caught up with +her.</p> + +<p>“You live near here?” he asked.</p> + +<p>She told him, very seriously, that she lived in Gillen +Row and that her parents were awfully poor.</p> + +<p>“I—I work, you know—in the Busy Bee, the candy +store. It makes things a little easier for mother—and +my father. I stopped school before my junior year—to—to +help them. Of course I’ve kept up with reading—but—I +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_66">[Pg 66]</span>didn’t mind stopping—my father had an accident +and they needed me. It isn’t bad—it’s rather pleasant +at the Busy Bee—interesting to watch people.”</p> + +<p>“I’m sure you’re the sweetest thing there,” said Embury, +and was surprised at his own boldness and a bit +ashamed when he saw how Mamie blushed and dropped +her eyes. What a dear little thing she was, leaving +school to help her folks and not even complaining about +it—and not ashamed, either, didn’t try to conceal it. It +never occurred to him that he probably would have seen +her in the Busy Bee any day and so discovered her position +for himself.</p> + +<p>“You always walk home in Elm Street?” he asked, +to cover her confusion—she was still blushing.</p> + +<p>“Yes, it’s so quiet and peaceful, the trees and all.”</p> + +<p>“That’s funny. That’s why <em>I</em> go this way, when I +don’t take the car to the office.”</p> + +<p>“You do?” Mamie showed great surprise. “Isn’t it +funny, our tastes in streets?”</p> + +<p>Perhaps even more remarkable, if she had mentioned +it, would have been the fact that Mamie had never honoured +Elm Street with her presence until—investigating +by little scurries after leaving the shop in the evening—she +had found that Embury usually chose it when walking +home.</p> + + +<h3>V</h3> + +<p>Two days later, Embury walked up Elm Street with +Mamie again. He had looked for her the day before, +and had been disappointed when he did not see her. +Hadn’t she said she walked there every day?</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_67">[Pg 67]</span></p> + +<p>“I didn’t see you yesterday,” he said with a smile, as +he joined her.</p> + +<p>Mamie explained—not the real fact, that she had taken +her old route home so as not to appear too eager for his +acquaintance—but that she had gone a shorter way so +that she could hurry home to cook dinner—her mother +wasn’t well.</p> + +<p>“Poor little girl,” thought Embury, “working all day +and then cooking dinner at night, too.”</p> + +<p>“I missed you,” he said.</p> + +<p>Mamie blushed again. She was rather good at it. +Many people are.</p> + +<p>“Are you going to stay here in Millersville?” Mamie +asked.</p> + +<p>No use getting excited, working hard over him, if he +wasn’t. Embury was the first real opportunity she had +had—if she could only get him before the others poisoned +his mind against her or before the Reddings made his escape +impossible—if he were going to leave Millersville, +there wouldn’t be any use bothering about him.</p> + +<p>Embury told her that he was to stay in town, and she +showed pleasure and blushed again. She asked him about +his work and his plans.</p> + +<p>To his surprise, Embury found himself telling her about +himself. Here was a girl, intelligent, interesting. The +other girls didn’t know anything about business. But, +of course, thrown on her own resources as she had been, +she’d learned to take a real interest in the business world.</p> + +<p>They walked together until a block before the street +down which Embury usually turned.</p> + +<p>“I go this way,” said Mamie.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_68">[Pg 68]</span></p> + +<p>She could have continued on Elm Street, but she +thought it best to be the first to break their walk together.</p> + +<p>“Wait a minute; don’t go away so quickly,” said Embury.</p> + +<p>He felt as if he were on a delightful adventure.</p> + +<p>Quietly, Mamie waited.</p> + +<p>“When am I going to see you again?” he asked.</p> + +<p>She started to say something, blushed then; “Why, I +don’t know—I mean, any evening, walking home this +way. I’m at the Busy Bee all day, you know.”</p> + +<p>“At night. Can’t I call? Can’t you go for a drive?”</p> + +<p>Mamie knew how her home would look to Embury, the +porch with its sagging floor, the living-room with its clutter +of ugly chairs, her parents quarrelling, more than +likely. She couldn’t receive him at home. It didn’t +seem fair—she had to fight against so many odds—and +Sophie Redding had the whole Redding home, with its +great porches, its big living rooms for entertaining. How +she hated Sophie Redding with her giggles, her light +stringy hair. Still, if she were smart enough—there +might be ways....</p> + +<p>“I’m afraid I can’t let you call at all,” she said, modestly. +“You see, I’m not one of the society girls. It—it +wouldn’t look right, I’m afraid. You know how—how +careful a girl has got to be.”</p> + +<p>What a dear little thing she was! Modest and shy +and good. Each second Embury felt himself more and +more a man of the world. This little thing, so fragile +and dainty—and awfully pretty. Of course she was right. +People would talk—and yet....</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_69">[Pg 69]</span></p> + +<p>He didn’t know that Millersville would not talk about +Mamie, no matter how many men called on her, that +they had talked when she was a little girl and dismissed +her, carelessly, as “Joe Carpenter’s daughter, a bad egg.” +Mamie knew. It didn’t make her feel any happier. +Still, this was no time to worry about it.</p> + +<p>“Couldn’t we go for a ride some evening?” he asked. +“No one would see us, honestly they wouldn’t.”</p> + +<p>“I really couldn’t. Really. You know how it is. I’d +love to—but—it wouldn’t be right. I can’t go.”</p> + +<p>She appeared to want to yield to him. She knew how +society in Millersville regarded girls who went automobiling +with young men, alone. Embury would find out, if +he didn’t know already, and his opinions would be +moulded by the others.</p> + +<p>“You’re the funniest girl I ever saw,” he smiled at her.</p> + +<p>She was just small enough so that he looked down into +her face when he stood close to her. Embury liked little +girls. He was glad Mamie was small.</p> + +<p>“Other girls would go with me, honestly they would.”</p> + +<p>“You’d better take them, then,” she pouted, prettily.</p> + +<p>“I don’t mean that. I don’t want to sound conceited. +Only I would like to take you, honestly I would. I know +a little road house, ‘Under Two Flags,’ where they make +awfully good things to eat, French cooking. We could +ride out there some night, if you’ll go.”</p> + +<p>Mamie knew the road house. She used to think it +great fun. She had slapped the faces of six commercial +travellers driving home from it and finally had given it +up as a dangerous place. It was, nevertheless, a fairly +decent resort, with only a slightly sporty reputation, but, +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_70">[Pg 70]</span>after all, the ride there and the supper weren’t worth +the trouble of keeping her escort in his place all the +way back. Why did men expect such big rewards for a +ride and a bite to eat?</p> + +<p>Mamie smiled wistfully.</p> + +<p>“I’m afraid not,” she said. “I wish you wouldn’t—tempt +me so. You see, I never go driving—I—I don’t +have many good times.”</p> + +<p>Embury’s conscience hurt him. She was such a dear. +Of course she shouldn’t go. He felt more wicked than +ever.</p> + +<p>“But look here,” he said, “can’t I see you at all?”</p> + +<p>Mamie was thoughtful.</p> + +<p>“I don’t know,” she said; then, “next Friday I have +a holiday—I work every second Sunday, the Busy Bee +is open on Sundays too.”</p> + +<p>Embury was supposed to be at the office every day but +he knew he was not indispensable.</p> + +<p>“Fine,” he told her, “that’s awfully good. Can we +go in my car and make a picnic of it?”</p> + +<p>Mamie thought that would be a lot of fun. They made +plans for the meeting. That was Wednesday. On +Thursday, Mamie avoided Elm Street.</p> + + +<h3>VI</h3> + +<p>Friday she was a few minutes late. She had appointed +the corner of Elm and East streets as the meeting place. +From a distance she saw Embury’s car waiting at the +curb near the corner. He sprang out when he saw her.</p> + +<p>“This is jolly,” he said.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_71">[Pg 71]</span></p> + +<p>She looked charming and she knew it. She had on +a thin little dress of white, flecked with little rosebuds. +It was plain and not new, but very fresh. A floppy leghorn +hat was tied under her chin with a pale pink and +yellow ribbon. She had trimmed the hat, herself, after +a picture she had seen in a copy of Vogue that some one +had left in the Busy Bee. She knew it suited her. The +night before she had had a quarrel with her father because +she had not “turned in” enough money. She had +purchased a tiny bottle of her favourite perfume, rather +an expensive brand.</p> + +<p>It was a perfect day, not too warm nor too sunny. +Mamie did not snuggle close, as she felt Sophie would +have done. She did not talk too much. But she took off +her hat and let the wind blow her hair back—she had +washed it the night before and it blew in soft waves. +She sat near enough for Embury to smell the perfume of +it.</p> + +<p>They drove to a small near-by town where Embury attended +to some business his father had asked him to +look after the week before. At noon he suggested eating +in the town’s one hotel. Mamie shuddered prettily, then +had an idea.</p> + +<p>“Can’t we have a picnic—a real out-of-doors picnic?” +she begged. “I’m shut away from the sunshine so much +of the time.”</p> + +<p>Embury thought the idea delightful. With much +laughter, they bought things at the little stores, bread +and pickles and olives, tinned meats and cakes and a +piece of ice in a bucket and lemons and sugar for lemonade. +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_72">[Pg 72]</span>They rode, then, until a bit of woods attracted +them. They soon had the improvised luncheon spread +out under a tree.</p> + +<p>Embury was surprised at his enjoyment. He watched +Mamie’s little white hands arranging the things to +eat. He tramped to a near-by farm for water and returned +with an extra pail containing fresh, cool milk. +It all seemed decidedly pure and rural to him. The food +tasted remarkably good and, when they had finished, he +leaned against a tree and smoked, smiled as he looked at +Mamie, still cool in the sprigged lawn.</p> + +<p>“Having a good time?” he asked.</p> + +<p>“Wonderful,” she told him, “this is the best time I’ve +ever had, I think. It’s different. You’re not like the +other men I’ve known. I can—talk with you, tell you +things. This seems sort of—of a magic day.”</p> + +<p>Embury thought so, too. He told her so. He told +her other things, about his business, his thoughts, what +he was going to do. Finally, he was telling her about +his two years in Oklahoma.</p> + +<p>“That was prison,” he said. “It was smoky and oily—you +could feel the oil, taste it in your food. It hung +over you, all day, like a cloud. Still, it was worth going +through—for this.”</p> + +<p>“You are—nice,” said Mamie, very softly.</p> + +<p>“Let’s keep this day for a secret,” she said. “Just the +two of us will know about it. Let’s keep all of our times +together as secrets—if we ever see each other again.”</p> + +<p>Embury agreed that secrets were very nice things to +have.</p> + +<p>They were silent for a while.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_73">[Pg 73]</span></p> + +<p>Finally, he got up, walked over to her. Mamie got +to her feet, too. He came close and put his hand on her +shoulder, started to put his arms around her.</p> + +<p>“You’re a dear little girl,” he said.</p> + +<p>Mamie lifted big eyes to him.</p> + +<p>“Please don’t,” she moved away, ever so slightly. +“Please let me keep to-day perfect—as a memory. We—may +never see each other again. I want to remember +to-day as it is now. I—”</p> + +<p>She broke off, embarrassed. Embury felt suddenly +bad, ashamed. How innocent she was! If he were going +to be a man of the world, he’d have to think of +another way. He couldn’t break the silken wings of +her innocence by spoiling her day—her perfect day—she +worked so hard and was so good. It had been a pleasant +day for him, too. Later—he could see her other +times, of course.</p> + +<p>“I wanted to make the day more beautiful,” he said, +but he did not try to touch her again.</p> + +<p>They rode home almost in silence. When she told him +good-bye, in Elm Street, she let her hand lie in his a +moment. How small it seemed. Why, actually, it trembled.</p> + +<p>“When am I going to see you again?” he asked.</p> + +<p>“I don’t know,” said Mamie. Then, “I walk up Elm +Street every day, you know. I—I had a wonderful +time.” She smiled a bit sadly, and was gone.</p> + +<p>That night there was a party at the Country Club and +Embury took Sophie Redding.</p> + +<p>For the first time since he knew her he noticed how +fat her hands were, a trifle red, too—and how she took +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_74">[Pg 74]</span>possession of him, as if they were already married—and +he’d never proposed to her. She giggled too much. It +made him nervous. He knew a dainty, pretty girl, a +simple little girl, who didn’t go to Country Club dances +nor roll her eyes nor put her hands on fellows’ shoulders. +Of course, Sophie was the sort of girl that a fellow married—position +and all that—his mother kept hinting +things—what a fine family the Reddings were, what a +nice wife Sophie would make....</p> + +<p>Still, he was young yet. Too young to settle down. +He’d have his fling first, anyhow.</p> + +<p>For five days Embury walked home on Elm Street. +He did not see Mamie. On the sixth day he went into +the Busy Bee. There she was, the blonde hair more +golden and beautiful than ever. She smiled a quick greeting +at him. He had been afraid to go in, ashamed almost. +What if it would embarrass her—what if she +didn’t want to see him? Of course, he wasn’t going in +to see her—he really had a purchase to make, still....</p> + +<p>Should he let her wait on him or get some one else? +He saw her speak to another girl. Then she walked +back of the counter to meet him.</p> + +<p>“Hello,” she said, very low, but gaily.</p> + +<p>“How have you been?” he asked. “I haven’t seen +you for days.”</p> + +<p>She laughed.</p> + +<p>“It’s good of you to bother. My mother has been +ill again. I wasn’t down at all yesterday. You wanted +to buy some candy? May—I wait on you?”</p> + +<p>She was so modest, didn’t think he had come in especially +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_75">[Pg 75]</span>to see her. He bought a box of chocolates and +took it away under his arm.</p> + +<p>That evening he met her in Elm Street.</p> + +<p>“The candy is for you,” he told her.</p> + +<p>She accepted it, with as seeming a gratitude as if she +didn’t get all the candy she could eat all day long.</p> + +<p>“You bought my favourite chocolates,” she told him. +“I wondered—”</p> + +<p>She broke off, blushing.</p> + +<p>“Whom they were for?”</p> + +<p>“I—I mean I didn’t think they were for me. You +know how girls in—in stores gossip. I heard—some one +said that you were attentive to—I mean that you liked—some +one here in Millersville.”</p> + +<p>“I do,” said Embury boldly, and caught her eye.</p> + +<p>She blushed again, prettily.</p> + +<p>“It was Miss Redding they meant,” she said.</p> + +<p>So—people were saying things about him and Sophie +Redding. Embury didn’t like it. He was too young to +get married. He felt that. That’s the trouble with a +small town, no sooner you start going with a girl than the +town has you engaged and married. Mrs. Redding, +too—she was being too nice to him—too affectionate.</p> + +<p>“Miss Redding is an awfully nice girl,” he told her. +“We’ve been to a few parties together, but that’s all. +You know how Millersville is.”</p> + +<p>“I know. I went to High School with the Redding +girls. They’re just a few years older than I am. I’m +sorry I said anything. I guess I just listened to gossip. +You know how you hear things. Just to show +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_76">[Pg 76]</span>how wrong people can be—why, what I heard was that—that +Miss Redding herself had said that you were—were +going together. Millersville is awfully gossipy, isn’t +it?”</p> + +<p>So, Sophie had been talking about his going with her. +But it was just the thing she would do. A few weeks ago +he had felt that if he could win Sophie it would be a very +desirable thing. But lately he’d been annoyed at her. +She’d shown him too many attentions—or too many +pointed slights to pique him. He felt himself falling into +a sort of net she was spreading. Why, even this +little girl, so far away from the set in which Sophie moved, +had heard things. He’d be careful—he wasn’t engaged +to Sophie, yet.</p> + +<p>He admitted that Millersville was gossipy but that there +was “nothing to” the gossip about him. He and Mamie +had a pleasant walk up Elm Street.</p> + +<p>After that, for several weeks, he met Mamie every day. +He tried to make other engagements, but she wouldn’t go +for picnics or drives, even on her days off. She told +Embury that she had to help her mother, who wasn’t +strong and needed her. But she consented to the evening +walks home.</p> + +<p>How sweet and simple she was, Embury felt. Other +girls would have playfully avoided him, teased him, tried +to make him more eager by their indifference. Mamie +was always admittedly glad to be with him. Excepting +when she had to hurry home a shorter way, she was always +walking up the street when he overtook her. He +began to look forward to these little walks, down the +quiet, tree-shaded way. Mamie, on the warmest days +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_77">[Pg 77]</span>seemed to remain cool and fresh-looking, her blonde hair +soft and fluffy. In the shade she would take off her hat +and turn her face up to catch any stray breeze. She’d +have jolly little stories to tell him and be interested in +everything that he was doing.</p> + +<p>Walking next to her he could watch the soft curve +of her body, smell the pleasant fragrance of the perfume +she used. Later, when he was alone, he contrasted her; +gentle of voice, sweet, simple, sensible; with Sophie and +Esther, the other girls of the crowd, their giggles and +affectations, their attempts at intimacies, pressing close +to him while they danced, overheated after dancing, their +hair moist, their voices loud, their behaviour foolish. +This little girl had more refinement than any of them—knew +how to keep her self-respect, too. These walks +were the pleasantest part of his day.</p> + +<p>Then, one evening Mamie was standing at the corner +of Elm and East Street waiting for him, her eyes wide +and frightened. From a distance he had seen her dainty +figure, the plain straw hat, the simple frock.</p> + +<p>“What’s the matter?” he asked.</p> + +<p>“It’s really nothing,” she said, but her eyes held tears.</p> + +<p>“Tell me. Is it serious?”</p> + +<p>“It’s nothing. That is, you’ll think it’s nothing at all. +I—I can’t tell you. It—spoils things—our little walks, +our pleasant friendship.”</p> + +<p>“What do you mean?”</p> + +<p>“It’s awful—Millersville. I hate it—People misunderstand. +I’m poor, you know—and work. It’s so +easy for people to talk about a girl in my position. And +some one told my—my father that I meet you every +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_78">[Pg 78]</span>evening. He—he grew awfully angry. You don’t know +my father—he has a terrible temper. I—I can’t ever +meet you any more. That’s all.”</p> + +<p>She wiped her eyes carefully, with her small handkerchief. +“Of course—it’s nothing to you, but it’s meant +so much—I’m silly, I guess, but it’s been the pleasant part +of—of my life.” She sniffled, very gently.</p> + +<p>“My dear, my dear,” Embury was moved. He wanted +to take her into his arms. Such a little girl—talked +about—because she went walking with him! He danced +with other girls, put his arms around them on porches, +kissed them, even. And this little girl, walked with him—and +even that was denied her.</p> + +<p>Suddenly, it came to him how much the walks meant—how +much Mamie meant to him. Each day he told +her everything he had done, talked over his small business +difficulties with her. She was always asking such +sensible, thoughtful questions about things. None of the +other girls cared—all they cared was that he was old man +Embury’s son—good as an escort—or to bring candy or +flowers. He had never taken Mamie any place, nor +spent money on her. She seemed apart from things—their +little walks up the quiet street seemed to belong +to another world.</p> + +<p>“It’s nonsense,” he said. “I won’t stand it. It’s ridiculous. +Of course we can keep on seeing each other.”</p> + +<p>“I’m afraid not,” her voice was unsteady.</p> + +<p>“But we must. Don’t you care?”</p> + +<p>“I—I—told you—I don’t dare think how lonely I’ll be. +Thinking about our talks has helped me all day long.”</p> + +<p>Mamie wouldn’t let Embury call on her, either. Not +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_79">[Pg 79]</span>just yet—maybe later, when her father was no longer +angry. She didn’t dare disobey him, he was rather cross, +almost cruel to her.</p> + +<p>They walked the rest of the way in silence. At her +street Mamie held out her hand and Embury took it and +held it. It seemed a very solemn occasion.</p> + +<p>Mamie’s expression was not so sad as she turned down +the side street. It was decidedly pleasant and smiling. +It might have puzzled Embury if he had seen it, but not +more than the conversation would have puzzled Joe Carpenter. +For, not since Mamie was ten had her father +tried to give her advice concerning her associates. No +one ever came to him with tales of Mamie and he +had never even heard that the rich Mr. Embury had a +son.</p> + + +<h3>VII</h3> + +<p>For weeks, then, Embury didn’t see Mamie. At first +he dismissed the whole thing with a careless, “Well, that +little affair is over,” a slight disappointment that Mamie +hadn’t been a better sport. It was just as well—Some +one had told his parents, too, and they had questioned +him, rather teasingly, about the companion of his evening +walks. But they had been serious, at that. They +didn’t want him to get “mixed up” with any one.</p> + +<p>Then he began to miss Mamie, miss the chance to talk +about himself, miss her soft femininity. To put her out +of his mind he devoted himself more thoroughly to +Sophie.</p> + +<p>After all, she was the girl for him, one of the Redding +girls, one of his own class. But when he talked to her +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_80">[Pg 80]</span>he couldn’t help comparing her to Mamie, whom he felt +he knew very well. Mamie was fresh and wholesome and +innocent. She never went to parties or dances, things +like that. Sophie was full of little tricks, liked to say +things with double meanings—and giggle. If the girls +had been changed around—Sophie in Mamie’s place—he +couldn’t quite understand it.</p> + +<p>Sophie became too affectionate when he was with her, +begged to light his cigarettes, always putting her hands +on his shoulders, pinching his arm when anything exciting +happened—and then pretending she hadn’t meant to do it. +She was an awfully nice girl, of course. But she so definitely +pursued him. He got tired of hearing her praises +sung at home, too. Her tricks of breaking engagements, +pretending indifference—they were worse than her affectionate +moods. Her hair was colourless, her eyes too +light. Compared with Mamie....</p> + +<p>As the days passed he missed Mamie more and more. +He hated himself for his stupidity—he found himself +passing the Busy Bee on all possible occasions, looking +into the windows, over the display of assorted candy, into +the store. Sometimes, above the counters, he’d see her, +in her crisp white apron, her blonde, radiant hair framing +her lovely little face. She was always busy, always +cheerful. Other girls wasted their lives having good +times. Mamie worked on, day after day—gentle, good. +Sometimes Embury thought her face looked serious, a bit +sad. Did she miss him?</p> + +<p>Finally he couldn’t stand it any longer. He cursed +himself for his silliness—he went into the Busy Bee, +bought some candy. He had promised himself he +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_81">[Pg 81]</span>wouldn’t annoy her—she was right—it was better that +they shouldn’t see each other any more. Yet he was +shedding the dignity of an Embury, acting the mere +oaf, hanging around a candy store hoping for a smile +from a salesgirl. He should have known better, scorned +such behaviour. But there he was.</p> + +<p>Mamie was busy. He waited—some one called to her +and she went into the back of the shop. He felt like a +fool—didn’t dare ask for her. He bought his candy and +went out. Next day he passed the shop three times. +The day after he went inside again. He watched Mamie’s +slim fingers flying among the candy trays, putting +chocolates into a box for a customer. How he loved her +hands. They were too fine for such work. Why—he +did love her—of course—that was it—he loved her—no +use denying it.</p> + +<p>He looked at her—her lovely profile, her fair complexion. +She turned—smiled at him, rather a sad little smile—and +went on packing chocolates, an adorable colour +surging over her face. She had to pack chocolates—his +girl! He loved her—and couldn’t even walk down the +street with her. He made a purchase and went out, +hating himself the rest of the day.</p> + +<p>He took the candy out to the Reddings that evening. +Ten or twelve of the crowd were there. They turned +on the Victrola and danced, then had lemonade. Every +one was in high spirits. Some one suggested a short drive +to cool off after dancing, so they all piled into the cars +that stood waiting for them along Maple Road. Embury +drove his car and Sophie sat next to him.</p> + +<p>“Propose to her,” something told him. “Go on, get +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_82">[Pg 82]</span>definitely attached, have it over with. Then you’ll be +settled, nothing to worry about. No use thinking about +Mamie—you can’t marry her.”</p> + +<p>But he couldn’t propose, then nor later, when he was +alone with her. Sophie chattered. The soft, pleasant +night seemed marred. He thought of Mamie, their one +ride together. He was sick of Sophie, of her tricks, +her silliness, his parents’ praise of her. He wanted +Mamie.</p> + +<p>He thought of Mamie before he fell asleep that night. +He did love her. He knew that. But he couldn’t marry +her. Of course not. If he did, though, his father would +be horribly disappointed. But he’d get over it—and his +mother, too. It wasn’t that. Mamie was far prettier +and sweeter than any girl in the crowd. But she didn’t +belong—it was just that she lived in Gillen Row. The +crowd would laugh at him.</p> + +<p>What if they did laugh? Oh, well, it was something. +He didn’t want to hurt his future. Mamie was in another +set—another world—that was all. He couldn’t +marry her. Still—he could see her. There were other +things beside marriage. He had to have his fling. He +hadn’t had any affairs. He was still young. Here was +an affair, that was all. After that—you can settle such +things with money—there was time enough for marriage, +then—with Sophie, of course.</p> + +<p>He woke up feeling quite the conquering hero, as if +he had already taken definite steps in his approach on +Mamie. She was a dear, a little innocent. He was a +college man, a man of the world. Of course she was +no match for him. Still—he’d be a fool not to follow +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_83">[Pg 83]</span>the thing up—she was too pretty to leave—if not him, +some one else then. Why not him?</p> + +<p>At noon, when he left the office in his car, he drove up +Gillen Row. What a street! There had been no rain +for days—everything was covered with grey dust. There +was a horrible sense of rust and decay and dirtiness. +He didn’t know which house was Mamie’s, but they all +looked alike in the sunshine, a squalid, ramshackle row,—how +different from his own home—from the Redding +home, with their terraced lawns, their pleasant green +bushes and flowers. This was a different life from the +life he led, from the pleasant, comfortable ways of his +people. And yet—Mamie—</p> + + +<h3>VIII</h3> + +<p>At half-past five he went into the Busy Bee. Mamie +was not busy. She was standing near a glass counter, +listlessly leaning one elbow against it. She looked pale, +he thought, and yet dainty—dainty and sweet, and she’d +come out of Gillen Row. It had been a hot summer. +He was glad September was here.</p> + +<p>She smiled as she saw him. How little she was! +Hadn’t she missed him at all? She had cared a little for +him—he felt that. He could make her care again, if +she’d give him a chance.</p> + +<p>“I must see you,” he told her.</p> + +<p>She looked around, rather frightened. He had forgotten +that she had to be careful about her position—that +she actually was forced to sell candy in the Busy Bee.</p> + +<p>“Don’t you want to see me?” he added.</p> + +<p>“Of course.”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_84">[Pg 84]</span></p> + +<p>“You won’t meet me in Elm Street?”</p> + +<p>“I don’t dare. I told you. You don’t understand—I—can’t +meet you.”</p> + +<p>“May I come to see you?”</p> + +<p>“I—I told you—”</p> + +<p>“But I <em>must</em> see you. Let me call.”</p> + +<p>“I don’t—well, all right then, if you want to come. +I shouldn’t let you. My father—still, if you want to. +I live way down in Gillen Row. We are—are very poor, +you know. If you want—”</p> + +<p>“Of course I do. Why didn’t you let me come, before? +May I come right away, to-night?”</p> + +<p>She nodded.</p> + +<p>“Where do you live?”</p> + +<p>“The third house after Birch Street, Number 530. +It’s a little cottage.”</p> + +<p>“Go driving with me?”</p> + +<p>“I—I told you I couldn’t—at night—and I never have +time, other times.”</p> + +<p>“To-night then, about eight. How’s that?”</p> + +<p>Mamie nodded again, smiled. Embury bought a box +of candy to cover his embarrassment.</p> + +<p>Going into a candy shop to make an engagement with +a shopgirl—trembling when she spoke to him, grinning +and ogling over the counter! He had never thought himself +capable of that.</p> + +<p>As he ate his dinner the engagement became something +vastly important, a bit different, a bit devilish. He’d +take her out in his car. Of course. It would be a moonlight +night. He understood girls. A simple girl like +that—</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_85">[Pg 85]</span></p> + + +<h3>IX</h3> + +<p>A few minutes before eight he drove up to the cottage +where Mamie lived. It was even more terrible than he +had imagined it, a crooked little cottage with a funny, +sagging porch, the paint peeled off, the lumber turned +grey. There had been no attempt to beautify the small +grey yard.</p> + +<p>As he stepped out of the car Mamie came out on the +porch, walked hurriedly toward him. She had on pink, +a thin, delicate pink, made very plain. Her complexion +looked quite pale, her hair softer and brighter than +ever.</p> + +<p>She came up to him, put her hand on his arm, drew it +back again. The gesture that had been affectation with +Sophie became genuine embarrassment here.</p> + +<p>“You—can’t—call,” she said nervously. “I told father +at dinner. He’s just stepped out. He’d get furious—if +he found you here. He—he keeps on harping on what +that man told him—about my being seen with you—he +says—I’m not in your class—that you don’t mean—aren’t—that +I shouldn’t go with you.”</p> + +<p>He saw that she was trembling. How soft she was +and little. He wouldn’t be cheated out of a ride with +her—this evening—hadn’t seen her for a long, long time. +How he’d missed her!</p> + +<p>“Jump in the car,” he said. “Hurry up, before your +father gets back. He’ll never know.”</p> + +<p>“I can’t. You don’t know how angry he’d be. Girls +don’t ride at night, in Millersville, this way. It will +make things worse.”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_86">[Pg 86]</span></p> + +<p>She drew back.</p> + +<p>“You don’t want to go?”</p> + +<p>“Oh, I do, I do! You don’t know how much.”</p> + +<p>“Then jump in.”</p> + +<p>“It wouldn’t be right. You wouldn’t respect me. +Other girls—”</p> + +<p>“My dear child, you don’t know the world. Other +girls go driving at night—and do worse things than that. +Only night before last I took a girl out driving—Sophie +Redding—Miss Redding and I—”</p> + +<p>“I know, but she’s—you know—I told you what I +heard.”</p> + +<p>“There’s no truth in that. I told you so. Now come +on, be a nice girl, jump in. It’s too perfect an evening +to waste. We’ll drive down Rock Road. No one will +see us.”</p> + +<p>“I don’t know—I—”</p> + +<p>“Please come. You’ll please me, won’t you?”</p> + +<p>He felt bold, masterful, put his hand on her arm. He +saw that he had done the wrong thing, been too hasty. +She drew away, frightened.</p> + +<p>“I—maybe—I’d better not see you any more, ever. +That’s what I’d planned—”</p> + +<p>“Please come on, won’t you, dear? Don’t talk like +that. Come on.”</p> + +<p>He let his voice grow tender—he was surprised to find +how much he meant the tenderness. What if she wouldn’t +go?</p> + +<p>She hesitated a moment, then:</p> + +<p>“All right,” she nodded, and jumped into the car.</p> + +<p>She had ordered her parents to keep away from the +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_87">[Pg 87]</span>front of the house, but she knew them. She was eager +to get away before they peered out of the window or +slouched out on the porch.</p> + +<p>They left Gillen Row and were soon out in the country.</p> + +<p>Mamie sighed, a pleasant sigh of happiness.</p> + +<p>“I suppose I oughtn’t to be here,” she said. “It’s +wrong, I know, but it seems right when I’m with you. +I’ve been so lonely lately. It seems wonderful.”</p> + +<p>“You’ve missed me a little, then?”</p> + +<p>“Missed you—of course.”</p> + +<p>The moon came out. They drove along the Sulpulpa +River, and the moon rippled a path on the water. Embury +stopped the car.</p> + +<p>“This is great, isn’t it?” he asked.</p> + +<p>“Wonderful. I almost lose my breath at it. I’m that +way about scenery—I can’t say much. And to be here, +now—”</p> + +<p>He looked at her. She seemed almost ethereal in the +moonlight, the pale pink of her dress, the soft gleam of +her hair.</p> + +<p>He put his arm around her, very gently, drew her close +to him, held up her chin, looked at her. She was lovely, +her fragrant, soft complexion, her big eyes. He kissed +her.</p> + +<p>She gave a little gasp. But there was no pulling away, +none of the “how-dare-yous” which he had feared. As +simply as a child she put her arms around his neck, kissed +him, gave little whispers of contentment.</p> + +<p>“You dear, you dear!” Embury whispered over and +over again.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_88">[Pg 88]</span></p> + +<p>Then she drew away from him, turned her back, broke +into a paroxysm of sobbing.</p> + +<p>“What’s the matter?” Embury asked, genuinely perplexed.</p> + +<p>He hadn’t quite understood her kissing him, though the +kisses had been very pleasant. He understood her now +least of all.</p> + +<p>“I—I shouldn’t have come with you,” she sobbed. +“Don’t you see—I—I—let you kiss me—I kissed you—I +wanted to kiss you—I’m as much to blame as you—more. +It’s wrong. I shouldn’t have come with you—now, +you can’t respect me any more. After this you’ll +think—”</p> + +<p>“Now, now,” he soothed, “don’t carry on this way. +Honest, it’s all right. It really is. Of course I respect +you, honey. You’re the dearest girl I know. Why—I—love +you!”</p> + +<p>He stumbled over the word—he had never told a girl +that he loved her, before. He was quite sincere, now. +Marriage—of course that was different. He knew that. +But this little girl—she was a dear—lovely, as she lay +in his arms, soft and yielding, her lips against his. Still, +now he wanted her to stop crying—he had made her +cry—</p> + +<p>“Why, dear, kisses aren’t anything, really. Lots of +girls—You don’t know the ways of the world, that’s +all. Now, cheer up—I didn’t mean to frighten you.”</p> + +<p>“It—it was all my fault. I shouldn’t have come. Of +course, when I came, you thought—and I—I <em>wanted</em> to +kiss you. That’s the worst of it. Only—I did want to +come—I never have anything. I’m—only nothing at all—and +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_89">[Pg 89]</span>live in Gillen Row and you’re Marlin Embury—and +now—I’ve kissed you.”</p> + +<p>He drove her home. All the way home she sobbed +softly. There was a light in the little cottage.</p> + +<p>“Don’t drive me to the house,” she said. “Father’s +home—it’s late—if he saw you—I don’t know what he’d +do. I’ll be all right—if I go in alone. My mother will +be waiting, too. She’ll keep him from being too angry—if +I explain to her. I—I think she’ll understand.”</p> + +<p>He let her out at the corner, pressing her hand as he +told her good-bye.</p> + +<p>“Now don’t you worry,” he said. “I’ll see you to-morrow, +dear. A kiss is nothing to worry over, really it +isn’t.”</p> + +<p>She watched his car as he drove away, sent a tiny little +wave of farewell to him as he looked back.</p> + +<p>Her mother had gone to bed. Her father was playing +cards with three cronies in the dining-room.</p> + +<p>“That’s right, come trailing in at all hours—running +around with some one else—got some one new?” he +growled, as she passed them.</p> + +<p>“That’s my business,” she answered curtly.</p> + +<p>Her father might have detected a new tone in her voice +if he hadn’t been too busy seeing that he got the best of +his friends before they took advantage of him.</p> + + +<h3>X</h3> + +<p>Embury worried about the kisses pretty much that +night after he got home.</p> + +<p>After all, Mamie was such a little thing and awfully +young, not more than eighteen, probably, and not worldly, +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_90">[Pg 90]</span>sophisticated, like the girls he went with. He oughtn’t +to have—well, taken advantage of her. She had said she +would never see him again—and then, after he had said +he’d see her to-morrow, he had seen her wave farewell. +If he didn’t see her—perhaps that would be best, after all. +Still,—her kisses were sweet—she was a dear—he remembered +the touch of her soft lips.</p> + +<p>In the morning Embury still thought only of Mamie’s +arms around his neck, her kisses. Of course he’d see her +again. Why, he loved her. She was smarter, prettier, +than Sophie. Sophie wouldn’t have cried had he kissed +her—she would have thought he had proposed and put +their engagement in the papers. She probably thought +they were even now. Wouldn’t it be a joke on Sophie +if he didn’t marry her, after all? His parents—why +should they rule his life?</p> + +<p>Of course, marrying Mamie was out of the question—still, +with pretty clothes, she’d beat any girl in Millersville +on looks and brains. Why, she had them beat +already. Hadn’t she gone to High School until she had +to stop to help out at home? Working every day, selling +candy, luxuries—to others. Dear little thing—and now +she was probably worrying because he had kissed her. +Of course he’d see her—keep on seeing her....</p> + +<p>At ten o’clock he peered into the windows of the Busy +Bee. Mamie was not there. At eleven he looked in +again. He went to the office and attempted to work. +He looked into the shop windows both going to and +coming from luncheon. He couldn’t keep his mind on +what he was trying to do in the afternoon. Before three, +he left for the day and went to the Busy Bee, looked in, +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_91">[Pg 91]</span>went inside. It was almost a relief not to see Mamie—a +relief, and yet it worried him.</p> + +<p>A brown-haired girl he had never seen asked for his +order. Embarrassed, he told her he wanted to speak to +Miss Carpenter. What a fool he was. What else could +he do?</p> + +<p>Miss Carpenter hadn’t been down all day—no, she +didn’t know what was the matter. Something she could +do for him? Mechanically he ordered a box of candy.</p> + +<p>He was glad he hadn’t found Mamie there. After last +night he didn’t like to think of her clerking—waiting on +people. He’d take her away—some place. Where? +That was it—take her away. Still, he had to stay in +Millersville—a town like Millersville! And she—why +she cried when he kissed her—she was such a fragile, +dainty little thing—like a lily—that was it—a lily, who +had grown up in the muck of Gillen Row. Even too +dainty for him. She wasn’t at the store. What was the +matter? What if—</p> + +<p>He drove to Gillen Row as rapidly as he could, stopped +his car in front of the forlorn cottage. What if her +father was at home? Well, he could manage him—must +manage him.</p> + +<p>He ran up the front walk, up the broken steps, knocked +at the door—the bell seemed out of order. He waited. +No answer. He couldn’t believe that the house was +empty. He would wait. He stood on the porch, hesitating, +wondering what to do. Then the door opened. +It was Mamie.</p> + +<p>She had on a blue suit, a plain little suit, with a white +collar and a little black hat, turned up all around. He +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_92">[Pg 92]</span>had never seen her except in summer things. How well +she looked, with her bright hair showing below the hat-brim.</p> + +<p>“You shouldn’t have come here,” she said. “You +mustn’t come. Go away—I never—was going to see you +again.”</p> + +<p>“What’s the matter? You aren’t ill? You weren’t at +the Busy Bee?”</p> + +<p>“I’m not going back again, ever. I—I can’t stand +it.”</p> + +<p>“What are you going to do, Mamie?”</p> + +<p>She looked so little and tragic.</p> + +<p>“Last night father was waiting for me when I got home. +You don’t know my father. He’s cruel, brutal, sometimes. +He seemed to know, before I told him—that I’d +been driving with you. So—I’m going away—I can’t +stand—this—any more.”</p> + +<p>“Going—where?”</p> + +<p>He came inside, closed the door. What a mean little +house it was.</p> + +<p>“I don’t know. Away from this—any place. I’ve +enough money to get to—to Giffordsville. I can find +something to do there. I’ve got to have peace and contentment—something. +And you must hate me—after I +kissed you last night. You can’t care for me—respect +me—and your respect was all I had.”</p> + +<p>“My dear, my dear little girl. Why, I—I—”</p> + +<p>His arms were around her again. But this time she +did not meet his lips with hers. She dropped her head, +struggled a little, then sighed.</p> + +<p>“You see,” she said, “I can’t struggle against you. I +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_93">[Pg 93]</span>must go away. I can’t stand it—any longer. This +house, everything—and now—”</p> + +<p>“Mamie.”</p> + +<p>“Yes?”</p> + +<p>“Look at me.”</p> + +<p>“I can’t.”</p> + +<p>He forced her face upward.</p> + +<p>“Do you love me?”</p> + +<p>“Don’t ask me to say it. You—know. Please don’t +be cruel to me. Let me go while I can.”</p> + +<p>“Cruel to you? Mamie, I love you. You know that. +You mustn’t go away from Millersville.”</p> + +<p>“I <em>must</em> go. After the quarrel with father, I can’t stay +here. That’s settled.”</p> + +<p>“You <em>mustn’t</em> go.”</p> + +<p>He repeated it over and over. He couldn’t let her go. +Without her, Millersville would be worse than oil-soaked +Oklahoma. He dared not imagine it, even.</p> + +<p>“I’m going now—I’m all ready for travelling. How +can anything stop me?” She pointed to a little packed +bag.</p> + +<p>In his arms she was fragrant, sweet. How could she +get along—what could she do, alone in the world? Why—she +was his girl—he could take care of her. She understood +him—his family—he wouldn’t let his parents ruin +his life.</p> + +<p>Marry her, of course. Wasn’t she better, nobler than +the rest of the girls—a cruel father who misunderstood +her—alone in the world, really—little and sweet and dear. +Going away? Why, if he married her he could keep her +here. Of course.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_94">[Pg 94]</span></p> + +<p>“I’m glad you’re ready,” he said, “because you’re going +with me.”</p> + +<p>“What—what do you mean?”</p> + +<p>She drew away.</p> + +<p>“What could I mean? We—we love each other. We +can drive right down to the court-house this minute. You—you +won’t mind—marrying me, will you?”</p> + +<p>She snuggled close to him and hid her head. From the +sounds she made, he couldn’t tell whether she was sobbing +or giggling. But it didn’t matter. Surely a girl could +have her own method of accepting a proposal of marriage.</p> + + +<h3>XI</h3> + +<p>The marriage has really turned out very well. Even +Millersville admits it. After all, Mamie Embury proved +herself an exceptional woman, and was quite able in every +way to take her rightful place in society as Marlin +Embury’s wife. If her parents seemed below the Millersville +social level, no one dared dwell upon it. For young +Mrs. Embury, under her soft and blonde exterior, has +rather a sharp manner at times and, when necessary, can +refer, in the pleasantest way, to things that have taken +place in the past—and even the best Millersville families +have their skeletons, forged cheques, little unnamed +graves, jail sentences, things like that. So, after all, a +worthless father can’t be held against a person, these +days, all things considered.</p> + +<p>Mamie is getting to be a bit of a snob, though, even +her best friends think, because she objects to Millersville’s +newest rich belonging to the “society” set and +speaks about drawing more conservative lines. Her +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_95">[Pg 95]</span>father was the black sheep of the family, it appears. The +Carpenters are really an old Kentucky family and she +often tells that her mother was one of the Virginia Prichards. +Millersville knows that there is a great deal in +heredity—that blood will tell—so her friends can understand +her seeming snobbishness.</p> + +<p>Mamie is a charming hostess, and prettier than ever, +even if she has grown a bit rounder, and her husband is +devoted to her. A poor girl who married the richest man +in town—it’s beautiful—and it’s such a relief, with so +many sordid things going on every day, to see real romance, +a genuine love match, once in a while.</p> + + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> +<div class="chapter"> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_96">[Pg 96]</span></p> + + + <h2 class="nobreak" id="A_CYCLE_OF_MANHATTAN"> + A CYCLE OF MANHATTAN + </h2> +</div> + + +<h3>I</h3> + +<p class="drop-cap"><span class="upper-case">The</span> Rosenheimers arrived in New York on a day +in April. New York, flushed with the first +touch of Spring, moved on inscrutably, almost +suavely unawares. It was the greatest thing that had +ever happened to the Rosenheimers, and even in the light +of the profound experiences that were to follow it kept its +vast grandeur and separateness, its mysterious and benumbing +superiority. Viewed later, in half-tearful retrospect, +it took on the character of something unearthly, +unmatchable and never quite clear—a violent gallimaufry +of strange tongues, humiliating questionings, freezing uncertainties, +sudden and paralyzing activities.</p> + +<p>The Rosenheimers came by way of the Atlantic Ocean, +and if anything remained unclouded in their minds it was +a sense of that dour and implacable highway’s unfriendliness. +They thought of it ever after as an intolerable motion, +a penetrating and suffocating smell. They saw it +through drenched skylights—now and then as a glimpse +of blinding blue on brisk, heaving mornings. They remembered +the harsh, unintelligible exactions of officials in +curious little blue coats. They dreamed for years of endless +nights in damp, smothering bunks. They carried +off the taste of strange foods, barbarously served. The +Rosenheimers came in the steerage.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_97">[Pg 97]</span></p> + +<p>There were, at that time, seven of them, if you count +Mrs. Feinberg. As Mrs. Feinberg had, for a period of +eight years—the age of the oldest Rosenheimer child—been +called nothing but Grandma by the family and occasionally +Grandma Rosenheimer by outsiders, she was +practically a Rosenheimer, too. Grandma was Mrs. +Rosenheimer’s mother, a decent, simple, round-shouldered +“sheiteled,” little old woman, to whom life was a +ceaseless washing of dishes, making of beds, caring for +children and cooking of meals. She ruled them all, unknowing.</p> + +<p>The head of the house of Rosenheimer was, fittingly, +named Abraham. This had abbreviated itself, even in +Lithuania, to a more intimate Abe. Abe Rosenheimer +was thirty-three, sallow, thin-cheeked and bearded, with +a slightly aquiline nose. He was already growing bald. +He was not tall and he stooped. He was a clothing cutter +by trade. Since his marriage, nine years before, he had +been saving to bring his family over. Only the rapid +increase of its numbers had prevented him coming sooner.</p> + +<p>Abraham Rosenheimer was rather a silent man and +he looked stern. Although he recognized his inferiority +in a superior world, he was not without his ambitions. +These looked toward a comfortable home, his own chair +with a lamp by it, no scrimping about meat at meals and +a little money put by. He had heard stories about fortunes +that could be made in America and in his youth they +had stirred him. Now he was not much swayed by them. +He was fond of his family and he wanted them “well +taken care of,” but in the world that he knew the rich and +the poor were separated by an unscalable barrier. Unless +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_98">[Pg 98]</span>incited temporarily to revolution by fiery acquaintances +he was content to hope for a simple living, work +not too hard or too long, a little leisure, tranquillity.</p> + +<p>He had a comfortable faith which included the belief +that, if a man does his best, he’ll usually be able to make +a living for his family. “Health is the big thing,” he +would say, and “The Lord will provide.” Outside of his +prayer-book, he did little reading. It never occurred to +him that he might be interested in the outside world. He +knew of the existence of none of the arts. His home and +his work were all he had ever thought about.</p> + +<p>Mrs. Rosenheimer, whose first name was Minnie, was +thirty-one. She was a younger and prettier reproduction +of her mother, plump and placid, with a mouth inclined +to petulancy.</p> + +<p>There were four Rosenheimer children. Yetta was +eight, Isaac six, Carrie three and little Emanuel had just +had his first birthday. Yetta and Carrie were called by +their own first names, but Isaac, in America, almost immediately +gave way to Ike and little Emanuel became +Mannie. They were much alike, dark-haired, dark-eyed, +restless, shy, wondering.</p> + +<p>The Rosenheimers had several acquaintances in New +York, people from the little village near Grodno who had +preceded them to America. Most of these now lived in +the Ghetto that was arising on the East Side of New York, +and Rosenheimer had thought that his family would go +there, too, so as to be near familiar faces. He had written +several months before, to one Abramson, a sort of a +distant cousin, who had been in America for twelve years. +As Abramson had promised to meet them, he decided to +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_99">[Pg 99]</span>rely on Abramson’s judgment in finding a home in the +city.</p> + +<p>Abramson was at Ellis Island and greeted the family +with vehement embraces. He seemed amazingly well-dressed +and at home. He wore a large watchchain and +no less than four rings. He introduced his wife, whom +he had married since coming to America, though she, too, +had come from the old country. She wore silk and carried +a parasol.</p> + +<p>“I’ve got a house all picked out for you,” he explained +in familiar Yiddish. “It isn’t in the Ghetto, where some +of our friends live, but it’s cheap, with lots of comforts +and near where you can get work, too.”</p> + +<p>Any house would have suited the Rosenheimers. They +were pitifully anxious to get settled, to rid themselves of +the foundationless feeling which had taken possession of +them. With eager docility, Yetta carrying Mannie and +each of the others carrying a portion of the bundles of +wearing apparel and feather comforts which formed their +luggage, they followed Abramson to a surface car and to +their new home. In their foreign clothes and with their +bundles they felt almost as uncomfortable as they had +been on shipboard.</p> + +<p>The Rosenheimers’ new home was in MacDougal +Street. They looked with awe on the exterior and pronounced +it wonderful. Such a fine building! Of red +brick it was! There were three stories. The first story +was a stable, the big door open. Little Isaac had to be +pulled past the restless horses in front of it. The whole +family stood for a moment, drinking in the wonders, then +followed Abramson up the stairs. On the second floor +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_100">[Pg 100]</span>several families lived in what the Rosenheimers thought +was palatial grandeur. Even their own home was elegant. +It consisted of two rooms—the third floor front. +They could hardly be convinced that they were to have +all that space. There was a stove in the second room and +gas fixtures in both of them—and there was a bathroom, +with running water, in the general hall! The Rosenheimers +didn’t see that the paper was falling from the +walls and that, where it had been gone for some years, +the plaster was falling, too. Nor that the floor was +roughly uneven.</p> + +<p>“Won’t it be too expensive?” asked Rosenheimer. +Abramson chuckled. Though he himself was but a trimmer +by trade, he was pleased with the rôle of fairy godfather. +He liked twirling wonders in the faces of these +simple folk. In comparison, he felt himself quite a success, +a cosmopolite. Just about Rosenheimer’s age, he +had small deposits in two savings banks, a three-room +apartment, a wife and two American sons, Sam and Morrie. +Both were in public school, and both could speak +“good English.” He patted Rosenheimer on the back +jovially.</p> + +<p>“You don’t need to worry,” he said. “A good cutter +here in New York don’t have to worry. Even a ‘greenhorn’ +makes a living. There’s half a dozen places you can +choose from. I’ll tell you about it, and where to go, to-morrow. +Now, we’ll go over to my house and have +something to eat. Then you’ll see how you’ll be living +in a few years. You can borrow some things from us until +you get your own. My wife will be glad to go with +Mrs. Rosenheimer and show her where to buy.”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_101">[Pg 101]</span></p> + +<p>The Rosenheimers gave signs of satisfaction as they +dropped their bundles and sat down on the empty boxes +that stood around, or on the floor. This was something +like it! Here they had a fine home in a big brick house, +a sure chance of Rosenheimer getting a good job, friends +to tell them about things—they had already found their +place in New York! Grandma, trembling with excitement, +took Mannie in her arms and held him up dramatically.</p> + +<p>“See, Mannie, see Mannischen—this is fine—this is +the way to live!”</p> + + +<h3>II</h3> + +<p>Things turned out even more miraculously than the +Rosenheimers had dared to hope. After only three days +Rosenheimer found a job as a pants cutter at the fabulous +wages he had heard of. He could not only pay the high +rent, twelve dollars a month, he would also have enough +left over for food and clothes, and to furnish the home, +if they were careful. Maybe, after the house was in +order, there would even be a little to put by. Of course +it was no use being too happy about it, he told Mrs. +Rosenheimer.</p> + +<p>“It looks fine now, but you know you can’t always tell. +It takes a whole lot to feed a big family.”</p> + +<p>Although secretly delighted, he was solemn and rather +silent over his good fortune. Abraham Rosenheimer was +a cautious man.</p> + +<p>Mrs. Abramson initiated Grandma and Mrs. Rosenheimer +into New York buying. It was fascinating, even +more so than buying had been at home. There were +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_102">[Pg 102]</span>neighbourhood shops where Yiddish was spoken, and already +the family was beginning to learn a little English. +Mrs. Rosenheimer listened closely to what people said +and the children picked up words, playing in the street.</p> + +<p>The next weeks were orgies of buying. Not that much +was bought, for there wasn’t much money and it had to +be spent very carefully, but each article meant exploring, +looking and haggling. Grandma took the lead in buying—didn’t +Grandma always do such things? Grandma was +only fifty-seven and spry for her age. Didn’t she take +care of the children and do more than her share of the +housework?</p> + +<p>Grandma was supremely happy. She liked to buy and +she felt that merchants couldn’t fool her, even in this +strange country. A table was the first thing she purchased. +It was almost new and quite large. It was pine +and bare of finish, but after Grandma had scrubbed it and +scoured it it looked clean and wholesome. It was quite +a nice table and only wobbled a little when you leaned on +it heavily, for the legs weren’t quite even. One was a +little loose and Grandma didn’t seem able to fasten it. +Assisted by Mrs. Rosenheimer and Yetta, she scrubbed +the whole flat, so that it equalled the new table in immaculateness. +There were families who liked dirt—Grandma +had seen them, even in America—but she was +glad she didn’t belong to one of them.</p> + +<p>Then came chairs, each one picked out with infinite +care and much sibilant whispering between Grandma, +Mrs. Rosenheimer and Mrs. Abramson. There was a +rocker, slat-backed, from which most of the slats were +missing, though it still rocked “as good as new.” The +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_103">[Pg 103]</span>next chair was leather-covered, though the leather was cut +through in places, allowing the horse-hair stuffing to protrude. +But, as Mrs. Abramson pointed out, this was an +advantage, it showed that the filling wasn’t an inferior +cotton. There were two straight chairs, one with a leatherette +seat, nailed on with bright-coloured nails, the other +with a wicker seat, quite neatly mended. There was a +cot for Grandma and a bed for Mr. and Mrs. Rosenheimer +and Emanuel. The other children were well and +strong and could sleep on the floor, of course. Hadn’t +they brought fine soft feathers with them?</p> + +<p>All of the furniture was second- or third-hand and the +previous owners had not treated it with much care. So +Grandma got some boxes to help out, and she and the +Rosenheimers worked over them, pulling and driving +nails. Finally they had a cupboard which held all of the +new dishes—almost new, if you don’t mind a few hardly +noticeable nicked edges—and decorated with fine pink +roses. Some of the boxes were still used as chairs, “to +help out.” One fine, high one did very nicely as an extra +table, with a grand piece of brand-new oilcloth, in a marbled +pattern, tacked over it. They had a home now.</p> + +<p>Grandma and Mrs. Rosenheimer marketed every day +at the stores and markets in the neighbourhood. Rosenheimer +sometimes complained that they used too much +money, but then, he “liked to eat well.” The little Rosenheimers +grew round and merry.</p> + +<p>Grandma and Mr. and Mrs. Rosenheimer, looking at +the children and at their two big rooms—all their own +and so nicely furnished—could hardly imagine anything +finer. Grandma and Rosenheimer were absolutely at +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_104">[Pg 104]</span>peace. But Mrs. Rosenheimer knew that, with more +money, there were a lot of things you could buy. She +had walked through Washington Square and up Fifth +Avenue. She had seen people in fine clothes, people of +her own race, too. She didn’t have much, after all. +Still, most of the time she was content.</p> + +<p>Gradually, too, Rosenheimer saw shadows of wealth. +He heard rumours of how fortunes were made overnight—his +boss now, a few years before, had been a poor +boy.... Nevertheless, smoking his cigarettes and reading +his Yiddish paper after his evening meal, or talking +with Abramson or one of the men he had met, he was +well satisfied with New York as he had found it.</p> + + +<h3>III</h3> + +<p>As the months passed, the Rosenheimers drank in, unbelievably +fast, the details of the city. Already the children +were beginning to speak English, not just odd words, +here and there, but whole sentences. Already, too, they +were beginning to be ashamed of being “greenhorns” and +were planning the time when they could say they had +been over for years or had been born here. Little Mannie +was beginning to talk and every one said he spoke +English without an accent.</p> + +<p>Yetta and Ike started to school. Each day they +brought home some startling bit of information that the +family received and assimilated without an eye-wink. +Although most of the men at the shop spoke Yiddish, Rosenheimer +was learning English, too. He even spoke, +vaguely, about learning to read it and write it, and he +began to look over English papers, now and then, interestedly. +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_105">[Pg 105]</span>Mrs. Rosenheimer also showed faint literary +leanings and sometimes asked questions about things.</p> + +<p>Ike was always eager to tell everything he had learned. +In a sharp little voice he would instruct, didactically, any +one within hearing distance. He rather annoyed Rosenheimer, +who was not blinded by the virtues of his eldest +son. But he was Mrs. Rosenheimer’s favourite. She +would sit, hands folded across her ample lap, smiling +proudly as he unrolled his fathomless knowledge.</p> + +<p>“Listen at that boy! Ain’t he wonderful, the way he +knows so much?” she would exclaim.</p> + +<p>Yetta’s learning took the form, principally, of wanting +things. Each day, it seemed, she could find out something +else she didn’t have, that belonged to all American +children. And, no matter how penniless Rosenheimer +had just declared himself to be, unsmilingly and a bit +shamefacedly, he would draw pennies out of the depths +of the pocket of his shiny trousers.</p> + +<p>Only Grandma showed no desire to learn the ways of +the new country. She didn’t mind picking up a little English, +of course, though she’d got along very nicely all of +her life without it. Still, in a new country, it didn’t hurt +to know something about the language. But as for reading—well, +Yiddish was good enough for her, though she +didn’t mind admitting she didn’t read Yiddish easily. +Grandma had little use for the printed word.</p> + +<p>Each week the Rosenheimers’ clothes changed nearer +to the prevailing styles of MacDougal Street. Only a +few weeks after they arrived Mrs. Rosenheimer, overcome +by her new surroundings, bought, daringly, a lace +sailor collar, which she fastened around the neck of her +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_106">[Pg 106]</span>old-world costume. As the months passed, even this +failed to satisfy. The dress itself finally disappeared, +reappearing as a school frock for Yetta, and Mrs. Rosenheimer +wore a modest creation of red plaid worsted which +Grandma and she had made, huge sleeves, bell skirt and +all, after one they had seen in Washington Square on a +“society lady.”</p> + +<p>Just a year after they arrived in America, Mrs. Rosenheimer +discarded her <em>sheitel</em>. She even tried to persuade +Grandma to leave hers off, but Grandma demurred. +There were things you couldn’t do decently, even in a +new country. Mrs. Rosenheimer made the innovation +in a spirit of fear, but when no doom overtook her and +she found in a few weeks how “stylish” she looked, she +never regretted the change. She was wearing curled +bangs, good as the next one, before long.</p> + +<p>Little Ike had a new suit, bought ready-made, his first +bought suit, not long afterwards. The trousers were a bit +too long, but surely that was an advantage, for he was +growing fast, going on eight. They couldn’t call him a +“greenhorn” now. He came home, too, with reports of +how smart his teacher said he was and of the older boys, +unbelievers, whom he had “got ahead of” in school. His +shrill voice would grow louder and higher as he would explain +to the admiring Mrs. Rosenheimer and Grandma +what a fine lad he was getting to be.</p> + +<p>Other signs of change now appeared. Scarcely a year +had gone by before lace curtains appeared at the two +front windows. They were of different patterns, but +what of that? They had been cheaper that way, as “samples.” +By tautly drawn strings, white and stiff they hung, +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_107">[Pg 107]</span>adding a touch of elegance to the abode. Only three +months later a couch was added, the former grandeur of +its tufted surface not at all dimmed by a few years of +wear. Yetta and Carrie slept on it, luxuriously, one at +each end. It was a long couch and they were so little.</p> + +<p>Then a cupboard for dishes appeared. Grandma +bought it from a family that was “selling out.” It had +glass doors. At least there had been glass doors. One +was broken now, but who noticed that? In the corner of +the front room, opposite the couch, it looked very “stylish.” +And not long afterward there was a carpet in the +front room, three strips of it, with a red and green pattern. +Then, indeed, the Rosenheimers felt that they +could, very proudly, “be at home to their friends.” They +had company, now, families of old friends and new, from +the Ghetto and from their own neighbourhood. And they +visited, <em>en masse</em>, in return.</p> + +<p>There wasn’t much money, of course. Rosenheimer +was getting good wages, but children eat a lot and beg +for pennies between meals. And shoes! But like many +men of his race and disposition, Rosenheimer never contributed +quite all of his funds to his household. Nor did +he take his women into his confidence. He felt that they +could not counsel him wisely, which was probably right, +for neither Grandma nor Mrs. Rosenheimer was interested +in anything outside of their home and their friends. +Besides this, he had a natural secrecy, a dislike of talking +things over with his family. So, each week, he made +an infinitesimal addition to the savings account he had +started. He even considered various investments—he +knew of men who were buying the tenements in which +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_108">[Pg 108]</span>they lived on wages no bigger than his, living in the basement +and taking care of the house outside of working +hours. But he felt that he was still too much the “greenhorn” +for such enterprises, so he kept on with his small +and secret savings.</p> + + +<h3>IV</h3> + +<p>In 1897 another member was added to the family. +This meant a big expense, a midwife and later a doctor, +but Rosenheimer had had a raise by this time—he was, +in fact, now a foreman—so the expense was met without +difficulty. There was real joy at the arrival of this +baby—more than at the coming of any of the previous +children. For this was an American baby, and seemed, +in some way, to make the whole family more American. +The baby was a girl and even the sex seemed satisfactory, +though, of course, at every previous addition the Rosenheimers +had hoped for a boy.</p> + +<p>There was a great discussion, then, about names. Before +this, a baby had always been named after some +dead ancestor or relative without much ado. It was +best to name a child after a relative, but, according to +custom, if the name didn’t quite suit, you took the initial +instead. By some process of reasoning, this was supposed +to be naming the child “after” the honoured relative. +Now the Rosenheimers wanted something grandly +American for the new baby. Grandma wanted Dora, +after her mother. But Dora didn’t sound American +enough. Ike suggested Della, but that didn’t suit, either. +Finally Yetta brought home Dorothy. It was a very +stylish name, it seemed, and was finally accepted.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_109">[Pg 109]</span></p> + +<p>Little Emanuel, aged four, was told that “his nose +was out of joint.” He cried and felt of it. It seemed +quite straight to him. It was. He was a handsome +little fellow, and, when Mrs. Rosenheimer took him out +with her, folks would stop and ask about him. She was +glad when she could answer them in English. And as +for Mannie—at four he talked as if no other country +than America had ever existed.</p> + +<p>Very gradually, Mrs. Rosenheimer grew tired of MacDougal +Street. She tried to introduce this dissatisfaction +into the rest of the family. Grandma was very +happy here. With little shrugs and gestures she decried +any further change. Weren’t they all getting along +finely? Wasn’t Rosenheimer near his work? Weren’t +the children fat and healthy? What could they have +better than this—two rooms, running water, gas and +everything? Didn’t they know people all around them? +Rosenheimer was indifferent. Some of his friends, including +the Abramsons, had already moved “farther out.” +Still, he didn’t see the use of spending so much money; +they were all right where they were. Times were hard; +you couldn’t tell what might happen. Still, if Minnie +had her heart set on it— The children were ready for +any change.</p> + +<p>Mrs. Rosenheimer, revolving the matter endlessly in +her mind, found many reasons for moving. All of her +friends, it seemed, had fled from the noise and dirt of +MacDougal Street. On first coming to New York she +had been disappointed at not living in the Ghetto over +on the East side. Now, when she visited there, she wondered +how she had ever liked it. When she moved she +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_110">[Pg 110]</span>wanted something really fine—and where her friends +were, too. She had a good many friends outside of the +Ghetto now. On arriving in America she hadn’t known +MacDougal Street was dirty. She knew it now. And +the little Italian children in the neighbourhood—oh, they +were all right, of course, but—not just whom you’d want +your children to play with, exactly. Why, every day +Ike would come home with terrible things they had said +to him. And their home, which had looked so grand, +was old and ugly, too, when compared with those of other +people. Of course Grandma liked it, but, after all, +Grandma was old-fashioned. Mrs. Rosenheimer discovered, +almost in one breath, that her mother belonged to +a passing generation, and didn’t keep up with the times—that +she, herself, really had charge of the household.</p> + +<p>Out in East Seventy-seventh Street there were some +tenements, not at all like those of MacDougal Street +nor the Ghetto, but brand-new, just the same as rich +people had. Each flat had a regular kitchen with a sink +and running water and a fine new gas stove. The front +room had a mirror in it that belonged to the house—and—unbelievably +but actually true—there was a bathroom +for each family. It had a tub in it, painted white, +and a washstand—both with running water—and already +there was oilcloth, in blue and white, on the bathroom +floor. The outer halls had gas in them that burned all +night—some sort of a law. Those tenements were elegant—that +was the way to live.</p> + +<p>Rosenheimer got another raise. There was some sort +of an organization of cutters, a threatened strike, and +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_111">[Pg 111]</span>then sudden success. Mrs. Rosenheimer never understood +much about it but it meant more money. Now +Rosenheimer had no legitimate reason for keeping his +family in MacDougal Street.</p> + +<p>So he and Mrs. Rosenheimer and Grandma went out +to the new tenements and looked around. Mrs. Rosenheimer +acted as spokesman, talking with the woman at +the renting office, asking questions, pointing things out. +At the end of the afternoon Rosenheimer rented one of +the four-room flats in a new tenement building.</p> + +<p>On the way home, Mrs. Rosenheimer leaned close to +her husband:</p> + +<p>“Ain’t it grand, the way we are going to live now?” +she asked.</p> + +<p>“If we can pay for it.”</p> + +<p>“With you doing so well, how you talk!”</p> + +<p>“Good enough, but money, these days—”</p> + +<p>“Abe, do you want to do something for me?”</p> + +<p>“Go on, something more to spend money on.”</p> + +<p>“Not a cent, Abe. Only, won’t you—shave your +beard? Moving to a new neighbourhood and all. Not +for me, but the neighbours should see what an American +father the children have got.”</p> + +<p>Rosenheimer frowned a bit uneasily. Mrs. Rosenheimer +didn’t refer to it again, but three days later he +came home strangely thin and white-looking—his beard +gone. Only a little moustache, soft and mixed with red, +remained.</p> + +<p>Before the Rosenheimers moved they sold the worst of +their furniture to the very man from whom they bought +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_112">[Pg 112]</span>it, five years before, taking only the big bed, the table +and the couch. It was Mrs. Rosenheimer who insisted +on this.</p> + +<p>“Trash we’ve got, when you compare it to the way +others live. We need new things in a fine new flat.”</p> + +<p>On the day they were moving, Yetta said something. +The family were amazed into silence. Yetta was thirteen +now, a tall girl, rather plump, with black hair and flashing +eyes.</p> + +<p>“When we move, let’s get rid of some of our name,” +she said. “I hate it. It’s awfully long—Rosenheimer. +Nobody ever says it all, anyhow. Let’s call ourselves +Rosenheim.”</p> + +<p>“Why, why,” muttered her father, finally, “how you +talk! Change my name, as if I was a criminal or something.”</p> + +<p>“Aw,” Yetta pouted, she was her father’s favourite +and she knew it, “this family of greenhorns make me +tired. Rosenheimer—if it was longer you’d like it better. +Ike Rosenheimer and Carrie Rosenheimer and Yetta Rosenheimer! +It’s awful. Leaving off two letters would +only help a little—and that’s too much for you. Since +the Abramsons moved they are Abrams, and you know +it. And Sam—do you know what? At school they +called him MacDougal because he lived here on this +street and he liked it better than Sam, so he’s calling +himself MacDougal Abrams now. And here, you old-timers—”</p> + +<p>“She’s right, Mamma,” said Ike, “our names are +awful.”</p> + +<p>Mannie didn’t say anything. He sucked a great red +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_113">[Pg 113]</span>lollypop. At six one doesn’t care much about names. +Nor did Carrie, who was eight.</p> + +<p>There was a letter-box for each family in the entrance +hall of the new tenement building and a space for the +name of the family just above it. Maybe Rosenheimer +had taken the advice of his children. Perhaps he wrote +in large letters and couldn’t get all of his name in the +space made for it. Anyhow, Rosenheim was announced +to the world as the occupant of Flat 52.</p> + + +<h3>V</h3> + +<p>Flat 52 was quite as handsome as Mrs. Rosenheim +had dreamed it would be. There were four rooms in +it. In the parlour was the famous built-in mirror, with +a ledge below it to hold ornaments. And, before long, +ornaments there were, three big vases. They were got +with coupons from the coffee and tea store at the corner—it +was a lucky thing all the Rosenheims liked coffee. +There was the couch, too, but best of all was the new +table. It was brand-new—no one else had ever used it +before. Mrs. Rosenheim bought it in Avenue A and +was paying for it weekly out of the household allowance. +It was red and shiny and round and each little Rosenheim +was warned not to press sticky fingers on it, though +it was always full of finger marks.</p> + +<p>On the table was a mat of blue plush and on the plush +mat was—yes—a book—“Wonders of Natural History.” +It had been Yetta’s birthday present from her father +and was quite handsome enough, coloured pictures, red +binding and all, to grace even this gem of a table. There +was a new rug in this room, too, though it was new only +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_114">[Pg 114]</span>to the Rosenheims. There were roses woven right into +it and Grandma thought it was the most beautiful thing +she had ever seen. She liked to sit and look at it as she +rocked.</p> + +<p>Yetta, Carrie and Grandma slept in the front room—just +the three of them alone in the biggest room. There +was a cot, covered with a Turkish spread, for the girls and +Grandma slept on the couch—no sleeping on the floor +any more for this family. So wonderful was the new +home that there was a bedroom devoted exclusively to +the rites of sleeping. Mr. and Mrs. Rosenheim and +Dorothy occupied it. The third room was the dining-room, +where Ike and Mannie slept all alone on a cot +and weren’t afraid. No one slept in the kitchen or +bathroom at all. In the dining-room there was a whole +“set” of furniture, bought from the family that was +moving out, a square table and six chairs. It was lucky +Mannie and Dorothy were so little they could sit on +others’ laps.</p> + +<p>The dining-room with its fine “set,” brought the habit +of regular meals with it. In MacDougal Street there +was a supper-time, of course, but the children weren’t +always there and the other meals had been rather haphazard, +half of the family standing up, likely as not. +Now there was a regular breakfast in the morning, +every one sitting down, and early enough for Rosenheim +to get to work on time and Yetta and Ike and Carrie +to get to school. Lunch was still informal, eaten standing +around the kitchen. Supper was a grand meal, every +one sitting down at the same time, the table all set with +tablecloth and dishes, as if it were a party.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_115">[Pg 115]</span></p> + +<p>It was easy to settle down into the pleasant rhythm +of East Seventy-seventh Street. There were big new +tenements on each side of the street and before long each +member of the family made lots of friends.</p> + +<p>Rosenheim didn’t have as many friends as the others. +He didn’t care for them. His hours were long and he +was getting into the habit of working, sometimes, at +night. It takes a lot of money to pay rent—six dollars +every week—and buy clothes and food for a family and +save a little, too. Rosenheim didn’t complain unless +his usual solemn face and prediction of hard times can +be called complaining. It never occurred to him that he +had anything to complain about. Didn’t he have a fine +home and a lot to eat, a home grander than he ought to +spend the money for, even? When he wasn’t busy, he +and Abrams and a friend of theirs, sometimes a man +named Moses, would play cards long hours at a time, +talking in loud, seemingly angry voices and smoking +long cigarettes. Or, with coat, collar and shoes off, as +he always sat in the house, he would read the paper—he +could read English quite easily, but he preferred Yiddish. +He didn’t talk much and the children were taught “not +to worry Papa,” when he was at home.</p> + +<p>Grandma grew to like the new home in time, though +it never seemed quite as pleasant as that in MacDougal +Street. She did all of the cooking, of course, and could +order the children around as much as she wanted to, +though they were good children as a rule, when you let +them see who was boss. She would exclaim with clasped +hands over the grandeur of things and beg her God that +the people from her home-town might see “how we live +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_116">[Pg 116]</span>like this.” She was always busy. She never learned +to speak English well, and though at sixty-two she could +drive a bargain as good as ever, she didn’t feel quite comfortable +in the near-by shops as she had in MacDougal +Street. Gradually her daughter took over the marketing +from her.</p> + +<p>The spirit of change had reached Mrs. Rosenheim and +she did what she could to grasp it. She tried again to +persuade Grandma to take off her <em>sheitel</em>.</p> + +<p>“See, Grandma, these other people. Ain’t you as +good as them? It ain’t nothing to be ashamed of, a +<em>sheitel</em>, but here in America we do what others do.”</p> + +<p>But Grandma kept her <em>sheitel</em>. She couldn’t yield +everything to the customs of the unbelievers. She even +muttered things about “forgetting your own people.”</p> + +<p>Mrs. Rosenheim tried to acquire “elegant English.” +She was very proud of her children because their language +was unsullied by accent. But perhaps because she +never liked to read and it never occurred to her that +she might study, or because her tongue had lost its flexibility, +she was never able to conceal her foreignness. +She was becoming a little self-satisfied, too, a bit complacent +with her own ways, and this may have hindered +her progress. The new language issued forth in a strange, +twisted form, the “w’s” and “v’s” transposed, the intonations +of the Yiddish always noticeable. She managed +to make nearly all of the ordinary grammatical errors +of the native and a few pet ones of her own. Her +sentences were full of inversions. Her voice, never very +low, became louder and louder and the singing intonations +more marked as she grew excited. Rosenheim spoke with +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_117">[Pg 117]</span>an accent, too, which he always retained, but his voice +was quite low and he soon overcame this strange sing-song +of his native tongue. Then, too, Rosenheim never +talked very much.</p> + +<p>Mrs. Rosenheim bloomed in East Seventy-seventh +Street. Her mother did the cooking and Yetta helped +with the housework. Even then, with so many children +in the house, there was enough to do, but she spent much +time in visiting her neighbours, gossiping about her children, +the prices of food, other neighbours. Although +her family came first, she began to pay more attention +to herself, buying clothes that were not absolutely necessary, +cheap things that looked fine to her. She became +ambitious, too. She found that there was another life +not bounded by the tenements and that “other people,” +the rich part of the world, were not much different outside +of their possession of money. Her humility was wearing +away. “We’re as good as anybody” came to her mind, +and was beginning to fertilize. She didn’t want to associate +with any one outside of her own group, but +she liked to feel that others were not superior. The children, +continuing their acquisitiveness, encouraged their +mother.</p> + +<p>Yetta had her fourteenth birthday soon after the family +moved to East Seventy-seventh Street. She began to +mature rather rapidly, arranging her hair in an exaggerated +following of the fashion and even purchased and +wore a pair of corsets. She had a high colour and her +flashing eyes made her quite attractive. Her mouth was +rather wide. Yetta did not speak with a foreign accent, +but her voice was a trifle hoarse and was not well modulated. +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_118">[Pg 118]</span>She had a lot to say about nearly everything +and delighted in saying it. The niceties of conversation +had not been introduced into the Rosenheim family life +and most of the things Yetta thought of occurred when +some one else was talking. Her favourite method of +attracting attention was to interrupt or talk down, in a +louder voice, any one who had the floor. Ike had this +pleasant little habit, too, so between them conversation +rose in roaring waves of sound.</p> + +<p>Yetta felt that many things about her could be improved. +She began to criticize things at home—her +clothes; her mother’s language, which was too full of +errors, too singing to suit her daughter; the actions of +the younger children. She never liked to read, but she +“loved a good time” and was always with a group of +girls and boys, laughing and talking.</p> + +<p>Ike was much like Yetta, though a bit more serious, +more inclined to argument. He could argue over anything +even at twelve. He, too, had definite notions about +the upbringing of the younger children and the modernity +of the household. He didn’t want any one making fun +of the family he belonged to. His own name came in +for his disapproval about this time.</p> + +<p>He had a fight with a boy named Jim and Jim hit him +and called him names. But the cruelest part of Jim’s +name-calling had been merely to repeat, over and over +again, “Ikey Rosenheim, Ikey Rosenheim.” For this +cruelty Ike had fought Jim and had emerged not entirely +victorious, bringing back a black eye and the memory +of the derision in the mouth of the enemy.</p> + +<p>“I’m going to change my name,” Ike announced at +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_119">[Pg 119]</span>supper that night. “I don’t care what this family says. +You make me sick, naming me Ike. You might have +known. This family has terrible names. No wonder +people make fun of us. After this I’m—I’m going to be—Harold.”</p> + +<p>“Oh, no, not Harold,” Grandma wailed, with uplifted +hands.</p> + +<p>“No,” Mrs. Rosenheim groaned, “you’ve got to keep +the letter, the ‘I.’ You were named after your Papa’s +father.”</p> + +<p>“There’s a lot of good names beginning with ‘I,’” Yetta +encouraged. So, between them, they found Irving, +which seemed satisfactory to every one. Little Irving, +at school, told his teacher that Ike had been a nickname +and that the family wanted him called by his own name, +now. Jim, not satisfied with Irving Rosenheim as a +reproach, had to find something else to fight about.</p> + +<p>Carrie and Mannie and Dorothy were still too little +to bother about names. They begged for pennies for +lollypops on sticks, candy apples, licorice and other delicacies +that the neighbourhood afforded, satisfied to tag +after Mrs. Rosenheim as she did the marketing. They +were nice children, though of course Dorothy was a little +spoiled—the youngest child and always having her own +way about everything.</p> + + +<h3>VI</h3> + +<p>During the next year something came up in a business +way that caused Rosenheim and Abrams to hold long +consultations during many evenings. They nodded together +over bits of paper on which there were many figures. +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_120">[Pg 120]</span>Mrs. Rosenheim felt that they had “something in +their heads” they weren’t telling her about, but, being a +dutiful wife—and knowing her husband, and how useless +it would have been—she didn’t press matters. A few +weeks later she found out. E. G. Plotski had died suddenly, +leaving no near relatives except a wife. Abrams +had heard about the case. Mrs. Plotski couldn’t keep +up the business alone. If she couldn’t “sell out,” complete, +she was going to give it up and sell the machinery. +She had some cousins in a far-Western place called, +Abrams believed, Iowa, and was desirous of living with +them. If Mrs. Plotski “gave up the business” there +was a tremendous loss, it seemed to Abrams and Rosenheim—for +Plotski already had operators, customers, +“good will.” And with their knowledge of the pants +business....</p> + +<p>It seemed, indeed, a visitation, as if a whole pants +business had descended to them as a direct reward for +their long and faithful work. But Mrs. Plotski had +friends, not just in a position to buy the business, it +seemed, but quite capable of giving advice about selling +it. And herein lay the need of much nodding and figuring. +Finally it was settled. Abrams and Rosenheim +went to their several banks—it’s never safe to put all +of your savings in one bank, even if it does look like a fine +big one—drew out their saving accounts, for of course +they had no checking accounts, and, after the +usual legalities had been concluded, were the joint partners +of The Acme Pants Company, Men’s and Boys’ +Pants.</p> + +<p>After they had signed their names, Marcus L. Abrams +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_121">[Pg 121]</span>and Abraham G. Rosenheim, Rosenheim allowed his +stern face to relax into a rather sad smile.</p> + +<p>“Good, eh, Marcus? Here, I’m only ‘over’ seven years +and I’m partner in a business already. Of course, we can +expect hard times, but, a business ain’t anything to be +ashamed of.”</p> + +<p>The family saw Rosenheim’s new signature and liked it. +Irving wrote it above the letter-box. The G stood for +nothing in particular, but Rosenheim had no middle name +and of course he ought to have one. It was indeed +American. The neighbourhood did not notice, it was +used to changes.</p> + +<p>Abrams and Rosenheim worked all day and most of +the night. They “went over the books” with great deliberation. +They looked into every minute detail of the +business, and wrote numerous letters by hand on the old +Acme Pants Company letterheads that they found in +Plotski’s desk. When this paper was used up they ordered +more, retaining the cut of the building at the top +but substituting their names for the name of the deceased +former owner.</p> + +<p>They were very happy over their new business, +though you would never have known it by their actions. +They always wore long faces.</p> + +<p>The factory did well. People liked ready-made pants, +it seemed. The two men hurried around seeking new +trade, satisfied with as small a profit as possible. They +bought job lots of woollens from the factories and did +numberless other things to reduce expenses. Rosenheim +cut the pants and Abrams was not too proud to do his +share of the menial labour. Before another year had +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_122">[Pg 122]</span>passed the whole of the third floor loft belonged to the +Acme Pants Company.</p> + +<p>Mrs. Rosenheim was proud of her husband. It was +mighty fine, these days, to speak of “my husband’s +factory” to those women whose more unfortunate spouses +were forced to exist on mere wages handed them by their +overlords. But even this, in time, stopped satisfying. +What good does it do for your husband to own a factory +if you still live in a tenement in East Seventy-seventh +Street? Mrs. Rosenheim knew that her husband was +working hard and was nearly always worried over money +matters, bills to meet, wages to be paid. But, as long +as he actually was a manufacturer, and owner of a business, +a payer of wages, it was unbelievable that they +should live in a tenement. Weren’t they as good as anybody? +Several months ago the Abrams had moved. Of +course, with only two boys the expenses were less, but +what of that? And the Moskowskis—now the Mosses—had +moved, too. The Rosenheims had been in the tenement +three years and now the neighbourhood was filling +up with terrible people, straight from the Ghetto—or the +old country—and bringing foreign habits with them. It +was no place to bring up growing American children.</p> + +<p>It was Yetta who precipitated the moving. Although +he petted and humoured Dorothy, it was his oldest child +who was Rosenheim’s favourite. Now Yetta tried all +of her most endearing tricks.</p> + +<p>“Papa,” she said, “I’m sixteen. I ought to get out +of this neighbourhood. Ask Mamma. I’m almost a +young lady. I want good things—a fine man like you +with a factory shouldn’t keep his children in the tenements. +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_123">[Pg 123]</span>All of my crowd are gone. I miss them something +awful. You don’t want me to go with the—the +‘greenhorns’ who are moving in around here, do you?”</p> + +<p>Similar arguments managed to convince Rosenheim. +Anyhow, one night he nodded solemnly and consented to +move.</p> + +<p>“You women will ruin me yet, with all your spending,” +he said, but Yetta, tall though she was, jumped on his lap +and kissed his thin cheek.</p> + +<p>“None of that,” he said, in assumed brusqueness, as +he pushed her away. “You make a fool of your old +Papa, eh? Well, go along and get your fine flat.”</p> + +<p>Mrs. Rosenheim and Yetta, accompanied by Mrs. +and Miss Graham, a recent and becoming transformation +of their old friends, the Grabinskis, went apartment +hunting. They decided on the Bronx, new and good +enough for any manufacturer’s family. They had friends +there and there were lots of stores. It was a nice neighbourhood, +Yetta thought, with lots of young people who +wore good clothes. She could have a fine time.</p> + +<p>No longer were the Rosenheims satisfied with the +first apartment shown them. Yetta and her mother had +grown critical. Yetta’s ambitions had limitations, of +course. She didn’t aspire to an elevator apartment or +anything like that—but she didn’t want a tenement. +She wanted a big living-room, for she was approaching +the beau age and already was going to the theatre with +MacDougal Abrams and Milton Cohn. They visited +dozens of apartments, examining the kitchens and halls, +exclaiming over the plumbing. Grandma wanted a big +kitchen and she ought to have it, as long as she did most +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_124">[Pg 124]</span>of the cooking. And they had been crowded for years—Yetta +didn’t want any one sleeping in the front room, nor +even in the dining-room. Young girls do get such +notions! Mrs. Rosenheim wanted grand decorations in +the lower hall.</p> + +<p>After much step-climbing they found their apartment. +It was on the fourth floor, rear, of a walk-up apartment, +but the rent was forty dollars a month and they dared not +pay more. Rosenheim looked dour when the news was +broken to him, but, with sad headshaking and remarks +about business being bad, he said they might take it.</p> + +<p>The entrance hall of the apartment-house was of +marble. The letter-boxes were of brass and shining. +The stairs leading to the apartment were carpeted. The +apartment itself had seven rooms. A few years before +the Rosenheims wouldn’t have believed an apartment +could be so large. Now they all accepted it rather +indifferently. Wasn’t Rosenheim a factory owner? +Didn’t some of their friends live just as grandly? The +woodwork was shining oak. The floors glittered blondly. +Mr. and Mrs. Rosenheim had a bedroom all alone, +Grandma shared a tiny cubicle with Dorothy. Yetta +and Carrie had their room and there was a room for the +boys. All the rooms had new beds of white enamelled +iron, fantastically twisted and with big brass knobs.</p> + +<p>The Rosenheims got rid of most of their old things at a +sale before they left East Seventy-seventh Street. Then +Mrs. Rosenheim and Yetta bought things suitable for +the grandeur of their new home at an instalment house +in Sixth Avenue. There was a three-piece parlour set +stained to a red imitation of mahogany. The round +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_125">[Pg 125]</span>table had come with them, as had the vases. The dining-room +boasted a new “set,” a round table that pulled apart +and had four extra leaves and sat on a huge pedestal, +and eight chairs—two with arms, making one for each +of them. There were brand-new rugs, one for each +room, most of them in patterns of birds and beasts and +flowers in bright colourings, though the front room displayed +a gay and exciting “Oriental pattern.”</p> + +<p>One of the startling changes of the new régime was the +name above the letter-box. A simple and chaste A. G. +Rosen was announced in Irving’s most careful writing. +Rosenheim explained that, at the factory, every one called +him Rosen for short and it might make it confusing to +keep the old name. The family hailed Rosen joyfully. +Surely they were real Americans, now.</p> + + +<h3>VII</h3> + +<p>They were settled only a few months when Yetta +begged and got—a piano. Shiningly red, it matched the +rest of the living-room furniture. It was an upright, +of course, and Yetta draped a pale silk scarf embroidered +in gold threads over it, with a vase at either end to hold +it in place. Soon she and Carrie were taking lessons +from a Mme. Roset of the neighbourhood, making half-hours +horrible with scales and five-finger exercises.</p> + +<p>There were now other forms of art in the household, +too. For his birthday the children gave their father enlargements +of the photographs of him and their mother. +These were “hand-made crayons” in grey, with touches +of colour on lips and cheeks and framed in wide carved +oak, trimmed with gold. They were placed side by side +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_126">[Pg 126]</span>above the piano, which stood slightly diagonally in one +corner.</p> + +<p>The children were growing up. Yetta felt herself quite +a young lady and didn’t go to school. There was no +use going any more—she wasn’t going to be a teacher, +was she? She had a lovely handwriting, with fine loops +at the ends of the “y’s” and “g’s.” It seemed a shame +to spend her days in school when there were so many +things to do outside. No one tried to persuade her to +keep on going. Her father was slightly of the opinion +that too much learning wasn’t good for a girl anyhow. +Men didn’t like “smart” girls and Yetta was growing up. +If she had wanted to go to school he might have consented, +but she didn’t. She preferred putting on her best clothes, +her hat an exaggerated copy of something she had seen +in Broadway and had had made after her description at a +neighbourhood shop, a cheap fur around her neck, high-heeled +shoes. Thus attired, she went walking.</p> + +<p>In the morning she had to help a little with the bedmaking, +dusting and ironing. But in the afternoons she +was free. She’d meet some of “the girls” or “the boys” +and drink soda, laughing and giggling over things. She +used the latest slang and talked rather loudly. At night +there were dances or the crowd would go, in pairs or +groups, to the theatre, sitting in the gallery, usually, and +laughing heartily over the jokes. They were fondest of +vaudeville. Yetta was awfully happy when she had +enough spending money and a new dress—a bit more exaggerated +in style than any of her friends. She couldn’t +imagine anything finer than the new neighbourhood and +the new apartment.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_127">[Pg 127]</span></p> + +<p>Grandma was just a trifle bewildered in the Bronx. +She didn’t seem to fit in. The children, growing up, were +developing unexpected opinions of their own that didn’t +agree with her ideas. They called her old-fashioned and +giggled at her advice. There was plenty to do and Grandma +liked housework. But sixty-five isn’t young and +Grandma had worked hard in her day. Four flights of +stairs aren’t easy, either, so Grandma didn’t go out often. +Occasionally, she walked around the neighbourhood, not +knowing just what to do. Mrs. Rosen did all her own +marketing or telephoned for things—there was a telephone +in the new apartment. There were a few old +friends to go to see, foreign-born women, like herself, +and with these she would talk in comfortable Yiddish. +But each one lived several blocks away. You didn’t talk +to strangers in this neighbourhood, it seemed, and you +could go for weeks and not see any one you knew. A +funny place, America.</p> + +<p>Still, there were pleasant things for Grandma—good +food and the fun of preparing it, a comfortable home. +Mrs. Rosen didn’t like to work as well as she used to, +so finally she hired a woman who came in, one day a +week, to do the washing in the morning and the scrubbing +of kitchen and bath in the afternoon. Grandma was +quite excited over this innovation. For the first time in +her life she could fold her gnarled old hands and watch +some one do the work for her.</p> + +<p>“They should hear about this back home,” she would +say. “Abe with a factory and us with seven rooms and +a washwoman and all. We’ve got it lucky, ain’t it, +Minnie?”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_128">[Pg 128]</span></p> + +<p>Mrs. Rosen, though annoyed at her mother’s simplicity, +agreed. Already Mrs. Rosen was planning bigger things. +It didn’t seem at all impossible to her that some day they +might even have a regular servant girl.</p> + +<p>Mrs. Rosen was well satisfied, generally. Occasionally +she, too, regretted some of the pleasant things that +Seventy-seventh Street had meant for her. She had liked +the friendly chatter of the neighbourhood. Here in the +Bronx you had to be “dressed” all the time. In Seventy-seventh +Street you could go out in the morning in your +housedress, with a basket, and spend a pleasant hour or +so bargaining with the shop-keepers and talking with +friends, always meeting little groups you knew. On the +steps, in the evening you could call back and forth. +Money was good; she was glad she had it. A servant girl +would be fine; it was a lot of work for her and Grandma, +cleaning up after five children. But this neighbourhood +was stylish enough. You knew some of your neighbours +here, even if they weren’t so friendly. Maybe, after you +got better acquainted....</p> + +<p>It was nice, having a lot of rooms and new clothes and +all that. Mrs. Rosen finally met new acquaintances and +liked them. She played cards in the afternoons now and +a few months later joined a euchre club which met every +Tuesday afternoon at the homes of its members in turn. +There were “refreshments” after the game, cold meat and +potato salad, usually, and the prizes were hand-painted +china and “honiton lace” centrepieces. Mrs. Rosen won +quite an assortment as the months passed.</p> + +<p>Irving was getting to be a big boy. He looked a little +like his father, thin, a trifle sallow, with a slightly aquiline +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_129">[Pg 129]</span>nose—but much handsomer, his mother thought. +His eyes were not strong and quite early he had to wear +glasses. He adopted nose-glasses and before he quite got +used to them he had formed the habit of tilting his head +up, to keep them from falling off. He had rather a sharp +chin and wore his black hair straight back and sleek.</p> + +<p>When the family moved to the Bronx he was fourteen, +had on a first pair of long trousers, and was in the first +year of the high school. He was quick in his studies +and would argue with his teachers about anything under +discussion. He still liked long dissertations at home and +had about decided to be a lawyer. In the years that followed +he read quite a little, not so much for the love of +reading—he had little of that—but from a desire “to keep +up with things,” so he could discuss and dissect and argue. +He liked the theatre as he grew older, but preferred +serious dramas.</p> + +<p>Carrie was quieter than either Yetta or Irving, but she +observed a great deal. She liked to spend money, begging +it from her parents. “We’re rich, why can’t I have +more things?” she would say, buying unnecessarily expensive +ribbons and purses. She liked to correct the family, +too, and, when her mother grew vocal and her voice took +on the sing-song of her native tongue, Carrie would say, +“Don’t talk so loud, Mother. We aren’t deaf, you know,” +or “This is America. We try to speak English here.” +Mrs. Rosen would check herself rather shamefacedly, +instead of “calling the child down,” as she felt she should +have done. Carrie liked expensive clothes and she liked +putting them on and taking long walks with just one girl +friend, talking quietly. She thought Yetta’s crowd +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_130">[Pg 130]</span>awfully loud. Mannie and Dorothy were good-looking +little children, still coaxers of pennies and both rather +spoiled.</p> + +<p>The Acme Pants Company grew, but in spite of its +growth none of the family dared suggest any extravagant +changes. Rosen spoke too much about hard times for +that. And he did worry, too, for with the enlarging of the +business came the borrowing of money and notes to meet. +He worked at night for weeks at a time and grew thinner. +Outside of his usual solemnity he never complained. He +enjoyed the business as much for its own sake as for the +things he was able to give his family. It was far more +interesting and absorbing to him than they were. Even at +home his mind was filled with business detail and in the +midst of a meal or a friendly discussion his eyes would +grow vacant, he would fumble for a pencil and write something +down on an envelope. Spare evenings, he played +cards with Abrams or Moss or Hammer or fell asleep +over his newspaper—an English one, nearly always, now. +He still took off his coat in the house and sometimes his +collar and tie. It was Carrie who said to him, “Papa, +why do you start undressing as soon as you get home?” +He always kept on his shoes and sometimes his collar and +tie after that.</p> + +<p>He never took much part in the family life. Irving +bored him. He was not interested in “women’s doings,” +and could ignore whole evenings of conversation about +people and clothes. His business was the one thing he +cared to talk about—his family knew nothing about business. +What was there left? None of them knew or +cared anything about world affairs. It isn’t likely Rosen +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_131">[Pg 131]</span>would have been interested if they had. So, unconsciously, +he drew apart more and more. He paid bills, +with a little grumbling. He handed out money when necessary. +He greeted all luxuries with something about +“hard times.” He accepted all innovations with apparent +disregard. He was never cross or disagreeable. Every +one was a little quieter when he was at home. Otherwise +it was as if he were not there at all.</p> + + +<h3>VIII</h3> + +<p>A year later, when she was eighteen, Yetta became, +suddenly, Yvette. The crowd she was going with +thought Yetta an awful name, old-fashioned and foreign. +And certainly there was nothing foreign about her. She +had seen Yvette in a book—and, with the right initial and +all—Yvette Rosen sounded fine. After that she frowned +at any one, even old Grandma, if the old name crept +in.</p> + +<p>The family became more extravagant as the days +passed, though not extraordinarily so. But why not? +Even Rosen had to admit, grudgingly, that the factory +was growing. Little things—Mrs. Rosen had a fine black +silk dress, with revers of green satin, lace covered. She +bought Grandma a black silk, too, for days when company +came in. And Yvette—how that girl did wear out +clothes, to parties nearly every night! And Irving +wanted “his own money” and was put on an allowance, +though he always begged his mother for more before the +month was half over. Books cost a lot, it seemed, and +you can’t be a tightwad with a bunch of fellows. And +Carrie had a notion that the family was very rich—when +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_132">[Pg 132]</span>she got new things she wanted the best. Even Mannie +and Dorothy needed new things frequently.</p> + +<p>In 1906 Irving was graduated, at 18, from the high +school. It was a big event for the family. All of them, +even Grandma, who didn’t go out much, attended the +graduation exercises. At the hall they chatted about how +fine and smart Irving was until Carrie, who could be very +petulant at fifteen, “shushed” them all into silence.</p> + +<p>On the way home Mrs. Rosen couldn’t help calling her +husband’s attention to his family—weren’t they something +to be proud of? To think that only a few years +before....</p> + +<p>It was Irving who first spoke dissatisfaction with the +Bronx apartment. Irving was to enter Columbia University +in the fall and he wanted to be a little nearer his +school.</p> + +<p>“You don’t know how it is,” he said, one night at dinner. +“Every one laughs at the Bronx. I went to a +vaudeville show with Yvette last week, though Heavens +knows why she goes to it, and at the mention of the Bronx +every one laughed. It isn’t only that. Here we are in a +walk-up apartment, when we could have something better. +I’m starting—to—to make friends. I’ve got to +make a place for myself. I’m eighteen. When we were +younger it didn’t make much difference, now we ought to +get out of here.”</p> + +<p>Carrie agreed with him.</p> + +<p>“It certainly is terrible here,” she said. “I don’t like +this high school, either. I want to go to a private school. +There are several good ones in Harlem and a real fine one +on Riverside Drive that I’ve heard about. Irving is right. +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_133">[Pg 133]</span>You’d think we were poor, the way we live here—no servants +or anything. When I meet new girls I’m ashamed +to bring them home. Ada is going to private school, and +Beatrice has moved to Long Island. I don’t know any +one around here—but trash and poor people.”</p> + +<p>Even Mannie, at thirteen, was tired of the Bronx and +Dorothy, at nine, was ready for any change.</p> + +<p>The Bronx suited Yvette. She had her crowd here. +Still, there was something in what the others were saying. +Harlem sounded more stylish certainly. She had friends +there, too, and could get acquainted easily enough.</p> + +<p>Mrs. Rosen didn’t know. She felt, with Yvette, that +things were very nice as they were. The old friendliness +of East Seventy-seventh Street would never come back, +and she, too, had acquaintances in Harlem. It would +cost more to live—but didn’t they have the money? +There could be a servant and new furniture—the children +had been hard on the things that had been so shining four +years ago. After all, they were rich people, and the children +had to have advantages.</p> + +<p>Gradually Rosen, grumblingly, was won over. +Couldn’t he see how terrible it was—all their money, and +still living in the Bronx? How could people know he was +a success? Their apartment was old-fashioned—that +funny tub and only one bathroom for the whole family. +And Grandma ought to have a room for herself—with five +children there ought to be a servant girl—what was the +use of having money if you couldn’t get things with it?</p> + +<p>Again there was a series of house-huntings. This time +Irving accompanied his mother and Yvette. Irving was +very critical. Things others pronounced “grand” he +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_134">[Pg 134]</span>didn’t like at all. At eighteen he considered himself quite +a man. As a coming lawyer he felt that his surroundings +should reflect his own glory. What did his folks know +about things? Didn’t he go to homes they never entered, +the Wissels’ and the Durham-Levi’s? Irving wanted a +home with style to it. He hadn’t definite ideas about +decoration, but it must look fine and big as you came in. +He thought they ought to inquire a little about the neighbours—find +out if they were just the sort one would +want to live near. Their present neighbours certainly +were awful.</p> + +<p>The new apartment was in West 116th street. The +building was large and red, with white stone ornaments. +The lower halls were grandly ornamental and a great velvet +curtain hung toward the rear. There was an elevator, +rather uncertain, with iron grille work in front. That +would make it nice for Grandma—she could get out more. +The living room had a gas grate and the woodwork was +stylishly mission finished.</p> + +<p>Followed the usual buying orgy and this, too, Irving +consented to attend. The piano came with them, but +there was a new parlour set, great heavy pieces of mission, +square and dark, with leather cushions. A huge mission +davenport was the pièce de résistance. The dining-room +had a brand-new “set”—there might be company to dinner—a +big table, twelve chairs and a sideboard with a +mirrored back. In the bedrooms there were great brass +beds, the posts three inches across, and large mahogany +dressers with “swell fronts,” curved generously outward.</p> + +<p>In the living room, too, there were fine rugs, “real +Orientals” this time, about six small ones, oases of red +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_135">[Pg 135]</span>and blue on the light inlaid floor. The family admired +the lighting fixtures—a cluster of fourteen lights in the +living-room, to which they added a fancy lamp with a +shade composed of bits of coloured glass in a floral pattern; +in the dining-room a great dome of multi-coloured +glass hung directly over the table.</p> + +<p>Then Mrs. Rosen hired their first maid, though the +family referred to her as “the girl.” Her name was Marie +and she didn’t have a very easy life of it. At first Mrs. +Rosen and Grandma helped her, but Mrs. Rosen disliked +housework increasingly and she didn’t want Grandma +to work if she didn’t. Grandma had always done all the +cooking, but as “the girl” learned to prepare the dishes +liked by the Rosen family she gradually took over the +cooking, too. Then, when “the girl” complained about +working too hard a woman was hired for two days each +week to do the washing and heavy cleaning.</p> + +<p>Grandma wasn’t quite as content as she had been, most +likely because she wasn’t so busy. Grandma couldn’t +read English at all and Yiddish very little, even if the +children would have allowed a Yiddish paper in the house, +now, which is doubtful. Grandma had never had the +reading habit, nor, for that matter, any habits of leisure. +She had thought that life meant service and now there was +nothing to do. It was harder for her to go out because +she walked very slowly. There were fewer places to go, +fewer friends, fewer Yiddish shops. People would stare, +embarrassingly, at Grandma’s <em>sheitel</em> and Grandma +hadn’t learned to speak English very well. Mrs. Rosen +spoke with an accent, but that was different; people could +hardly understand Grandma.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_136">[Pg 136]</span></p> + +<p>There was always lots of company in the house and +Grandma liked young people, but there was so little to +say to them. Unless she knew them awfully well they +couldn’t understand her, or Yvette or Irving would frown +at her attempts at conversation. Every one smiled at +Grandma and shook hands, but that was all—it was more +comfortable to stay in her room, usually. There seemed +to be fewer old people than there had been. Fewer +seemed to live in Harlem, anyhow. In MacDougal Street +and even in East 77th Street and the Bronx, Grandma +had met old ladies, occasionally, people from her own village, +and had had long talks with them, interrupted with +nods and shakes of the head and tongue cluckings. Here +it was different. She loved her family, of course, but she +didn’t seem to fit in. Darning stockings wasn’t enough. +Of course, Grandma was glad the family was doing so +nicely—a fine big apartment with an elevator and a servant +girl—and she had two new bonnets and her old one +not nearly worn out yet—where did she go to wear it?—and +her own room and everything she wanted. And Irving +bringing her home candy she liked and Yvette singing +for her—Grandma knew she ought to be awfully +happy. Yet there seemed to be something—missing—</p> + +<p>Mrs. Rosen grew to like the new apartment, though +at first it had overawed her a little. But before long she +belonged to two card clubs—she had known members of +both of them when she lived in the Bronx. She even +tried to persuade Rosen to learn euchre or bridge so that +he could join a club that played in the evening. But +Rosen didn’t like “ladies’ games.”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_137">[Pg 137]</span></p> + +<p>There were some things about the new neighbourhood +Mrs. Rosen didn’t like at all. The neighbours seemed so +cold and distant. As if she wanted to know them! +Wasn’t her husband the owner of a factory—with more +money than any of them, more than likely? Yet they +minced by her, as if they thought so much of themselves. +Well, she could put on airs, too!</p> + +<p>That winter Mrs. Rosen went to a beauty parlour for +the first time. The women of her set were going, it +seemed. It made your hair thicker to have it shampooed +and waved, especially when it was starting to get grey. +Though it did hurt a little, she grew used to manicures, +too, after a while. Mrs. Rosen even considered dieting. +But, after a few attempts she gave it up. Just the things +she shouldn’t eat were the ones she liked best. After all, +she was forty-four, though she knew no one would ever +guess it, and if at that age you are a little plump who is +there to say anything against it? She bought a fur coat +that winter, seal, of course, with a great sweep to it and +a hat to match, with a curved feather. Now, let one of +her neighbours say something! She knew she looked +mighty fine—as good as any one in her crowd. Why +shouldn’t she? Wasn’t her husband a well-known manufacturer?</p> + +<p>Rosen wasn’t quite as busy as he had been, though the +Acme Pants Company was getting along splendidly. But +with things in good condition there was time to spare. +He could have spent more time with his family had he +cared to but it seemed tiresome when he did. Irving +annoyed him more than ever with his debates and arguments. +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_138">[Pg 138]</span>In the evening he fell asleep over his paper—he +didn’t care for other literature except an occasional trade +magazine. He still played cards with a few old friends +he had made when he first came to America, and who, like +himself, had prospered. He kept his coat on in the evenings +now, or wore the smoking jacket Carrie had given +him. What if their friends came in—he had to look nice +for their sakes, didn’t he? There was a little room, off +the living room, which the family spoke of as “Papa’s +den.” There was a couch here, brought over from the +Bronx, and a desk. Under pretence of being busy, Rosen +would read in there, until he fell asleep.</p> + + +<h3>IX</h3> + +<p>The next year there was a great change in the Acme +Pants Company. An opportunity came almost over night +and he and Abrams, after long discussions—at the +factory this time—joined the Rex Pants Company, +McKensey and Hamberg, partners, and the four +formed the Rex Suit Company, Gentlemen’s Ready-Tailored +Suits. Ready-tailored suits, it seemed, were +more in demand every day. The four had capital +enough to swing something good and to introduce a new +name. Until then, most ready-made suits were mere +trade goods. But a few firms had learned the value of a +trade name and advertising, and Rosen and Abrams +agreed with McKensey and Hamberg that there was room +for one more and great possibilities in the idea. They +rented an immense loft building and were soon making +and selling a line of ready-made suits under the name of +the King Brand. They hired an advertising man, giving +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_139">[Pg 139]</span>him an absurdly high salary, an office of his own, with a +stenographer and all of that, and agreed to pay exorbitant +rates to magazines just for the privilege of a half or a +quarter of a page of blank space on which to advertise +their wares. A few months later, tall, exquisite young +men, in graceful poses, accompanied by impossibly thin +young women or sporty dogs looked at you from the magazines +under such captivating captions as “King’s Suits +for the Kings of America” or “Every Inch a King in a +King Brand Suit.”</p> + +<p>Rosen was interested again. Here, expenses were +mounting, though profits might mount, too. Now he +could figure again, and plan and talk things over with +Abrams. Abrams, however, was Abrams no longer. He +was Adams, now. He had signed himself Adams when +the new firm was organized. Even Rosen’s name had +changed—he dropped one more letter. The indefinite +Abraham G. had been altered and he blossomed forth as +Abraham Lincoln Rose, to the delight of his children.</p> + +<p>Irving was going to Columbia. He had joined a debating +club and even his mother had to admit that, at this +time, he was pretty much of a bore. He even called his +father “Governor” on occasions and twirled a cane on +holidays. He was “getting in with fine people” and dined +at the homes of new friends, bringing back stories of families +who didn’t interrupt when you were talking and who +had servants who knew how to serve meals. He felt he +was going to be quite important and he wanted his family +to live up to him.</p> + +<p>Carrie was going to a private school—the only kind of +school suitable for rich girls. It was in Riverside Drive, +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_140">[Pg 140]</span>and she met some mighty fine girls there. Like Irving, +she brought home stories showing the heights of other and +the degradation of her own family. “—We are such +rich people and still we never have anything.”</p> + +<p>Carrie objected to her name, too, it seemed. “Carrie” +was such a cheap name. Nobody would know you were +rich with a name like that. She was going to be Carolyn +after this. Carolyn Rose was a pretty name, wasn’t it?</p> + +<p>Carolyn loved to spend money. She had decided that +the family was really wealthy, that it was all bluff about +hard times and saving. She wanted a gold mesh bag +and got it before Yvette even knew there were gold bags +in the world. Carolyn had a fur coat as expensive as her +mother’s, but with a smarter, more girlish cut. She disregarded +the stupid idea, made up by some one who didn’t +have the money, probably, that diamonds were for older +people, and persuaded her parents to give her a big diamond +ring, set in platinum, for her seventeenth birthday.</p> + +<p>Yvette’s clothes were always a bit loud, too extreme, +even cheap looking. Although she paid big prices for +them they were still tawdry. Carolyn’s tastes were not +quiet, but she managed to look “expensive.” Her hair +was black and sleek and she knew she had “style.” She +liked collars a bit higher than any one else wore, when they +wore high, a bit lower when low collars came in. She +was no slavish follower of fashion, like Yvette. She +added a bit of “elegance” to whatever fashion had dared +to ask for. She liked smooth broadcloth suits, much +tailored, for day wear, and elaborate chiffon evening +gowns. She talked with an “accent” but not the kind her +mother had. She said “cahn’t” when she could remember +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_141">[Pg 141]</span>it, and thought one ought to have “tone.” She had +languid airs.</p> + +<p>Mannie was growing into a nice child. He was quiet +and he started to read when he was just a little fellow. +Now you could find him, any time, curled up with a book +he’d brought home from school. He didn’t care much +for out-of-door games. He was the first of the family to +have literary leanings, though Dorothy read, too, when +she couldn’t find anything that pleased her better.</p> + +<p>Dorothy was petted and spoiled by the whole family. +She got things even before she could think to ask for +them. Because there was never anything for her to be +cross about the family said she had “a wonderful disposition” +though she had a pouting mouth and did not +smile very much.</p> + +<p>Dorothy was “a little beauty.” Although the family +kept always with their own race and declared, on all possible +occasions, their great pride in it and their aversion +to associating with those of other faiths, the thing that +delighted them most about Dorothy was, for some unexplainable +reason, that every one said “she looked like a +Gentile.” Mrs. Rose would repeat to her friends that +people had said, “you’d never guess it—just like a Gentile +that child looks.” Her friends agreed and there was +nothing in their minds but cordial congratulation over the +fact. Dorothy had lighter hair than the others and grey +eyes. She was a slender little thing, quiet, determined, +impatient.</p> + +<p>“We ought to have an automobile,” she said, one day. +That was in 1909, before cars had become as much of a +necessity as they are now, and Dorothy was only twelve. +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_142">[Pg 142]</span>Two weeks later, after many hugs, her father bought a +car, a red one that would hold any five of them. Irving +soon learned to drive it and later Carolyn and Dorothy +learned, too. Grandma could never be persuaded to enter +the car—it didn’t look safe to her. Mrs. Rose rode, but +it was always sitting stiffly erect with unrelaxed muscles. +Rose asked Irving to drive him places, occasionally, when +he was in a hurry. He never liked the automobile except +as a convenience.</p> + +<p>That year Grandma died. She was sick only a few +days and didn’t complain even then. The doctor came +and fussed over her and finally a nurse came, but +Grandma persuaded her daughter to send the nurse away. +Grandma seemed quite content to die, and though the +family was fond of her, her going did not cause any undue +emotion. Mrs. Rose wept loudly at the funeral and +Rose looked unusually solemn in the weeks that followed. +He had been very fond of Grandma and had appreciated +the little things she always loved doing for him. But, +after all, as Mrs. Rose would say to her husband, “it ain’t +as if she was a baby at 72. It ain’t as though Mamma +ain’t had everything money could buy these last years. +A grand life she’s had, nothing to do and her own room +and all. Many times she spoke of it. It’s good we was +able to give it to her. She was a good woman but now +she’s gone and I can say I ain’t got nothing to reproach +myself for.”</p> + + +<h3>X</h3> + +<p>In 1910, when Yvette was twenty-four, she became +engaged to marry MacDougal Adams. Already MacDougal +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_143">[Pg 143]</span>was sales manager for the Rex Suit Company, +and he was doing well. He had grown into a handsome +fellow who would be quite fat, one day, if he didn’t +diet carefully. He was crisply black-haired, ruddy-faced. +He made friends easily and was jovial most of the time. +He had no subtleties, but Yvette was not the one to notice. +She considered him very modern, and liked the way he +“caught on to things.” Her friends—and the announcement +Yvette mailed to the newspapers—spoke of the +affair as “a childhood romance,” as indeed it was. It +pleased the Roses and the Adams, too. They gave a +reception at a hall on 125th Street to celebrate the occasion, +each of the families inviting special friends, with +Dorothy and little Helen Nacker to pass flowers to +the guests. There was a band behind artificial palms, and +waiters in white aprons passed refreshments. Yvette +wore a dress of pink and Carolyn wore yellow. Carolyn +didn’t think the party fine enough, and Mannie and Dorothy +didn’t like it much, either. The rest of the family +thought it a successful affair.</p> + +<p>Mrs. Rose, Yvette and Carolyn spent the following +weeks shopping. Yvette had to have a complete trousseau, +starting with table linens and ending with silk stockings. +Three months later Yvette and MacDougal were +married at the Waldorf with Carolyn and Maurice Adams +as attendants. Only the most intimate friends were invited +to the elaborate banquet which followed, though +later there was an “informal reception” with much wine. +MacDougal had just bought an automobile—black, +though Yvette would have preferred a gayer colour—and, +after a short Atlantic City honeymoon the young couple +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_144">[Pg 144]</span>took a new and elaborate apartment in Central Park West +and settled down, with two maids, to domesticity.</p> + +<p>“Ain’t it grand, Papa?” Mrs. Rose had said to her +husband after their first call on the young couple. And +even Rose had to agree that Yvette was getting all +that could be expected.</p> + +<p>Carolyn was “the young lady of the family,” now. +She was not as easily satisfied as Yvette had been. She +called Yvette’s crowd “loudly vulgar,” though she was a +trifle loud, herself, at times. She raised eyebrows and +drew away when fate included her in her sister’s parties. +She was glad when her sister married—now she could entertain +her loud friends in her own home. Maybe Yvette +would even tone down a little; she laughed too loudly, +and her terrible taste in clothes! Her mother talked +loudly, too, except when she tried very hard to remember—and +it was terrible the way she shrieked and sing-songed +when she grew excited—but at least you could +remonstrate with her.</p> + +<p>The Harlem apartment didn’t suit Carolyn at all. +Here she was, out of school, nearly twenty—and living +in—Harlem. She had gone to a series of morning lectures +at one of the hotels and one of the lectures had been +on furniture—it seemed all of the things in the Harlem +apartment were entirely wrong. Carolyn knew this was +true, too. Hadn’t she been to other homes, where people +knew things? They were rich and had one maid—and +she didn’t know how to wait on the table—and the family +treated her as if she were one of them. And Irving +talked back to his father, rather impudently, even when +company was there, and the car was a sight—she was +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_145">[Pg 145]</span>ashamed to use it. The least they could have was a new +car and a chauffeur.</p> + +<p>Irving agreed with all of Carolyn’s criticisms, excepting +those which concerned himself. He was twenty-three, +why shouldn’t he have things nicer? Dorothy, +going on fourteen, also found the Harlem house distasteful.</p> + +<p>“A terrible neighbourhood,” said Dorothy, who became +Dorothea, that year. “It’s too far from school and we +do need a new car. I’m ashamed to tell any one where +I live. I want a big room and my own bath, so I can ask +girls to stay all night, if I want to.”</p> + +<p>Rose sighed, said the family would break him and +times were hard. Mrs. Rose sighed, too. Still, Harlem +wasn’t such a friendly neighbourhood—the other couldn’t +be worse. And with only one girl there was too much for +her to do. If they had a man to drive the car and a +cook, maybe—</p> + +<p>Carolyn went house-hunting alone. She said she’d take +the others with her “when she found something.” Two +weeks later she took her mother and Dorothea to see the +new apartment. It was a foregone conclusion with Carolyn +that they would take it—just the formality of mailing +the lease for her father’s signature.</p> + +<p>The apartment was on Riverside Drive, in a huge +building of cream-coloured brick. At the door was a +negro uniformed in dark green, and another similarly clad +attended the mirrored elevator. The halls had Oriental +rugs and were lit and draped with an expensiveness that +suited even Carolyn. Of course it was pretty far out +on the Drive—but it looked rich—and living on the Drive +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_146">[Pg 146]</span>was rather grand, at that. Mrs. Rose was speechless at +first, but later the apartment seemed quite satisfying. +She liked the ornateness, the grandeur—it was even finer +than Yvette’s, than any of her friends. Why shouldn’t +it be, with Abe a partner in a big factory and all—?</p> + +<p>The woodwork of the apartment was white enamel. +There were little panels in the living room, waiting to be +papered, and the dining-room had a white enamelled plate +rail. The lighting fixtures were of the new “inverted” +style, on heavy brass chains ending with carved brass +holders of white frosted globes. There were French +doors of mahogany leading into the living-room and dining-room, +a huge butler’s pantry with numerous shelves, +a kitchen with a big hooded range and immense white +sink, large bedrooms, four baths.</p> + +<p>“If—if your Papa will pay for it,” Mrs. Rose admitted +weakly.</p> + +<p>“Oh, he’ll pay,” said Carolyn, “why shouldn’t he—a +rich man like him?”</p> + +<p>When the men of the family came to see the apartment +Irving pronounced it “immense.” Mr. Rose looked at +the apartment, saw the library that he could have for his +own, the big bedroom and bath—and gave in with unexpectedly +little persuasion. After all—his friends were +living well—why shouldn’t he? He was making money—the +family might as well spend it. Didn’t the way +you live show how well you were doing? Not that he +was making so much, of course, but, with Yvette married—if +Carolyn wanted the apartment.</p> + +<p>Mannie and Dorothea were rather indifferent. Still, +Mannie was in prep school and cared most about books—even +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_147">[Pg 147]</span>writing a poem occasionally. He was eighteen. At +fourteen, Dorothea didn’t care about details as long as +they were moving. Her new room was nice and big. +Still, they ought to have a new car—Dorothea was quite +pouty over the old one.</p> + +<p>Carolyn took charge of the furnishings of the new +apartment. Mrs. Rose, with uplifted hands, declared +her ignorance of periods “and such nonsense,” but begged +her daughter not to spend too much money. “You know +your Papa. There is a limit even with him.”</p> + +<p>Irving gave a long-winded dissertation about what to +get and told about a fine apartment he had visited, farther +down on the drive—two girls he knew, their father +was a criminal lawyer. Carolyn didn’t listen very closely. +She knew what she wanted.</p> + +<p>Accompanied by her most intimate friend, Eloise Morton, +daughter of S. G. Morton, the box people (both of +Eloise’s parents had been born in America), Carolyn visited +a number of shops. She called the stores where +Yvette traded “middle class,” but she was afraid of the +decorating shops and called the things in the window +“junk.”</p> + +<p>“You might like that old stuff,” she said to Eloise, +“but I can’t see anything to it. Old chairs, stiff and +funny—a hundred dollars apiece and then a fake, probably. +A whole room full of that doesn’t look like anything. +I like things that show their full value, that you +can tell cost a lot of money.”</p> + +<p>Eloise agreed that her friend had the right idea.</p> + +<p>Carolyn didn’t allow any mere furniture clerk to suggest +or dictate to her. Hadn’t she seen a lot of fine +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_148">[Pg 148]</span>homes? Didn’t she go to every new show in town and +look especially at the stage settings? Hadn’t she heard +a furniture lecture? Who could advise her?</p> + +<p>She didn’t want her mother with her, she’d “simply +spoil things if she started to talk.” Carolyn and Eloise, +alone, could give an impression of taste, elegance and +riches.</p> + +<p>Carolyn decided on Adam furniture for the living room. +If the ghosts of the brothers Adam groaned a bit Carolyn +was too busy to hear. She liked “sets” for the living +rooms—didn’t every one have them?—so she chose +a great davenport of mahogany with cane sides and back, +motifs slightly after some of the Adam designs scattered +over the woodwork. The upholstery was rose velour. +There were two huge chairs of similar design, one a rocking +chair. Other chairs were of cane and mahogany, one +a Venetian, one a fireside. There was a great oblong +table, too, that Carolyn knew showed good judgment, +for it was of “dull antique mahogany.” It, too, bore +motifs of the house of Adam. There was a floor lamp +with a rose shade and two table lamps to match and +several pieces of “stylish” painted furniture, factory +made. Carolyn looked with scorn on the little rugs that +had seemed so fine a few years ago. She chose now an +immense Oriental in rose and tan for the living room and +a Chinese rug in dark blue to combine with the intricately +carved Queen Anne furniture of the dining-room.</p> + +<p>There were elaborately patterned filet lace curtains +throughout the house. Before this Mrs. Rose had always +hemmed and hung the curtains. Now Carolyn gave +orders for them. The over-drapes and portières were of +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_149">[Pg 149]</span>rose velour, heavily lined, and above the windows were +elaborate valances, edged with fringe and wide gold +braid. There were blue velour curtains in the dining-room.</p> + +<p>In the bedrooms Carolyn’s imagination had full play. +Her parents’ room was in mahogany with twin poster +beds. Her own room was in ivory, cane inset. Dorothea’s +was white enamelled, painted with blue scenes.</p> + +<p>For the walls of the living-room, between the panelling, +Carolyn chose a scenic paper in grey. On this were to +be hung elaborate oil paintings in scalloped gold frames: +“A Scene at Twilight,” “The Fisherman’s Return.” In +the dining-room the paper was in tapestry effect, red +and blue fruit and flowers.</p> + +<p>The family moved into the new apartment in October, +1911. The moving was simple for the old furniture was +to be sold and professional movers attended to the packing +of ornaments and dishes.</p> + +<p>Mrs. Rose and Irving were impressed with the effects +wrought by Carolyn’s taste and her father’s money, but +it did not take the family long to settle down to the +pleasures of life that Riverside Drive opened to them.</p> + + +<h3>XI</h3> + +<p>Moving to the Drive, the Roses made the final change +in their name. Mannie, usually quiet, was the one to +propose it.</p> + +<p>“Rose is so—so peculiar,” said Mannie. “Any one +could tell it had been something else, Rosen or worse. +I’m eighteen and go to College this fall. I’m not going +to have a name so—so ordinary. Let’s change it to +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_150">[Pg 150]</span>Ross. That’s not distinctive but it isn’t queer or foreign. +I’m changing my first name just a little, too. I’ve never +been called Emanuel, anyhow. Mannie isn’t a name at +all. I’m going to register at College as Manning Ross.”</p> + +<p>There was no letter-box to announce the change, but +the elevator man knew the new occupants of Apartment +31—he wrote the names down with a blurring stub of a +pencil to be sure to remember them—were Mr. and Mrs. +A. Lincoln Ross, the two Misses Ross and two young +men, Irving and Manning.</p> + +<p>The family had liked Rose—but there might be something +in what Manning said. But no more changes. +Mr. Ross put his foot down, this time. He was meeting +important men in business, Gentiles, and he didn’t want +any more monkey-business about names. Ross was all +right and Ross it would have to stay. And it did.</p> + +<p>Mrs. Ross took great delight in getting her new servants. +It made her feel superior and important, driving +up to an employment agent and interviewing prospective +retainers. She took Carolyn along for advice and counsel—Carolyn +went out a lot and knew about such things.</p> + +<p>Carolyn would have liked a retinue, but Ross rebelled—expenses +were awful and each servant was another +mouth to feed. The old “girl” had got married so they +finally chose a cook who was not above helping with other +things, a waitress who could combine housework with +waiting, and a chauffeur. Besides, the washerwoman +would still come for two days each week.</p> + +<p>Soon after the family was settled, Mr. Ross bought a +big limousine, American made, but one that Carolyn +thought looked really expensive. The chauffeur was in +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_151">[Pg 151]</span>uniform, of course. He happened to be a young Irish +boy and it seemed to Carolyn, sometimes, that he smiled +a bit sarcastically and annoyingly as he held the door +open for them, especially after her mother had spoken +with an accent or her old sing-song.</p> + +<p>Mr. Ross didn’t object to the new luxuries. It was +much more comfortable driving to the office in the limousine +than waiting for Irving or one of the girls to take +him or depending on less comfortable modes of transportation. +He had more room to himself, too. He liked +the way the new cook prepared things—he was getting +indigestion and had to be careful about what he ate—though +he still remembered with real emotion the pot-roasts +and fish and stuffed goose that Grandma had delighted +to prepare. These new dishes—salads and things +like that—everything served separately—you could get +used to it—it didn’t make much difference—here he was, +used to a maid in cap and apron, waiting on table—and +Minnie used to it, too, excepting when she forgot and +talked to her or reached across the table for things. Still, +Minnie meant well, a good woman, rather fat these last +years, but a good woman who loved her family—none +of this new foolishness some of the women had, he’d +noticed—</p> + +<p>Mr. Ross didn’t pay much attention to women. He +never had. He saw what fine girls his daughters were, +that was about all. He couldn’t have recognized half a +dozen of their best friends, whom he saw constantly at +his home, if he had passed them on the street.</p> + +<p>His business—that was something. Still, even that +didn’t keep him busy, the way it used to. This new arrangement, +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_152">[Pg 152]</span>the offices and the factory separated—of +course it was for the best. He could always go over to +the factory when he wanted to, though there wasn’t much +need—machinery he didn’t understand, everything in +such order—with a head for every little department, not +to mention the big ones. And, with three partners you +couldn’t say things as if it were your own business. Mr. +Ross was fifty-three, but it hadn’t been an easy fifty-three +years and things had gone along rather rapidly for +a while. Not that he was an old man—far from it. Still, +things that had passed seemed pleasanter than they had +seemed in the passing—and things to come lacked lustre.</p> + +<p>This wasn’t age,—certainly not—he felt as well as he +had twenty years ago, practically. Give him some real +work to do, you’d find out. But there was so little to do, +now. You’d go down to the office about ten and dictate +a few letters and potter around with things. You’d examine +“swatches” and find that an expert had already +given them a chemical analysis. You’d go to luncheon +and be careful about what you ate. After luncheon, a +little sleepily, you’d dictate more letters, if there were +any more and see a few men on business, young upstarts, +most likely, or Gentiles who wanted something for nothing—or +consult with your partners. Then, you’d drive +home after a while and read the paper or listen to Carolyn +play on the new player piano or talk with Dorothea, +though there wasn’t much to talk about. Dinner then, +and a game with Adams, though he had rheumatism these +last years and wasn’t the man he had been. Or Moss +would drive over. There was a club, even, if you cared +to go to it—a lot of strange men who didn’t care anything +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_153">[Pg 153]</span>about you—a club—at least they were of your own +race—Dorothea was always asking questions about why +the family didn’t mix with other people—such notions a +child gets—</p> + +<p>The Rex Suit Company was still progressing. The +great factories were outside New York, but the business +offices occupied a whole floor of an office building, each +partner with his own mahogany furnished office, with its +rows of bells and its private stenographers. There was +an expert to decide each thing. MacDougal was in the +sales department and Maurice, the younger Adams boy, +was advertising manager—a big advertising agent had +charge of all of the advertising, of course. And what advertising +the firm did, too! Double pages in the popular +weeklies at thousands of dollars a page. Every one was +familiar with the “Kingly Men.” Girls cut them out +and mounted them for their rooms. “America’s Kings in +Kingly Suits” had been familiar enough to get applause +at a musical comedy when it was used to introduce two +juveniles. “Every Inch a King for the Kings of Creation” +and other well-known slogans ran in letters four +feet high above the artist’s conception of the “Kingly +Man” on the billboards.</p> + +<p>Each year there was an ornate catalogue of the styles, +“for the Prep Youth,” “for the College Man,” “for the +Younger Set,” “for the Older Fellow.” Hundreds of merchants +all over the country displayed King Brand signs +and carried King Brand suits. The Rex Company had +invented half sizes, adjustable models and the giving with +each suit of an extra bit of the goods and two extra buttons +for mending. There wasn’t much you could plan +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_154">[Pg 154]</span>about for the Rex Company. Likely as not, some one +else would have thought of it first, anyway.</p> + +<p>Mr. Ross was accustomed to meeting men, now. He +liked to meet them, in business. He would listen, +weigh what they said, learn from them. He never talked +much. He always retained his look of severity. He was +known as “a crackerjack of a business man,” “a man +you couldn’t put anything over on,” but the other partners +were good business men, too. There was nothing +for Mr. Ross to work for.</p> + +<p>Outside of business he had little. His family still +seemed apart, yet he would have done anything to have +saved them trouble or pain. He liked Yvette because +she was frank and lively, but these last years he liked +Dorothea, too, though there was nothing against Carolyn, +a fine girl, if she did like to spend money. Minnie was +all right—the boys would be, too, when they got a little +older and settled down.</p> + +<p>Mr. Ross didn’t mind listening to the mechanical piano +or the Victrola at home, but he did not care for other +kinds of music. Concerts made him miserable and fidgety. +He saw nothing in them and after several for +charity and one visit to the opera he refused to partake +of music outside of the home. He had never learned to +like reading. He was still content with the daily papers +and glanced, occasionally, at a weekly devoted to current +events. He knew nothing about art and said so. He +didn’t want to be bothered with “such notions.” Drama +of all kinds bored him and even musical comedies entertained +him only for a little while. Usually he got to +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_155">[Pg 155]</span>thinking of business in the midst of things and lost all +consciousness of what was going on.</p> + +<p>Mr. Ross had no social ambitions, so, with no business +worries and no outside interests, his days began to drag +unpleasantly. He thought often of other days, of “the +other side”; when he had been planning to come to +America—he was glad that was over—of MacDougal +Street, the hard work he had done there, the long hours, +the over-time, the little economies so both ends would +meet, then the newer tenement, with things a little easier, +the beginnings of the factory—those had been real days—staying +awake planning to meet bills, figuring to the dollar +how to get money to pay the “help” and have +enough left for living expenses, then Harlem and now +Riverside. It was good to have planned and worked. +Still, now he was used to his comforts. He liked space +and quiet and the car—but, with nothing to do—</p> + +<p>Mrs. Ross had long since relaxed her anxiety over her +husband. He had never talked business and he seemed +just like always, willing to listen to her stories of how +she had spent the day. Mrs. Ross was quite content +with the Drive. The aloofness of the neighbours, that +had been disagreeable to her in Harlem, became one of +her own characteristics now. She became more and more +aware of her own importance. She had disliked the way +“outsiders” and Gentiles had treated her, years before. +Now, her last vestige of humbleness gone, she felt herself +more than “as good as any one.” Wasn’t she Mrs. A. +Lincoln Ross, wife of Ross of the Rex Suit Company, a +real figure in New York? Didn’t she get her picture in the +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_156">[Pg 156]</span>paper when she gave money to charity? Didn’t people +treat her with respect as soon as they found out who she +was? She was frankly fat, but she didn’t mind. She had +expensive dressmakers and tailors and she thought the results +of her toilet satisfactory. After all, she was nearly +fifty.</p> + +<p>Her voice had toned down, during the years, as had +Yvette’s. When talking with those she considered important, +she even tried to put an elegant swing into her +sentences. Usually, though, her voice was accented, ordinary, +uninteresting. She still made errors and sometimes +quite a lot of sing-song crept in.</p> + +<p>In the morning Mrs. Ross attended to her household +affairs, giving directions to the servants, ordering her own +provisions over the telephone, even planning meals. She +looked into the ice-box to see what provisions remained, +rubbed fingers across furniture for dust, examined linens. +She was a good housekeeper. In the afternoon, with +Yvette, whom she found most congenial, or an acquaintance, +she went for a drive or shopped. She dropped +most of her old friends who had not progressed and she +had no sentimental regrets concerning them. A few +earlier friends she kept up with, asking them for luncheon +or for a drive, with a hint of patronage. Through her +daughters she met other women of her own age and circumstances. +To these she tried to be pleasant, using her +best language and manners. She had no intimacies with +these women.</p> + +<p>During the second year of the family’s residence on the +Drive, Mrs. Ross was asked to belong to several committees +of important charitable organizations. She +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_157">[Pg 157]</span>joined these gladly and gave generous sums. She liked +the society of her own race. She did not feel at home +with “outsiders” nor know what to say to them—she +felt that they were constantly criticizing her. She had +decided social ambitions, however, and wanted Mr. Ross +to join a well-known club composed of members of his +people. She was proud to know women who, a few years +ago, or even now, were she less wealthy, would have ignored +her. To the arts she was as indifferent as her +husband.</p> + + +<h3>XII</h3> + +<p>Irving was a lawyer now. He had a nice office in one +of the newer buildings devoted to professional men, but +not much practice. His father found it just as convenient +to give him some of the smaller business of the firm as +to increase his allowance. When anything important +came up Mr. Ross agreed with his partners that it was +best to let a better-established lawyer handle the case.</p> + +<p>Irving—who became Irwin about this time—could have +joined a large firm as a junior member, but he preferred +independence. He didn’t like to work hard or long and +he had heard of the tasks performed by the younger +members of big firms. He liked to waste time, browsing +around book-stores, walking through the lobbies of hotels, +calling on friends. He had a large acquaintance with +women and had as many dinner invitations as he could +accept. Wasn’t he a great catch, a young lawyer with +a rich father? And good company.</p> + +<p>At twenty-five, Irwin still loved an argument. Although +never a great reader, he liked to pose as one, +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_158">[Pg 158]</span>quoting well-known authorities, reading and talking about +authors unknown to his hearers. His hair was always +immaculately sleeked, though it had just a perceptible +wave. He had his favourite manicurist at one of the +larger hotels. He smoked an expensive brand of cigarettes, +carrying them in an elaborate silver and gold case +and fitting each one carefully into an extremely long amber +cigarette holder before smoking it. He used affected +gestures, pounding on a table to emphasize a point he was +making. He still wore nose-glasses, now large lensed and +tortoise rimmed, and from habit he held his head too +high.</p> + +<p>Irwin was proud of his acquaintance with half a dozen +actresses of minor importance. These he took to teas, +dinners and suppers, talking later as if the engagement +had had special significance. He was careful about his +acquaintance with other women, choosing those that were, +to him, of social importance. He had the same distrust +his parents had for those outside of his own race. He +never attended services at a synagogue, but to him religion +and race were intermingled and he did not attempt +to differentiate between them. Since boyhood he had +suffered from prejudice far more than his sisters. He +was proud to associate with “outsiders,” liked to think he +looked and spoke and acted like one of them. But he +would never have married a Gentile.</p> + +<p>Carolyn was now the liveliest member of the Riverside +Drive household. She didn’t think much of race and +creed. She envied other women in some things, but she +thought herself all that was desirable and attractive. +She liked best the people of her own race, but she preferred +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_159">[Pg 159]</span>them with American or English accents, appearance +and accomplishments. She liked to associate only +with people of great wealth. Always gowned a bit ahead +of fashion, perfectly groomed, silky, smooth, crisp, she +went to the theatre, evenings and matinées, to luncheons +and to parties, giggling and laughing, quite moderately, +of course, and had a gay time. She loved musical comedy +and after-theatre suppers. She didn’t care for the +opera, but even the most serious drama could give her +something to giggle about afterwards. Her hair and +eyes were dark with something of the Orient about them, +but her skin was fairer and clearer than her mother’s or +Yvette’s, her round little nose was always white with +powder and her eyebrows narrow and smooth, her lips +and cheeks pinkly attractive.</p> + +<p>You could see Carolyn almost any fair afternoon on +the Avenue with Eloise or Helen or Mary Louise, stopping +in at one little shop for a bit of lingerie, at another +for flowers. They spent money with no thought of its +value. Most of them could not remember poverty. +Those who could found spending the best method of forgetting. +Occasionally they met several of “the boys” for +tea. When they didn’t they bought tea for themselves +at Maillard’s, usually, or the Plaza. There was always a +car waiting and they wore low pumps or slippers and the +thinnest of stockings even when the snow was on the +ground.</p> + +<p>Carolyn “went with” Jack Morton, Eloise’s brother. +She had met Eloise at the Riverside Drive School. Jack +was at Harvard, then, but he was graduated a year later +and was “catching on” nicely in his father’s box factory. +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_160">[Pg 160]</span>The Mortons thought the Rosses a step below them socially, +for the Mortons were a little farther removed from +“the old country.” Outside of that, they liked Carolyn. +So no one was surprised, when, in 1914, when Carolyn +was twenty-three, she announced her engagement to Jack. +The Rosses thought Carolyn had “done well,” as indeed +she had, for Jack Morton was a likeable fellow, full of +practical jokes and fond of poker playing, but on the +whole quite a desirable husband.</p> + +<p>Ross gave his daughter a diamond lavalliere for an engagement +present, and as Carolyn picked it out herself +it was quite glittering. He promised her the furniture for +her new apartment as a wedding present. The Mortons +gave Carolyn a small car, green, with cushions to match, +which she pronounced “a young wonder.” They had an +engagement “at home” and were married a few months +later at one of the newer hotels. Carolyn hoped that it +was quite evident to the friends of both families that they +were both very wealthy.</p> + +<p>The young couple took a three weeks’ trip to Florida—Jack +couldn’t stay away from the business longer than +that. Then they went to the Astor, but Carolyn wanted +to entertain her friends and a hotel does keep you cooped +up so. She and Jack finally decided on a small apartment +in a high-priced new building in Park Avenue. +They had only one maid to start with for they both preferred +eating at restaurants. With the car you could eat +at a different place and go to a show or some place every +night.</p> + +<p>Without Carolyn the Riverside Drive apartment +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_161">[Pg 161]</span>seemed quiet. Manning went to Harvard for a year, dissatisfied +with the unexclusiveness of Columbia.</p> + +<p>Dorothea liked school, too, and was now taking a few +harmless courses which gave her something to do, though +they didn’t satisfy her. Nothing quite pleased Dorothea. +She hadn’t been satisfied with Carolyn’s school—girls of +only one creed went there, so narrow. Dorothea said +that school was a joke. She had chosen a more expensive +school, patronized by daughters of rich men generally. +Her new study courses were at Columbia and with private +teachers. Mr. Ross didn’t like them.</p> + +<p>“It isn’t as if she had to be a teacher,” he said. “A +girl can have too much book-learning.”</p> + +<p>But Dorothea went. She had always been different. +Her clothes, for one thing. Couldn’t she have had anything +she wanted? Look at Carolyn—always dressed +like a picture—the family had to admit that, themselves. +Even Yvette, though she liked bright colours, was a good +dresser. It wasn’t as if Dorothea was economical. She +spent as much as Carolyn did. Carolyn wore things that +“looked expensive,” rich broadcloth, elaborate furs—Dorothea +preferred rough tweeds. She paid extraordinary +sums for little suits that Mrs. Ross thought looked +as if she’d got them for twenty dollars in Third Avenue. +They were of mixed weaves, in grey or tan, and she wore +big tailored collars over her coats, not mannish looking +or freakish, just plain. She paid fifty dollars for her +little round velour hats. She wore heavy gloves and +shoes, even when she went out with Carolyn, sleek in +white gloves, thin pumps and furs. Dorothea paid huge +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_162">[Pg 162]</span>prices for plain little evening frocks which she bought +at exclusive little places. Even then she was not satisfied.</p> + +<p>Dorothea wore a perpetual little pout—something had +always just gone wrong. She spent her time wondering +what to do, dipping in “courses” on a variety of subjects, +at settlement work, “going with people she didn’t have +to associate with,” her mother thought. Clad in a trim-fitting +habit she rode whole mornings in Central Park. +She exhibited funny little Belgian Griffins at shows. She +went to benefits and tournaments. Yet she was always +a trifle “put out,” a bit bored. Things weren’t ever good +enough, or quite what she had expected.</p> + +<p>For her twentieth birthday Dorothea asked for and received +a new car, a good-looking foreign-made roadster. +About time the family had more than one car! She +didn’t want a chauffeur. Hadn’t she been driving as long +as she could remember, learning on the old red one? She +liked driving the car best of all.</p> + +<p>The family, the family’s friends, what any one said or +did—all displeased Dorothea. She made sport of Irwin’s +pet affectations to his face, to her mother’s horror. +She called Yvette’s things “impossible” and made fun of +Carolyn’s diamonds. She treated her mother as a person +of no consequence, never asking her opinion about things. +Although she had nothing in common with her father, she +made a great fuss over him and he grew to like her better +than any other member of his family. She took him +out in her car, though he didn’t quite enjoy the rides, +expecting to be tipped over at every corner. Dorothea +drove perfectly, with the recklessness of a racer.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_163">[Pg 163]</span></p> + +<p>Dorothea went with “outsiders.” She seemed as much +at home with members of other races as with her own. +She’d bring in unexpected guests, making the family feel +ill at ease. While guests were there she’d bring up bits +of family history the rest were trying their hardest to +keep out of sight.</p> + +<p>“Dad,” she’d say, “here’s some one that wants to meet +you. He’s heard a lot about you.... Can you believe +that less than twenty-five years ago Dad came to America +with no money at all?” then, with a little gesture and a +smile, “and now look at him.” She’d throw an arm +around her father, who, ill at ease, would greet the +stranger.</p> + +<p>If Mr. Ross had been unsuccessful, he would have +looked like any of a thousand of his race whom you can +see leaving the shops any evening at the closing hour. +But his wealth haloed him. It was impossible to separate +him from his money. Thin, stoop-shouldered, solemn, +quiet and accented of speech, he stood for success. To +Dorothea her father was immensely important. She was +the first who had ever made much of him. It embarrassed +him—he was a simple old fellow in many ways—but +he liked it.</p> + +<p>Mrs. Ross thought Dorothea didn’t appreciate her.</p> + +<p>“It’s always her Dad, her Dad,” she’d say, “never a +word about how I worked when she was small or all I +do for her—just Dad this, Dad that—and Irwin don’t +like it—that you’re always bringing up old times, about +Papa being a cutter. The other night when that fine +Miss Tannenheim was here, you said it, when you was +talking to that big blond fellow you brought in....”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_164">[Pg 164]</span></p> + +<p>“You’re a dear, Mother,” Dorothea would give her +mother the tiniest touch of a kiss on her broad cheek, +“but Irv’s a mess and he knows it. The Tannenheim +person is a cheap old thing with a mean eye and she’ll +marry him some day, if he isn’t watching.”</p> + +<p>“Dad,” said Dorothea, one day, “let’s move. You +can’t guess how sick I am of Riverside Drive.”</p> + +<p>“What’s the matter? Haven’t you got things nice +here?”</p> + +<p>“Nice—on the Drive?”</p> + +<p>“We’re always moving, it seems. Only four years +ago....”</p> + +<p>“I know, Dad. That’s just it. A man of your position +ought to have a home. Apartments are nothing. +This one is simply awful. Riverside Drive is fearfully +ordinary, vulgar—don’t you think so? Such a cheap collection +of the newly rich. Dad, you ought to have your +own home in town, anyhow, and something permanent in +the country.”</p> + + +<h3>XIII</h3> + +<p>The idea of a home appealed to Mr. Ross. He felt, +now, that he had always wanted a real home. Dorothea +called for him in the car and they explored the streets +east of Fifth Avenue. Finally, without consulting the +rest of the family, Ross bought a five-story house in East +Sixty-fifth Street, just off Fifth Avenue.</p> + +<p>“Mother will think this is terrible,” Dorothea said as +she kissed him, “but you and I like it, don’t we? I +know it cost an awful lot, Dad, but you can see it’s really +an investment. After it’s made over a bit inside it will +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_165">[Pg 165]</span>do for a family home for years. Imagine you—after all +you’ve done—not having a family home.”</p> + +<p>Ross really liked the house. It seemed almost—home-like. +The rest of the family were not pleased. The married +daughters—of course it was not their affair—but, +they wondered if it was just the right thing. Of course +nice people lived in houses, but none of their friends.</p> + +<p>“That’s why we bought it,” said Dorothea.</p> + +<p>Irwin “guessed it was all right.” Manning was indifferent.</p> + +<p>Mrs. Ross held up bejewelled hands and wailed.</p> + +<p>“Oh, Dorothea, just as I’m beginning to get into things +and can ask people here to a fine apartment on the Drive—an +address I can be proud of—and here you buy an +old house—I thought a young girl like you would want +things swell—here we’ve got servants and all—”</p> + +<p>“Don’t you worry,” said Dorothea, “it will be ‘swell’ +enough—awful word. And as for servants—”</p> + +<p>The family moved to the East Sixty-fifth Street house +a few months later. Dorothea didn’t run around after +furniture as those of her family who had chosen furniture +before her had done. She turned the whole house over +to Miss Lessing, in Madison Avenue. Miss Lessing’s +corps of exquisitely minded young men came in, looked +around, made sketches, brought drapery material and +wood finishes, all of which Dorothea examined critically.</p> + +<p>“At last we’ll have some place we can ask our friends,” +she said.</p> + +<p>The house in East Sixty-fifth Street was rather nice. +It was done in English things, mostly, painted walls and +rather soft taffetas. There were some big easy chairs that +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_166">[Pg 166]</span>could be pulled around, comfortably, in front of the fireplace. +Perhaps because of its seeming simplicity and the +plainness of the walls and carpets Mr. Ross liked it more +than any home he had ever had. He felt it belonged to +him. Mrs. Ross never liked it.</p> + +<p>“It’s too plain,” she said, “nothing to it. No one would +believe how much it cost you, Papa. Mrs. Sinsheimer +has got an apartment on Park Avenue, just a block from +Carolyn. Fourteen rooms. She had a decorator, too, +but he got different things than this—gold furniture. It +looks like something. We had a fine place on Riverside +Drive and Dorothea drags us here, where there ain’t even +lights enough to see by, at night.”</p> + +<p>Still, Mrs. Ross found out, from what people said, +that there must be something desirable about the new +home. She even acquired a bit of the patter Dorothea +used, pointing, with something like pride, to “a real Chippendale +escritoire, one of the nicest examples in America,” +and “some Wedgewood plaques, three, from an +original set of four, you know,” and “of course, we are +getting old and it’s nice we can have a home where we +can gather the sort of things we like, as a background.”</p> + +<p>Irwin didn’t “think much of the place, myself,” but it +was a good idea, the old folks having a home ... he was +glad he didn’t have to be ashamed of it, though, for his +part ... now, that country place Dorothea was talking +about....</p> + +<p>Yes, Dorothea had been talking about a country place. +After they were settled in the new home, she continued to +talk. They had five servants now—they wouldn’t even +need two sets—Dad could see how it took that many to +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_167">[Pg 167]</span>run any kind of a house—and they could just shut up the +town house in Spring and open it in Fall. All the family +could be there, too, Yvette and the new baby, and Carolyn +and their husbands ... “a real family together. +Dad, a permanent family like ours ought to have a decent +country place.”</p> + +<p>The country place was on Long Island, finally. Dorothea +picked it out and put the decorations in the hands of +the same firm of decorators, who did rather startling +things with coloured wicker, chintz and tiled floors.</p> + +<p>It was near a famous country club and Dorothea knew, +as did the rest of them, that none of the men of her family +could ever be admitted. It didn’t seem fair to her, of +course, and yet ... Dad was a great one—there oughtn’t +to be any place Dad couldn’t get into. But Dad didn’t +care. Though, from things he said, Dorothea knew he +had felt things ... expected them. He hadn’t even +hoped this much of life. Irwin didn’t like being left out +of things ... and yet, Dorothea, looking at Irwin, hearing +him argue in his rather nasal tone, gesturing with his +long amber cigarette holder, couldn’t blame members of +the club, exactly.... It wasn’t because of Irwin’s race +... maybe the members, themselves, weren’t so wonderful +... and yet there were her two brothers-in-law, one +rather fat, both slow-minded, card-playing, a bit loud and +blatant, always bringing money into the conversation ... +Yvette, loud, laughing, so heavy, mentally, Carolyn, with +her cheap talk of money and spending ... her mother +... it wasn’t fair to criticize her, her mother’d had a +hard time of it when she was young, and yet....</p> + +<p>Dorothea knew that, somehow, the men she liked didn’t +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_168">[Pg 168]</span>belong to her race. Hamilton Fournier, now ... of +course, if she’d marry him, there would be an awful talk, +lots of crying and going on about religion ... that sort +of thing. She could hear her mother ... she remembered +when Freda Moss married,—“He’ll throw it up to +you.” Yet, if you are proud of your race ... doesn’t +that ... can you have a thing “thrown up to you” that +you are proud of? It was a big problem, too big for +Dorothea. She felt that she’d always had everything she +wanted ... she could keep on having....</p> + +<p>The family settled down comfortably in the new home, +Manning with them. He was going to school in town, +now.</p> + +<p>Mrs. Ross was getting to like the new home better ... +it wasn’t Riverside Drive, of course, but people didn’t +look down on her here. She was even getting in with +Mrs. Rosenblatt—now that she lived near her. That +crowd—she didn’t have their education, but what of it, +she was richer than most of them. Who were they, to +be so exclusive? Maybe, by next year, if she donated +to their Orphans’ Nursery Fund....</p> + +<p>Mr. Ross’s indigestion seemed a little worse. The doctor +came to see him several times each week and he had +to be more careful with his diet. There seemed to be less +to do at the office. He could retire, of course, but that +would take away the only interesting thing he had—the +few hours at the office. He even tried outdoor exercise, +but after one attempt, he gave up golf as impossible. He +gave to organized charities rather liberally and was even +appointed on a committee which he never attended—he +knew it was his money they wanted. He would sit, as +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_169">[Pg 169]</span>he had always sat in the evening, falling asleep over his +paper, or, bundled up beyond the necessity of the +weather, he would climb into the car and spend a few +hours with an old friend, or some one would come to see +him, playing cards, as always. But a few of the old +friends had died, another had moved away ... there +had never been many of them. He was just an old man, +and lonesome, with nothing interesting to do or think +about....</p> + + +<h3>XIV</h3> + +<p>Manning stopped school the year after the family +moved into their new home. He had had a year at +Harvard and a year or so at art school. Now, at +twenty-two, he felt that he was a sculptor. His father +was disappointed—Manning had started out a nice +boy—it did seem that one of the boys....</p> + +<p>But Manning shrugged sensitive shoulders at anything +as crude as the clothing business, even wholesale. His +soul was not in such things. And Mr. Ross had to admit +that the position of model was about the only one in the +establishment that Manning could have filled. Manning +went in, rather heavily, for the arts that the rest +of the family had neglected. Of course Dorothea read, +but Manning thought she skimmed too lightly over +real literature. And Irwin—an impossible, material fellow.</p> + +<p>Manning wore his hair a trifle long. He talked knowingly +of Byzantine enamels and the School of Troyes. +He knew Della Robbia and the Della-Cruscans. There +was nothing he didn’t know about French ivories. He +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_170">[Pg 170]</span>knew how champlevé enamelling differed from other +methods ... there were few mysteries for Manning. +His personal contributions to Wanty consisted of fantastic +heads, influenced slightly by the French of the +Fourteenth Century, in bas-relief—very flat relief, of +course.</p> + +<p>Manning’s friends felt they formed a real part of New +York’s “new serious Bohemia.” They ate in “unexploited” +Greenwich Village restaurants, never complaining +about the poorly cooked food, sitting for hours at +the bare, painted tables, talking eagerly in the dim candle +or lamp light. They expressed disgust when “uptowners” +discovered their retreats and sometimes moved elsewhere. +You could find them every Saturday and Sunday +night in parties of from four to ten, at the Brevoort, +sometimes with pretty girls who didn’t listen to what they +were saying, sometimes with homely little “artistic” ones, +hung with soiled embroidered smocks, who listened too +eagerly, talking of life and art, revolution and undiscovered +genius.</p> + +<p>There was no question that Manning’s father should +continue his allowance—there is no money in sincere art +these days. Manning knew that even his father must +recognize that. Manning spent his summer with the family +on Long Island—it was hot in town. But, when one’s +family is of the bourgeoisie, it does draw one’s energy so. +In the autumn Manning decided he must have a real +studio, some place he could work and expand, going to +“the town house” for week-ends. Having one’s family +uptown was quite all right, of course—but you couldn’t +expect an artist to live with them.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_171">[Pg 171]</span></p> + +<p>Mr. Ross agreed to the studio. He was getting accustomed +to Dorothea’s friends, unbelievers though they +were. He found he could not accept the artistic friends +that Manning thought so delightful.</p> + +<p>Manning found his studio, finally. The rent was terrific, +of course, but the building had been rebuilt at great +expense and was absolutely desirable in location, construction, +everything. He furnished it himself in Italian +and Spanish Renaissance things. Rather nice! When +it was furnished—though they probably couldn’t “get it” +he’d let the family see it.</p> + +<p>One Sunday, after a family reunion dinner, Manning +announced that his studio was done. If the family liked +they might all run down that way—a sort of informal +reception ... of course, they probably couldn’t understand +it all....</p> + +<p>It was in the Village, of course, but not “of” it. Did +they think the Village was slumming? Uptown people +did. But that’s where you’d find real thought, people +who accomplished things....</p> + +<p>“Why, my new studio has real atmosphere”—Manning +ran his fingers through his hair as he spoke. “It’s +in a wonderful old building, magnificent lines and the +architect left them all—it’s just inside he’s remodelled. +I’ve the third floor front, two magnificent rooms, a huge +fireplace, some lovely Italian things ... and the view +from the window is so quaint and artistic ... of course +you may not understand it ... this family ... it’s +just a block from Washington Square.”</p> + +<p>“Why, that’s where....” began Mrs. Ross.</p> + +<p>Irwin silenced her.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_172">[Pg 172]</span></p> + +<p>“Don’t begin old times, Mamma. Most of us haven’t +as long memories as you,” he said.</p> + +<p>“Come on, now that we’re all here, let’s go down,” +Manning went on, “I want you to see something really +artistic. A friend of mine, DuBroil—I think you’ve +met him—did me a stunning name plate in copper, just +my name, Manning Cuyler Ross. I’m so glad I took +Cuyler for a middle name last year. And there is just +the single word, ‘masks.’ I thought it was—rather good. +And I’ve a stunning bit of tapestry on the south wall. +Come on—you’ve got your cars here, we’d better get +started—”</p> + +<p>It was a pleasant drive. The three cars drew up, almost +at once, in front of Manning’s studio, as he, in the +front car, pointed it out to them.</p> + +<p>They made quite a party as they turned out in front +of the building—a prosperous American family—Mr. and +Mrs. Lincoln Ross, well-dressed, commanding, in their +fifties, which isn’t old, these days; MacDougal Adams, +plump, pompous; Yvette Ross Adams, in handsome furs +and silks; Jack Morton, sleek, black-haired; his always +exquisitely gowned wife, Carolyn Ross Morton; Irwin +Ross, in a well-fitting cutaway, eyebrows raised inquiringly, +chatting alertly; Dorothea Ross, attractive and +girlish in rough tan homespun, and Manning Cuyler +Ross, their host, pleasantly artistic.</p> + +<p>“Here’s the place,” said Manning. “No elevator, real +Bohemia, three flights up, uncarpeted stairs. Come on, +Mother.”</p> + +<p>Mrs. Ross was strangely pale, and on the faces of +Yvette and Irwin and MacDougal Adams there were curious +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_173">[Pg 173]</span>shadows. The rest, save for Mr. Ross, were too +young to remember. As for him he broke, for the first +time in years, into a broad smile. Manning went rattling +on.</p> + +<p>“This,” he proclaimed, “is the way to live! None of +your middle-class fripperies. Plain living, high thinking—this +is the life!”</p> + +<p>They came to the studio at last, and all stood about in +silence while Manning explained its charms—the clear +light, the plain old woodwork, the lovely view of the +square, the remote, old-world atmosphere. In the midst +of his oratory Mr. Ross sidled up to Mamma Ross and +reached stealthily for her hand.</p> + +<p>“Do you remember, Minnie,” he whispered, “this room—this +old place—those old days—”</p> + +<p>“Hush,” said Mamma Ross, “the children will hear +you.”</p> + + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> +<div class="chapter"> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_174">[Pg 174]</span></p> + + + <h2 class="nobreak" id="AMYS_STORY"> + AMY’S STORY + </h2> +</div> + + +<h3>I</h3> + +<p class="drop-cap"><span class="upper-case">When</span> Amy Martin was thirteen years old +she read, in a book she had borrowed from +the Fortnightly Library, something that +interested her a great deal. She liked the thought so +much that she accepted it quite thoroughly and +kept it with her as a delightful secret. It was to the +effect that each person’s life is an interesting plot and +that, if written out, it would make a fascinating story.</p> + +<p>To Amy the idea opened up infinite avenues of adventure. +Until then she had taken for granted her life in +Belleville. Now, other things seemed just about to +happen to her.</p> + +<p>Amy was one of two children. Her brother Clarence +was two years younger, a slow, shy, blond boy. Her +father was a fat, soft fellow, with bushy reddish hair +which stood up in a stiff halo from an always slightly red +forehead. He had no chin at all, but he did have rather +a thick neck, so that below his mouth his chin and throat +formed a sagging, uneven line. He carried his head a +bit high, and his prominent nostrils seemed as peering +as his eyes.</p> + +<p>Mrs. Martin was a neat, dark-haired woman, a trifle +sleek and oily as to complexion and hair. She liked to +spend her time mixing not particularly good cakes or +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_175">[Pg 175]</span>talking with her neighbours, taking hours to elaborate +over trifles. She liked to give the impression of being +always busy, though she kept one servant and did not +do much of anything.</p> + +<p>Mr. Martin was in the retail hardware business. On +the front of his store and on his letterheads he used the +picture of an ax, in red, with the irrelevant motto: “It +Pays to Trade at Martin’s.” There was only one other +hardware store in Belleville, so he had quite a good +trade.</p> + +<p>The Martins lived in Myrtle Street, one of the nicest +streets in Belleville. The house was of clapboards, +painted a cheerful yellow with white trimmings, and had +a wide porch with a scroll-work railing. The yard had +several nice fruit trees and a variety of bushes placed +without regard to landscaping. The house was cut up +into small and not particularly attractive rooms.</p> + +<p>At thirteen Amy was a freshman in High School and +already a recognized member of Belleville’s “younger set,” +with dancing school Saturday afternoons, parties on Friday +nights and many Christmas-week activities. After +she read that every life is an interesting story, Amy began +to visualize herself as the heroine of a definite romance, +still without a plot, but alluring and pleasant. The +thought became personal, immediately. She forgot that +every other life in Belleville contained a plot for a story, +too. The thought seemed to belong only to her. Life +stretched out, fragrant with possibilities of living.</p> + +<p>Crossing the street on an errand—to borrow a cup of +sugar from Mrs. Oglesthorn—Amy noticed the shadow +of a tree on the dusty street. She made up sentences:</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_176">[Pg 176]</span></p> + +<p>“As Amy crossed the street, the sunshine and shade +cast contrasting shadows on her—”</p> + +<p>“Amy ran across the street, enjoying the warm sunlight—”</p> + +<p>She made up frequent sentences. Why not? Wasn’t +she a person in a story? Wasn’t anything liable to +happen to her at any time? Often, after that, she thought +of herself in the third person.</p> + +<p>Amy’s first year in High School was pleasant enough. +She envied Luetta Corman when, in the Christmas cantata, +Luetta was chosen Queen of the Good Fairies and +wore white tarlatan and spangles, while Amy, as one of +the Pleasant Dreams, had to be content with a silver-starred +wand and pink cheesecloth. What did that +matter? Later, she was going to live, to have important +things happen to her. She could laugh at these little +disappointments in Belleville.</p> + +<p>The next year Amy had a real ambition. Because +several people had praised her singing, she decided she +had a good voice and should become a singer. The Martins +had an upright and rather tinny piano, a symbol of +small-town gentility, and Amy had had three years of +piano lessons.</p> + +<p>She had no talent or real love for music, and she hated +to practise. She felt that learning to sing would be +more pleasant than learning to play. She was rather a +pretty girl, with light brown hair and indefinite blue-grey +eyes. In her imagination she saw herself on the +concert stage and in opera even, costumed in any of the +rôles she could think of. On the stage she would find +real romance.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_177">[Pg 177]</span></p> + +<p>Her vocal teacher came to her house for two half-hour +lessons a week. She was not an inspired teacher, but +Amy needed nothing better than Miss Patten could give. +She hated scales and breathing exercises. But she sang, +eagerly enough, sentimental songs. Those by Carrie +Jacobs-Bond were her favourites. After six months of +lessons she sang “Spring Rain” in a thin, uneven voice, +noticeably weak in the lower register, at a pupils’ recital. +Her parents were quite proud of her.</p> + +<p>Two months later she sang at a concert given for a local +charity. On the program was a fairly well-known visiting +soprano. This woman listened to Amy’s singing, and +when Amy eagerly asked her opinion about “keeping on +with lessons,” told her truthfully, though brutally, that +she could never learn to sing.</p> + +<p>Amy gave up her singing quite willingly. She had +really lost interest, anyhow. She was becoming interested +in boys. She had a chum now, Lulu Brown, a +dark-haired, bright-eyed girl with rather boisterous +manners, and they were reaching the giggling stage. +They put themselves in the way of masculine attentions, +invitations to play tennis or go walking, with a soda at +the Central Drug Store as an objective.</p> + +<p>Lulu was more attractive and vivacious than Amy, +but her family was not as high socially. Lulu’s father +was a bookkeeper. In Belleville the “society set” was +composed of the families of professional men and those +who owned businesses. Lulu went with the same crowd +as Amy, though her parents did not go into society. +Amy was fond of her, but sometimes she was ashamed of +her on the street, and she was always afraid that Lulu +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_178">[Pg 178]</span>would do something unconventional. If it had not been +that boys sought Lulu’s company and that Amy received +many of her invitations through her chum, it is possible +that she would have dropped her altogether.</p> + +<p>The next summer Amy decided to be an artist. Three +times a week, during vacation, she went to Miss Matson’s +“studio,” the second-floor front room of the Matson home.</p> + +<p>Miss Matson had had several years of study in New +York. On the wall of her living-room there was a picture +in oils that, it was said, had been done at the Art +Students’ League. Amy did not know just what this +was, but she was impressed because of the name and because +her teacher had studied in New York.</p> + +<p>Miss Matson’s students could do two kinds of work, +copying pictures or still-life. If they chose copying, +they made meticulous replicas of fancy heads, usually in +water-colour, imitating every curve and shadow, putting +on daubs of red where the originator had put daubs of +red, unquestioning. The homes in Belleville were filled +with these pictures in elaborate gold frames, the work +of Miss Matson’s pupils. The “still-life” studies were +groups of fruit or vegetables, a yellow mixing bowl, a +red tomato and a green pepper, or, perhaps, a pitcher, +two lemons and a slice of cake.</p> + +<p>Amy copied pictures all summer. Then some one told +her that this was not art, so she joined the still-life group.</p> + +<p>So—she was going to be an artist. She tried to see +colour in everything that year. She read the lives of the +painters. She knew that years of hard work lay before +her, but she felt she wouldn’t mind that. She knew she +would do something remarkable. Life was seizing her—going +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_179">[Pg 179]</span>to make an artist out of her—to think that her +romance, her story—was coming out this way.</p> + +<p>The next winter she went to High School and spent +three afternoons a week, after school, with Miss Matson. +At the end of the year she could do a “still-life study” of +a couple of eggs, a mixing bowl and a bunch of radishes +with fair skill. She went to parties and enjoyed them. +She giggled with Lulu over the boys. But she felt that +life stretched out beyond Belleville.</p> + +<p>That summer she persuaded her father to let her go to +a near-by city and take a summer course at an art school. +She was only sixteen, but there were cousins with whom +she could stay. Her mother and Clarence wanted to go +to Benton Springs, near Belleville, where her father could +go for week-ends.</p> + +<p>Her father laughed condescendingly and told her that +she could study, that he thought it would be very nice +to have an artist as a daughter.</p> + +<p>The art students were older than Amy and greatly in +earnest. Amy lived near the school and worked hard. +All summer she didn’t pay attention to anything else. +She always felt embarrassed when she met a model from +the life-classes, wrapped in a bathrobe, waiting to pose. +Amy was not in the life-class, but knew that drawing +from the nude was all right “for art’s sake.” She even +peeked into a life-class and pretended that she didn’t +mind, though she really felt that she was doing something +wrong.</p> + +<p>She attended a series of lectures and learned something +about anatomy and the history of art. She even +learned a little of colour and composition.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_180">[Pg 180]</span></p> + +<p>She found art a serious thing. She met men and +women who had been working for five or six years—and +still were doing charcoal drawings. She hated charcoal +as a medium. Others spoke knowingly of schools of art +and new interpretations, and these things annoyed and +puzzled her.</p> + +<p>At the end of the term she had done half a dozen drawings +from casts, three compositions and a few outdoor +sketches. She had thought of art as a way to produce +pretty pictures quickly. She saw how inadequate she +was for such a big subject and that she lacked ability and +ambition. She was glad to be back in Belleville for +the opening of High School. After all, life offered many +things beside music and art.</p> + + +<h3>II</h3> + +<p>Amy had a good time during her junior year in High +School. She and Lulu were invited to all of the Friday +night parties. She was not as good a dancer as Lulu, but +she always had all of her dances taken. On Sunday she +and Lulu and two of the boys would go for a walk, calling +at the post-office for any possible mail and then stopping +for sodas.</p> + +<p>But that wasn’t life. Amy wanted something above +Belleville and High School parties and a father with a +hardware store with red axes on its windows. She read +a great deal of fiction that year—everything in the Fortnightly +Library that had large print and wide margins. +While she read she remembered that, to her, too, romance +would come, that her life would be an interesting story.</p> + +<p>She fell in love with Reed Maddon when she was seventeen. +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_181">[Pg 181]</span>He was a tall, black-haired boy. His father +kept a leather and harness store. He played on the Belleville +High School football team and was rather shy. +He didn’t pay much attention to Amy, at first. It was +pleasant, being in love with him. He sat back of her +in the High School study hall, so she kept a little pocket-mirror +in her desk and could find his face in it whenever +she wanted to.</p> + +<p>She tried to make Reed be nice to her. Lulu saw +through her little tricks and laughed. Lulu, at seventeen, +was already making eyes at grown-up men.</p> + +<p>Amy dreamed of Reed, thought of him all day. Being +in love seemed a beautiful prelude to living, to the story +that was going to happen. She pursued Reed so patiently +that finally he did pay a little attention to her. +He took her to a couple of dances. One night, on the +way home, he put his arm around her and, in the shadow +of the climbing rose on the side porch, he kissed her.</p> + +<p>His kiss lifted her into an ecstasy. She lay awake +nearly all night thinking about it, about his hair, the +curve of his cheek, the feel of his lips. She whispered +“Reed, Reed, Reed,” over and over. Only once more +did Reed make love to her. That was a week later, when +he came to tell her that he was going to St. Louis to work +for his uncle. He put his arm around her as they sat +in the hammock on the porch. Amy trembled delightedly. +She never remembered what they said.</p> + +<p>She thought of Reed all summer. He wrote her a +couple of letters with no particular charm and sent her +a poorly-taken picture post-card of himself, which she +cut to fit her locket.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_182">[Pg 182]</span></p> + +<p>Amy went to the state university when she was graduated +from High School. Lulu Brown went, too. Because +of Lulu’s inferior social position and a tendency to +make amorous eyes at the boys, she was not asked to +join a sorority. Amy was, and she gloried in her social +supremacy, treating Lulu with great condescension, +though they shared letters from home and frequently +spent a night together. Lulu was more popular than +Amy, but Amy thought some of the boys Lulu went with +were “fast.” She no longer regarded her as a rival and +did not feel as jealous of Lulu as she had in High School.</p> + +<p>Amy watched, eagerly, for something to happen. At +first, she was in love with Reed, but the activities of the +university made her a bit dulled toward him. A letter +from him, around Christmas of her first year away at +school, gave her only the smallest thrill. She could think +of his mouth and his eyes with great calm. She rather +missed not thinking about him.</p> + +<p>Amy did not fall in love at the university, and no one +fell in love with her. She went to dances and the other +entertainments, treated the boys with the usual half-comrade, +half-coy attitude of the other girls, and was +fairly popular.</p> + +<p>But this was not life, really. It was just waiting for +things to happen. Things <em>must</em> happen. She felt that. +She was going to have a real story happen to her—would +probably have exciting adventures and meet a wonderful +man and fall in love with him.</p> + +<p>In the evenings, at dusk, she would sometimes get away +from the other girls and take long walks by herself.</p> + +<p>She would get so restless and eager for something to +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_183">[Pg 183]</span>happen that she wanted to cry out for it. Every new +face might bring romance. She almost trembled when +she passed any one or when she made a new acquaintance. +She often woke up early, and, after trying to read, would +lie in bed, half-awake, and imagine things that might +happen.</p> + +<p>Life—what did it mean? Would she fall in love +again? Being in love with Reed had just been puppy +love, of course. Was the real man only a little way off? +Was she destined for great happiness or great unhappiness? +Even that—</p> + +<p>She learned little things about men, was even humble +enough to profit by Lulu’s wisdom, even while she disapproved +of Lulu’s unconventionality. Lulu seemed to +know, instinctively, things that she had to learn.</p> + +<p>Two years at the university, a smattering of history +and French and German and literature, and Amy was +home, ready for “society.” She felt another ripple of +triumph—Lulu’s social position would not warrant formal +social entrance—the Martins planned to introduce Amy +with a party at the Elks’ Club.</p> + +<p>The party was quite a success. Mr. Martin, his chin +and neck a bit more indistinguishable, Mrs. Martin, +smooth and sleek, buttery almost, stood in the “receiving +line,” together with several “socially prominent” friends. +Amy wore a white organdie that came from Chicago. +There was Robinson’s Orchestra and dancing. For +supper, the local caterer had sent to the city for fresh +lobster, a delicacy unobtainable in Belleville. The +party was not surpassed by the other four débutante +parties of the season.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_184">[Pg 184]</span></p> + +<p>Amy went to innumerable social affairs that winter. +When a theatrical company came to Belleville she was always +one of a box party, composed usually of the débutantes +and four of Belleville’s most desirable young men, +all in evening clothes, the girls in dresses bought at +the New York Store or made by Madame Jackson, Belleville’s +one modiste, the men in rather wrinkled suits, but +unmistakably their own.</p> + +<p>Something was missing, Amy felt that. Reed came +back to Belleville, but he was not attractive any more. +He went with Claudine Harper, and Amy did not care. +Nothing thrilled her at all.</p> + +<p>Sometimes, at a dance, an especially good dance with +a good partner would awaken her just a little. A chapter +from a popular novel could be mooned over half a +day. A play sometimes had a moment which lifted her +above things. She read poetry, and soothing rhythms +pleased her. Sometimes she tried to write, but never +achieved anything beyond a vague scribbling about longings +and life and love. This was not living. She +wanted to scream out, to batter down something which +seemed to stand between her and the story that ought to +be happening.</p> + + +<h3>III</h3> + +<p>Amy went with her father and mother and Clarence on +a trip to Niagara Falls, Buffalo and New York City. +She pretended a great wonder over the falls, but in reality +she did not care for the scenery.</p> + +<p>In New York she felt something of the same emotion +she had felt when, at the University, she had taken long +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_185">[Pg 185]</span>walks by herself. She wanted to thrust herself into the +city, yet, she remained apart, aloof, watching it. Her +father, who had been to New York before, took the family +on tours of inspection, pointing with his cane—to Amy’s +embarrassment—the things of interest. Amy saw the +tallest buildings, rode in the subway and busses and taxicabs, +visited the museums and Chinatown. In Fifth +Avenue she bought some frocks and hats for twice +as much as she had ever paid in Belleville. In the lobby +of their hotel, a commercial hotel of tremendous size, +Amy glanced eagerly at the men who stood there, and +thought she recognized famous faces, actors or writers +or politicians. Once she even smiled at a man who +seemed unusually handsome. He started to walk toward +her and she became frightened and took the elevator to +her room. On the street she wanted to know people, any +of the busy, well-dressed crowd. There were men who +looked as if they might be just the sort she liked to read +about, clever, cultured. She did not meet any of them.</p> + +<p>Back in Belleville, she took up her usual activities, +telling of the theatres and show places she had seen in +New York. Things seemed duller than ever. Men in +Belleville were so definitely unattractive. She wished she +lived in New York. But, even as she wished it, a fear of +the city came over her. She realized how dreadfully +lonely she would feel if she were there alone, how inadequate +she was to fit into any of the groups she had seen.</p> + +<p>That winter, by putting her mind to it, she became +rather a good bridge player. She was made a member +of the Hospital Board League and spent afternoons planning +how to raise money for various hospital needs.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_186">[Pg 186]</span></p> + +<p>Lulu Brown married a man whom she had “picked up” +in front of the Belleville House. It happened that he +was a New York business man, in Belleville about the +new cracker factory, and quite wealthy.</p> + +<p>Amy went to the wedding in the small Brown cottage. +She gave Lulu a small travelling set of imitation ivory. +She envied Lulu in her blue going-away suit more than +she had ever envied her before. The man Lulu married +was named Fredericks and was a striking-looking fellow. +Fredericks told about a New York apartment that he had +taken for the winter. Lulu was married and going to +live in New York. She—why she was richer and better-bred +than Lulu and she had to stay in Belleville, and nothing +happened to her.</p> + +<p>Two months later Amy went to another wedding. +Reed Maddon married Claudine Harper. Amy went +with the crowd to the station to see them leave for +Chicago on a wedding trip. She was surprised to find +how little she cared. Outside of a breathless moment of +jealousy she didn’t really feel it at all. Yet Reed was the +only man she had ever cared about. But, of course, that +had been when she was a little girl. She would fall in love +soon and life would begin.</p> + +<p>Amy spent the next two winters in Belleville. She +and her mother went to Benton Springs for the summers, +and her father and Clarence, who was now a partner with +his father, came up for alternate week-ends. Her father +was more condescending than ever now, because she +had not married. He was fatter than ever, and Amy +did not like to look at his profile.</p> + +<p>At Benton Springs Amy flirted with the men at the +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_187">[Pg 187]</span>hotel, colourless, small-town men who were trying hard +to get pleasure out of an inexpensive holiday. She did +not find them very entertaining. She attended the hotel +dances on Saturday nights and went to another hotel for +Wednesday evening festivities. She played tennis and +golf.</p> + +<p>She had a mild love affair with a young lawyer from +Texas, and he kissed her one night as they were walking +toward the hotel.</p> + +<p>After she had gone to bed she thought about him. He +was not the sort of man she had planned to marry at all. +He did not attract her, but the masculine smell of his +coat had been pleasant and he was not bad-looking. +Amy decided that, if he asked her to marry him, she +would accept him. He did not propose. He left the +hotel three days later. With the exception of a picture +post-card, she never heard from him again.</p> + +<p>Something like a panic seized Amy the next winter. +The girls in her set were getting married one after another +and new débutantes were appearing each season. Great +adventures did not come to her. Even little things did +not happen. She felt almost trapped. What if she were +wrong about life, about the story?</p> + +<p>She visited, with new clothes as aids, her mother’s +cousin in Harperton and her Aunt Ella in Demont. She +had good times. Girls gave bridge parties for her. Men +took her to parties. She did not have a love affair nor +any other adventures. She felt she was just as attractive +as other girls. They found beaux. Still, to others, she +might seem popular, too. She got candy and flowers and +invitations. It was just that nothing really came close +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_188">[Pg 188]</span>enough, love or marriage or any sort of happening. She +still felt as if she were not really living, as if life were +waiting for her, outside of some gate. She was bound +to find it, if she waited.</p> + +<p>She returned to Belleville in January, and the next +month Millard Kenton came to Belleville on business. +His cousins lived there, so he was included in the town’s +social affairs. Amy met him, as she always met visitors.</p> + +<p>Kenton was attentive to her immediately. She disliked +him at first. He was small and had brown hair +which was getting thin at twenty-eight. There was nothing +forceful or vital about him. His strongest opinions +seemed to have no importance. Nothing he could do +ever could have any significance, Amy felt.</p> + +<p>Yet, because he liked her, Amy ignored Kenton’s colourlessness +and made herself as attractive as she could. +She was slender and had nice eyes and hair and wore +pretty, small-town, fluffy dresses.</p> + +<p>When Kenton called, they sat in the living-room and +talked or played bridge with other couples or went to the +theatre.</p> + +<p>Sometimes, when she was alone with Kenton, Amy +looked at his indefinite, uninteresting face and wondered +how she could keep on talking with him. What a bore +he was! She liked him a little better, but felt that he +was more insignificant than a man ought to be.</p> + +<p>Kenton’s home was in Minota, Oklahoma, where he +was with an oil company. He went back to Minota and +wrote to Amy on his business stationery in a small, slanting +handwriting. His letters were colourless, too.</p> + +<p>Kenton came back to Belleville in April and asked +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_189">[Pg 189]</span>Amy to marry him. She had encouraged him in little +ways, listening with flattering attention to his opinions, +answering his letters with half-finished sentences that +were meant to show that she liked him.</p> + +<p>Amy had never had a real proposal of marriage. She +felt that the great romance, as she had dreamed it, would +never come to her. But all the other girls were marrying. +Being married would open new avenues. Maybe, +after marriage, she would have adventures. If things +did happen—she could leave Kenton any time she +wanted to—</p> + + +<h3>IV</h3> + +<p>They had a church wedding. Amy wore a very elaborate +wedding gown and veil, and six of her best friends +were bridesmaids, in pale green. Amy showed her artistic +training by designing huge fans for the girls to carry, +instead of the usual flowers.</p> + +<p>Amy and Kenton went to housekeeping in an apartment +in Minota, Oklahoma, which they furnished with +huge overstuffed chairs and mahogany furniture.</p> + +<p>Amy did not like Minota. It was an oil town and the +smell of the oil permeated everything. Minota was a +little smaller than Belleville and definitely newer and +flimsier. She knew several former Belleville people there, +so, after a first loneliness, a feeling of not belonging to +any place, she settled down comfortably enough. Soon +she was one of the set of “younger matrons” and went +to bridge games and parties quite as she had done at home.</p> + +<p>She missed Belleville. After six months she went +home on a visit. When she got there she was at once +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_190">[Pg 190]</span>restless and dissatisfied and didn’t know what to do. After +she had seen her parents and her friends and had +walked down the familiar streets, she was quite willing +to go back to Minota again.</p> + +<p>She grew to like Kenton a great deal. Now that she +could read while he was at home or ignore him altogether, +he did not bore her. They had so many things in common—their +home, their friends—that at times he seemed +almost interesting.</p> + +<p>A year after Amy married, Millard, junior, was born. +Amy had read and thought that motherhood was a thing +apart, almost an exalted state. She welcomed it, frightened +but eager. It left her much the same, without the +ecstasy she had anticipated.</p> + +<p>Two years later Mary-Etta came. Amy was very +fond of her children.</p> + +<p>When Millard was four Arnold Thompson came to +Minota. He was good-looking and had the reputation +of being popular with women. Amy encouraged him to +notice her. The Kentons were living in their own home, +now, a white bungalow, and they had a coloured maid +who took almost entire charge of the children.</p> + +<p>Thompson telephoned and asked to call one afternoon.</p> + +<p>Amy sent the maid out with the children and dressed in +a great flutter of excitement. Thompson came about +four. They talked, and Amy listened attentively, though +to her surprise, Thompson’s conversation was just like +the other men’s she knew and did not interest her. She +played a little on the piano. Before she knew it, Thompson +had put his arms around her, was kissing her. She +lay passive in his arms for a moment, even kissed him in +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_191">[Pg 191]</span>return. The thrill she had expected was not there. She +felt cheapened instead. She pushed him away, not angrily, +but rather with indifference, and told him “You’d +better go.”</p> + +<p>For weeks after that Amy suffered keenly from remorse. +It was the deepest emotion she had had in a long time. +Kenton was so good—and she had let another man kiss +her. What must Thompson think of her? If Kenton +should find out? She was ashamed of herself. She was +greatly relieved when, a month later, she heard that +Thompson had left Minota.</p> + +<p>Life in Minota went on pleasantly enough, punctuated +with visits to Belleville and even a visit to New York, +after a successful business deal. Kenton was doing well +in business. The children were growing nicely.</p> + +<p>Sometimes Amy felt the old desires, the wanting to +live. She would grow restless and walk in her room, up +and down, and long for something to happen. Then +would come a reaction, a hope that nothing would take +place to change her comfortable state as a nice little married +woman.</p> + +<p>Things did not change until Amy was thirty-six. Then +Kenton took cold and died of pneumonia after only four +days’ illness. Amy grieved sincerely. She missed Kenton +a great deal and told every one that theirs had been +an ideal life.</p> + +<p>She sold the house, and she and the children went back +to Belleville to live with her parents.</p> + +<p>In Belleville Amy took up, in a quiet way, the activities +of the women of her age. Kenton had been insured. +The hardware store with the red axes on the windows was +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_192">[Pg 192]</span>still prosperous. Amy’s father was bald, now, and quite +fat. Her mother was complacently busy about home +and church matters. Clarence was married and had a +home of his own. Life in the Martin home was comfortable, +in a quiet, uneventful way.</p> + +<p>Lulu Fredericks came through Belleville on her way +to California and stopped for a visit with relatives. Amy +was rather awed and resentful at Lulu’s clothes and her +grand manner and Eastern accent. Lulu had travelled in +Europe even. Lulu, who had been of so much less importance +in Belleville, had had adventures. And she, +Amy, hadn’t lived at all—nothing had happened.</p> + +<p>Amy remembered the book she had read when she was +a little girl, that had said that each person’s life contains +a plot for a story. It made her angry to think of it. +Her life hadn’t been a story. Nothing had happened to +her. She was sorry she had read that book. If it hadn’t +been for that she would never have felt the way she did +about life. She might have enjoyed things more, one +at a time. Now, though she couldn’t touch them definitely, +she felt that she had missed pleasant things, or ignored +them, because she had wanted bigger things, instead.</p> + +<p>The author of that book had cheated her—life had +cheated her. How could any one have written such nonsense? +Amy knew there was no story in her life—in +most lives. Yet she knew that there always would be +people like Lulu to remind her of the fact that there were +people whose lives were like stories, after all.</p> + +<p>After the children were in bed, Amy sat at the window +and looked out on the little lawn. The trees and the +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_193">[Pg 193]</span>bushes looked badly taken care of, neglected. She must +see that the yard was fixed up, right away. Her life—it +was all she had—it did seem too bad that nothing had +happened to her—school—parties—marriage—babies—widowhood—nothing—no +story at all.</p> + + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> +<div class="chapter"> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_194">[Pg 194]</span></p> + + + <h2 class="nobreak" id="CITY_FOLKS"> + CITY FOLKS + </h2> +</div> + + +<h3>I</h3> + +<p class="drop-cap"><span class="upper-case">Joe</span> and Mattie Harper lived in Harlem. They +lived in a four-room apartment in the second of +a row of brown, unattractive-looking apartment +buildings—six of them just alike—in One Hundred and +Thirty-second Street.</p> + +<p>They lived in Apartment 52, which means the fifth +floor, and there was no elevator. But the rent was reasonable, +fifty dollars, and both Joe and Mattie said they +didn’t mind a “walk-up” at all—you get used to it after +a while, and Mattie knew it kept her hips down. Then, +too, by going to the fifth floor, you get a much better +view, though why a view of the building across the street—another +brown barracks of exactly the same age and design—is +desirable, only Joe and Mattie and other similarly +situated folks know. The air was cleaner, though, +on the fifth floor—they felt that any one would know that.</p> + +<p>One Hundred and Thirty-second Street, Harlem, lacked +all outstanding features. If the street signs had suddenly +disappeared, there would have been nothing to +identify it, to pin it to—a bleak street, without trees, a +fairly clean street, decent and neat looking (after the garbage +man had passed and the tins had disappeared), +wide enough to lack misery, narrow enough to lack grandeur.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_195">[Pg 195]</span></p> + +<p>We are about to have two meals with Joe and Mattie—the +most important meals of their day, for Joe’s lunch +was usually a sandwich and a glass of milk at the Automat, +or beans or a beef stew in the lunch room across +from his office; Mattie’s a glass of soda and a sandwich +or a dish of ice cream, if she were down-town—it is a +shame about the new price of sodas—a scramble of left +overs from last night’s dinner, if she spent the day at +home.</p> + +<p>Breakfast:</p> + +<p>The alarm clock had buzzed at six-thirty, as it always +did. It was a good alarm clock and had cost $1.48 at +Liggett’s, two years before.</p> + +<p>Mattie’s little dog, who slept in the front hall, had +heard the alarm and scrambled into their bedroom with +his usual yip of pleasure—he was rather deaf, but he +could make out sounds as definite as the ringing of a bell +and he listened for the alarm each morning. He was a +nice fellow, a white poodle, overly fat, with red-rimmed +eyes. If you didn’t molest him nor try to pet him nor +step on him, he wouldn’t snap or try to bite you. Mattie +and Joe were quite fond of him and took him for walks +in Central Park on Sundays or around Harlem in the +evenings. His name had, in turn, been, stylishly, Snowball, +Snoodles and Snookums and had at last reached +Ikkle Floppit, all of which he answered to with stolid indifference.</p> + +<p>Joe had heard the alarm, had jumped up and turned +it off, and had waked Mattie, who slept more soundly. +Ikkle Floppit had jumped, wheezily, upon the bed and +licked all visible portions of Mattie’s face. Mattie, then, +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_196">[Pg 196]</span>had given up trying to doze again and had stroked the +dog’s uneven coat with a fond hand.</p> + +<p>Toilets followed, rapid plunges into the dwarf-sized +white tub with its rather insecure shower attachment—Joe +talking while he shaved, about the office, the men who +worked with him, his boss who didn’t appreciate him, the +weather that was still too warm for comfort, their friends, +the Taylors, who they both agreed were too stuck up for +words since Taylor had got his new job.</p> + +<p>“His people aren’t anything at all,” Mattie had said, +“awfully ordinary—and the way they do put on airs, +you’d think they amounted to something. Why, my +cousin Mabel knew his sister in Perryville, where they +used to live, and she said they weren’t anything at all +there. And now, how they do go on with a maid and a +car. They’ve never even taken us for a ride in their old +car and they can hold their breath until I’d step into it. +It beats all—”</p> + +<p>And Joe, his face twisted for the razor’s path beyond +the possibilities of conversation, had grunted assent.</p> + +<p>Now Mattie had completed the simple breakfast, six +pieces of toast, buttered unevenly and a bit burned on the +edges, as always, a halved orange for each of them, some +coffee and some bought preserves with a slight strawberry-like +flavour. She and Joe faced each other over the +almost clean tablecloth—it had been clean on Sunday +and this was just Tuesday morning.</p> + +<p>The dining-room was small, lighted vaguely with two +court windows. Even now, at seven-thirty, the electric +light had been turned on in the red and green glass electrolier.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_197">[Pg 197]</span></p> + +<p>Mattie knew the electrolier was out of fashion, she +would have preferred a more modern “inverted bowl,” but +this one was included with the apartment, so there seemed +nothing to do about it. She would also have preferred +mahogany to the fumed oak dining-room set, bought eight +years before—she had bought the mahogany tea wagon +with her last year’s Christmas money from Joe, looking +forward to the time when they could buy a whole new +mahogany set.</p> + +<p>Mattie was not at all a bad-looking breakfast companion, +seated there in her half-clean pink gingham +bungalow apron—she wore these aprons constantly in the +house to save her other clothes. She was a slender, +brown-haired woman of about thirty, with clear brown +eyes, a nose that turned slightly upward, a mouth inclined +to be a little large, rather uneven but white teeth—indefinite +features, a pleasant, usual, hard-to-place face.</p> + +<p>And Joe, across from her, was equally pleasing, with +a straight nose and rather a weak chin, dark hair starting +to recede just a little at thirty-three, sloping shoulders inclined +a bit to the roundness of the office man.</p> + +<p>“What’s in the paper, Joe?” asked Mattie, already +nibbling toast.</p> + +<p>Joe, deep in the morning <cite>World</cite>, threw out interesting +items—the progress of a murder trial, news of an airplane +flight.</p> + +<p>They talked about little things, a friend Joe had passed +on the street the day before, the choice of a show for Friday +or Saturday night—they tried to attend the theatre +once each week, during the winter.</p> + +<p>The door bell rang, three short rings. Ikkle Floppit +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_198">[Pg 198]</span>gave three asthmatic yips. Mattie threw down her +napkin, sprang to her feet.</p> + +<p>“I’ll go,” she said, as she usually said it, “you go on +eating or you’ll be late again. I bet it’s nothing but a +bill, anyhow.”</p> + +<p>She returned in a moment with a thick letter in her +hand.</p> + +<p>“From your mother, Joe,” she said.</p> + +<p>She knew the printed address in the corner of the envelope, +“The Banner Store, General Merchandise, E. J. +Harper, Prop., Burton Center, Missouri,” the neat, old-fashioned +handwriting, the post-mark.</p> + +<p>Mattie and Joe had come from Burton Center, Mattie +eight years and Joe nine years before. They had grown +up together in Burton Center, one of the jolly crowd who +attended the High School, went to Friday night dances, +later were graduated into the older crowd, which meant +a few more dances, went to the Opera House when a show +came to town, had happy love affairs.</p> + +<p>Joe and Mattie became engaged three years after Joe +left High School, which was the year after Mattie graduated. +Joe went to work at the Banner Store, under his +father. But youth and ambition knew not Burton +Center, so, a little later, Joe had come to New York in +search of fortune.</p> + +<p>He had not obeyed the usual law of fiction and forgotten +Mattie, nor had Mattie changed while she waited. +No, though Joe found neither fame nor fortune, he did get +an office job that looked as if it might support two in comfort, +if Mattie and Joe were the two concerned, took a +vacation, went back to Burton Center, found Mattie +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_199">[Pg 199]</span>even more alluring and dimpled and giggling than he +had remembered her—how much prettier Burton Center +girls looked than those in New York!—and they were +married.</p> + +<p>Eight years, then, of New York, of subway rides, of +the weekly theatre, the weekly restaurant dinner, of +apartment hunting about every second October, of infrequent +clothes buying, of occasional calls on stray acquaintances, +of little quarrels and little peace-makings, +weekly letters from home—little lives going on—</p> + +<p>Joe tore open the letter.</p> + +<p>“Gee, it’s a thick one,” he said.</p> + +<p>Then:</p> + +<p>“Well, I guess they are all well or ma wouldn’t have +written so much. Listen, Mattie.”</p> + +<p>Joe read the letter, a folksy letter—Mrs. Harper, +senior, was well and so was “your father,” as all mothers +speak of their husbands to their children, in letters. She +had seen Millie’s mother a few days before and she was +looking well and hoping to see them soon in Burton Center. +The youngest Rosemond girl was engaged to a Mr. +Secor from St. Louis, who was in the lumber business.</p> + +<p>Then there followed, long and unparagraphed, something +that made Joe and Mattie look at each other, hard +and seriously, across the table. For Joe’s mother had +written something that they had always thought might +be suggested to them but they had never discussed, even +with each other:</p> + +<blockquote> +<p>“Your father isn’t as well as he once was, nor as young, +you know, and, though you need not worry about him, he is +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_200">[Pg 200]</span>eating and sleeping fine, even in hot weather, I think it would +be better if you and Mattie came here to live. You could +step right into the store and take charge of things as soon +as you wanted to. It is not a big store as you know, but +your father has always made a nice living from it and Burton +Center is growing right along. The Millers have put up +some new bungalows out on Crescent Hill, you’d be surprised +to see how it has grown up out there, all of the young +people are moving out there and with the new Thirteenth +Street car line it is very convenient. The cottages are all +taken but two, both white with green blinds and room back +of them for garages and we could get you one of them if +you wanted us to. The George Hendricks are living there +and Mr. and Mrs. Tucker and the Williams boy, Phillip, I +think that’s his name, you used to go with. The new country +club isn’t far from there and you could play tennis after +work, which would be good for you. I wish you could +make up your mind at once, so you could get here before +long or your father will have to get a man to help him, for +he really ought to have more time to himself and take a nap +after dinner, now that the season’s trade is starting. +Talk this over with Mattie and let us know as soon as you +can. I hope you are keeping well in this changeable weather. +Your father sends love to both and so do I.</p> + +<p class="right"> + “Affectionately, your Mother.” +</p> +</blockquote> + +<p>Mattie and Joe looked at each other, looked and looked +and forgot their toast and coffee. But they saw each +other not at all. Nor did they visualize One Hundred and +Thirty-second Street, New York, drab and bare, nor even +Fifth Avenue nor Broadway.</p> + +<p>They saw a little town, with rows of old trees along its +quiet streets, little white houses on little squares of green, +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_201">[Pg 201]</span>each house with its hedge or its garden or its hammocked +lawn, peace, and the smell of growing things after a +rain—</p> + +<p>“What say, Mattie?” asked Joe. “Sound pretty good? +Of course, you’ve always said you loved New York and I +don’t want to persuade you against your will. Perhaps +you wouldn’t care to move—still, Burton Center, we’ve +got some good friends there—it’d be sort of fun, seeing +the old crowd, belong to a country club, tennis, things +like that, even managing the business. But, of course, if +you wouldn’t want to leave the city—”</p> + +<p>Mattie, mentally, had far outdistanced him.</p> + +<p>She clapped her hands, pleasantly excited.</p> + +<p>“Joe can’t you just see that little house—I bet it’s +awfully cute. Last summer, when we were out in the +country, I certainly did envy people living in little houses—I +get so tired of New York, sometimes. But I never +wanted to say anything, knowing how much you liked it +here. But that little house—we could sell all of our +furniture except the tea wagon and the table in the living-room +and my new dressing-table—it really would be +cheaper to buy new things than to pay for shipping. And +we could find out how many windows there are and I +could get some new cretonne here—sort of set the styles +in Burton Center. It sure would be funny, living back +there and knowing everybody. Here I never see a soul I +know in weeks, or talk to anybody. Honest, sometimes +I get just hungry for—for people. The trouble is, we +haven’t really got anything here.”</p> + +<p>“I know,” Joe nodded. “New York’s all right for +some people—if you’ve got money. It’s a great city all +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_202">[Pg 202]</span>right, but we don’t get anything out of it. I get so sick +of being squeezed into subways night and morning—hardly +standing room all the way home—and no place to +go Sundays or evenings but a movie or a show or to see +people who live miles away and don’t care anything about +you anyhow and who you see about twice a year. Burton +Center will look awfully good—folks take an interest in +you, there.”</p> + +<p>“You bet they do.”</p> + +<p>“And it isn’t as if I’ve failed here. I haven’t. I’m +due for another raise pretty soon—but we aren’t putting +anything aside, getting any place. It isn’t as if we were +terribly poor. You look awfully well in your clothes on +the street, but we are always having to skimp and do +without things—we never have the best of anything, +always cheap seats at shows or cheap meals in second-class +restaurants, a cheap street to live on—it gets on a +person’s nerves.”</p> + +<p>“Why, I didn’t know you felt that way, Joe. I thought +you liked New York. Why, it makes me so jealous, going +down Fifth Avenue, seeing all those people in +limousines, not a bit better nor better looking than I am, +all dressed up, lolling back so—so superior, with nasty +little dogs not near so nice as Floppit—and with chauffeurs +and everything. Why, in Burton Center we’d be +somebody, as good as any one. We could fix up that +house awfully nice—and have a little garden and all that. +But you said you hated the Banner Store so—now don’t +go and make up your mind—”</p> + +<p>“You needn’t worry about me. The Banner Store is +all right—I think differently about things than I did +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_203">[Pg 203]</span>years ago. I thought the city was just going to fall +apart in my hand—but I found someone else got here +first. I’m not complaining, you know. It isn’t that +I’ve failed—why, in Burton Center they’ll look at us as a +success, we’ll be city folks, don’t you see. They know I +haven’t failed. I didn’t come sneaking back the year I +left, the way Ray Wulberg did. No, sir, when folks +came to New York to visit, we showed them a good +time, took ’em to restaurants and shows—they think we +got along fine here—that we’re all right—”</p> + +<p>“You bet they do, Joe. But I just can hardly wait to +see that cottage—and everybody. I bet Crescent Hill is +awfully pretty. To-night, you write to your mother—don’t +make it too sudden, you know, or too anxious—for +you know how she is—she means fine, but she’ll like to +spread the news about us coming back. You just say +that, under the circumstances, as long as your father is +getting old and needs you, you feel it’s your duty to go +there and as soon as you can arrange your affairs and resign +your position and train one of your assistants so +that he can take care of your work—”</p> + +<p>“You leave that to me. I can fix that part up all +right.”</p> + +<p>The buzzer of the dumb-waiter zinged into their talk.</p> + +<p>“Joe, there’s the janitor. It’s late. You’d better +hurry. You know the call-down you got last week for +being late.”</p> + +<p>Mattie and Joe arose simultaneously, Joe grabbed his +paper, folded it conveniently, hurried to the door, Mattie +after him.</p> + +<p>“Going down-town to-day?” he asked.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_204">[Pg 204]</span></p> + +<p>“Thought I would, when I get the house straightened +up. I want to look at a new waist. My good one is +starting to tear at the back.”</p> + +<p>“All right. I’ll be home early, about six-thirty—won’t +have to stay over-time. In a few months, I’ll be my own +boss, no hurrying off in the morning or rushing home in +subways—we’ll fix that letter up to-night.”</p> + +<p>He brushed off his mouth with his hand and gave +Mattie the usual and rather hearty good-bye kiss and, +closing the door behind him, Joe and Mattie parted for +the day with visions of little houses nestling in green +gardens uppermost in their minds.</p> + + +<h3>II</h3> + +<p>Dinner:</p> + +<p>Dinner times with the Harpers varied slightly according +to the way Mattie had spent the afternoon, the amount of +work at Joe’s office and where the Harpers were dining. +They usually dined at home, but, once a week, usually +Saturday, when they followed the feast with a visit to the +theatre, they ate at one of the table d’hote restaurants +some place within ten blocks of Broadway and Forty-second +Street.</p> + +<p>They thought themselves quite cosmopolitan because +they had been to Italian, Greek, French, Chinese, Russian +and Armenian restaurants, choosing in each the dish +prepared for the curious—and eating it according to +American table customs as they practised them.</p> + +<p>This particular Tuesday they were dining at home.</p> + +<p>Joe reached the apartment exactly at six-thirty, the +trip home taking nearly an hour. Joe had been watching +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_205">[Pg 205]</span>the clock for the last twenty minutes of his business day +so as to escape at the first possible opportunity.</p> + +<p>Mattie, in the kitchen, heard his key in the lock and +hurried to greet him. They kissed quite as fondly as +they had in the morning, Floppit gave a little yip of welcome +and received a pat on the head in reply.</p> + +<p>Dinner was nearly ready, Mattie informed Joe, table set +and all.</p> + +<p>Joe hurried with his ablutions and reached the dining-room, +accompanied by his newspaper, the <cite>Journal</cite> this +time, at a quarter of seven. He divided the paper so +that Mattie might have the last page, where are shown +the strips of comics—he had read them hanging to a strap +in the subway. Then he helped Mattie to bring in the +hot dishes from the kitchen.</p> + +<p>There was a small platter of five chops, fried quite +brown, two for each one of them and one—to be cut into +bits later—for Ikkle Floppit. Mattie always fried chops +or steaks the days she went down-town, and sometimes +other days besides.</p> + +<p>There were potatoes, in their jackets to save her the +trouble of peeling them, a dish of canned corn. There +was a neat square of butter, too, and some thinly sliced +bread on a silver-plated bread plate—a last year’s +Christmas present from one of Mattie’s aunts—and a +small dish of highly-spiced pickles.</p> + +<p>Besides this, on the new tea wagon stood two pieces +of bakery pastry, of a peculiarly yellow colour that had +aimed at but far surpassed the result of eggs in the batter.</p> + +<p>They sat down. Joe served the chops, Mattie the +potatoes and corn. Mattie had put on her bungalow +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_206">[Pg 206]</span>apron as soon as she returned home—so as to save her +suit from the spots and wear incidental to dinner-getting. +Joe looked just as he had in the morning, plus a small +amount of beard and minus his coat and vest.</p> + +<p>Yet, as the morning’s conversation had been spontaneous +and enthusiastic and happy, this evening’s meal had +a curious cloud of restraint over it.</p> + +<p>“Good dinner,” said Joe, after his first mouthful.</p> + +<p>“Yes, it does taste good,” agreed Mattie.</p> + +<p>“Go down-town?”</p> + +<p>“Uh-huh, I went down about eleven. Just got home +an hour ago. I looked at the waists, but didn’t get any—they +seemed awfully high. I may go down and get +one to-morrow or Thursday. Any news in the paper?”</p> + +<p>“Not much doing,” Joe rustled his own sheets.</p> + +<p>He never really read at dinner but he liked to have the +paper near him.</p> + +<p>“Look at Floppit, Joe. Isn’t he cute, standing up that +way? I’ve just got to give him a bite. It won’t make +him too-fat, not what I give him. Come here, Missus’ +lamb.”</p> + +<p>Silence, then, save for the sound of knife against plate, +a curious silence, a silence of avoidance. Then meaningless +sentences, bits about anything, a struggle to appear +happy, indifferent.</p> + +<p>Joe, then,</p> + +<p>“See any one down-town you know? Where’d you +have lunch? Thought maybe you’d call up and have +lunch with me.”</p> + +<p>“I did think of it, but I didn’t come down your way. +I stopped at Loft’s and had chocolate cake and a cherry +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_207">[Pg 207]</span>sundae. No—I didn’t see any one I knew—exactly.... +Anything happen at the office?”</p> + +<p>“Well, nothing much. We got that Detroit order.”</p> + +<p>“Did you, Joe? I’m sure glad of that.”</p> + +<p>A silence. Then, Joe, suddenly, enthusiastically, as if +some barrier had broken, as if he could no longer stay +repressed, upon the path he had set for himself.</p> + +<p>“Say, Mattie, guess what happened this afternoon! +You know Ferguson, the fellow who used to be in our +office, whose brother is in the show business? Well, he +came in and gave me a couple of seats to see ‘Squaring +the Triangle’ for Friday night. They say it’s a good +show and in for a long run, but they want to keep the +house filled while the show is new, till it gets a start.”</p> + +<p>“Did he, honestly? Say, that’s great, isn’t it? +Where are they, downstairs?”</p> + +<p>“Sure. You don’t think he’d give away balcony seats, +or at least offer them to me, do you? Remember, he gave +us some last Spring. That makes three times this year +we’ve been to shows on passes. Pretty good, eh, +Mattie?”</p> + +<p>“Well, I guess yes. We’re some people, knowing relatives +of managers. I tell you, I think—”</p> + +<p>A pause, then.</p> + +<p>Mattie’s face lost its sudden smile and resumed its sadness +of the earlier part of the meal.</p> + +<p>“What’s the matter?” asked Joe.</p> + +<p>“Nothing the matter with me.”</p> + +<p>“Something else happened, too,” Joe went on, enthusiastically, +“at noon, I’d just left Childs’—and guess who +I passed on the street?”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_208">[Pg 208]</span></p> + +<p>“Some one we know?”</p> + +<p>“We don’t know him exactly.”</p> + +<p>“Oh, I can’t guess. Tell me.”</p> + +<p>“I know you can’t—well, it was—William Gibbs +McAdoo! Honest to goodness—McAdoo. It sure +seemed funny. There he was, walking down the street, +just like I’ve seen him in the movies half a dozen times. +It sure gives you a thrill, seeing people like that.”</p> + +<p>Why the mention of William G. McAdoo should bring +tears to the eyes of a woman who had never met him may +be inexplicable to some. But tears came into the eyes of +Mattie Harper. She wiped her eyes on the corner of her +bungalow apron, sniffed a little, came over to Joe, put +her arms around him.</p> + +<p>“I just—just can’t stand it,” she sobbed. “I’ve been +worrying and worrying. Your seeing McAdoo seems the +strangest thing, after what happened to me.”</p> + +<p>“What was it, Mattie?”</p> + +<p>Quite kindly and understandingly, Joe pushed his chair +back from the table, gathered his wife on his knee.</p> + +<p>“What was it, honey? Come tell Joe.”</p> + +<p>“It wasn’t anything—anything to cry about. I—don’t +know what’s the matter with me. It—it was in Lord & +Taylor’s, this afternoon. I was looking at gloves—and +I looked up—and there, right beside me, not two feet +away, stood Billie Burke. Honestly! I know it was her. +She looked exactly like her pictures—and I saw her in +‘The Runaway’ years ago, and not long ago in the movies. +Yes, sir, Billie Burke. Joe, she’s simply beautiful.”</p> + +<p>“Well, well, think of seeing Billie Burke!”</p> + +<p>“And Joe, when I saw her, the awfulest feeling came +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_209">[Pg 209]</span>over me. I tried not to tell you about it—after the letter +this morning. I’d been thinking about Burton Center—but +seeing Billie Burke just knocked it all out. Joe, you +know I love you and want to do what you want—but, I—I +just can’t move to Burton Center—unless you’ve got +your heart set on it. I’d go then, of course—any place. +But I don’t want to be—buried alive in that little town. +Imagine those people—never seeing or doing anything—no +new shows or famous people—nor any kind of life. +And here I went down-town and saw Billie Burke and +you—”</p> + +<p>Joe’s pats became even fonder. He smoothed her hair +with his too-pale hand.</p> + +<p>“There, there, don’t cry. It’s all right. Nobody’s +asking or expecting you to go to Burton Center. Funny +thing, that. I had the same feeling. First, passing +McAdoo—and then those theatre tickets. I guess there’s +something about New York that gets you. They’ve got +to forget that stuff about Burton Center, I can tell you +that.”</p> + +<p>Mattie jumped off Joe’s lap, took the used dishes from +the table, put on the pastry and sat down in her own place, +across from Joe.</p> + +<p>“This is good,” said Joe, taking a bite; “where’d you +get it?”</p> + +<p>“At that little new French pastry shop we passed the +night the black dog tried to bite Floppit.”</p> + +<p>“Oh, yes, looked nice and clean in there.”</p> + +<p>They ate their pastry slowly. Mattie dried her eyes. +Joe spoke to her:</p> + +<p>“Say, Mattie, don’t worry for a minute more about that +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_210">[Pg 210]</span>Burton Center stuff. After eight years of living in the +city, seeing famous people, living right in the center of +things—didn’t we see all the warships and airplanes nearly +every day? They can’t expect us to live in a rube place +like Burton Center. We’re used to more, that’s all there +is to it.”</p> + +<p>“I know,” said Mattie, “I’d just die if I couldn’t walk +down Fifth Avenue and see what people wore. It’s just +weighed on me, terribly. I just saw us on the train going +out there, and living in an awful little house without hot +water or steam heat—and seeing Billie Burke just—”</p> + +<p>The ’phone burred into the conversation.</p> + +<p>Mattie answered it, as usual, assuming a nonchalant, society +air.</p> + +<p>“Yes, this is the Harpers’ apartment. Yes, this is Mrs. +Harper speaking. Who? Oh, Mrs. Taylor. How do +you do. I haven’t heard your voice in ages. We’re fine, +thank you.... No, I don’t know much news. A +friend of Mr. Harper’s, a brother of Ferguson, the theatrical +producer, invited us to see ‘Squaring the Triangle’ +as his guests on Friday. They say it’s a wonderful show. +We saw ‘The Tattle-tale’ last Saturday. Yes, we liked +it a great deal.... Saturday afternoon? Wait and I’ll +ask Mr. Harper if he has an engagement.”</p> + +<p>Hand over telephone mouthpiece, then:</p> + +<p>“Want to go riding with the Taylors in their new car +Saturday afternoon and stop at some road house for +supper?”</p> + +<p>Resuming the polite conversational tone of the telephone:</p> + +<p>“Yes, thank you, Mr. Harper and I will be delighted +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_211">[Pg 211]</span>to go. Awfully nice of you. At four? Fine. By the +way, did I tell you I saw Billie Burke to-day? I did. +She looked simply beautiful, not a day older than she +looked last year. Wonderful hair, hasn’t she? And Mr. +Harper passed William G. McAdoo on the street. Yes, +New York is a wonderful city. You did? Isn’t that +nice! All right, we’ll be ready on Saturday—don’t +bother coming up, just honk for us, that’s what all our +friends do. Thanks so much, good-bye.”</p> + +<p>Mattie sat down at the table again.</p> + +<p>“Well,” she said, “it’s time they asked us—they’ll take +us now and be through for a year. Still, we may have a +nice time. But—what we were talking about—you sure +you are in earnest about Burton Center?”</p> + +<p>“You bet I am. The folks at home had the wrong +dope, that’s all. Why, I’ve got my position here, too important +to give up at any one’s beck and call. Didn’t +the boss congratulate me to-day on the way I wrote those +Detroit letters? I bet I get a raise in another three +months.”</p> + +<p>They folded their napkins into their silver-plated napkin-rings, +rose from the table, walked together into the +living-room, stood looking out into the drab bleakness +of One Hundred and Thirty-second Street, across to the +factory-like, monotonous row of apartment houses opposite, +where innumerable lights twinkled from other little +caves, where other little families lived, humdrum, +unmarked, inconsequential, grey. And from the minds +of Mattie and Joe faded the visions of little white houses +and cool, green lanes.</p> + +<p>They remembered, instead, the city, their city—Mattie +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_212">[Pg 212]</span>had seen a moving picture taken, once, from a Fifth +Avenue bus—three years ago Joe had been introduced to—actually +taken the hand of—William Jennings Bryan—they +had both seen James Montgomery Flagg draw a +picture for the Liberty Loan on the Public Library steps—a +woman in a store had pointed out Lady Duff Gordon +to Mattie—they had seen, on the street, a man who looked +exactly like Charles M. Schwab—it might easily have +been....</p> + +<p>“I’ll write that letter right away and have it over with,” +said Joe, “I won’t hurt ma’s feelings—she and Dad mean +all right. Living in Burton Center all their lives we can’t +expect them to understand things. It’s ridiculous, of +course. I don’t know what came over us for a minute +this morning. Of course we’ve got the crowded subways, +here, and it costs a lot to live and—and all that. You +can’t expect a place to be perfect. But—New Yorkers +like us couldn’t stand that dead Burton Center stuff for +five minutes. Why, we’re, we’re—city folks!”</p> + + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> +<div class="chapter"> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_213">[Pg 213]</span></p> + + + <h2 class="nobreak" id="INDIAN_SUMMER"> + INDIAN SUMMER + </h2> +</div> + + +<h3>I</h3> + +<p class="drop-cap"><span class="upper-case">Evelyn Barron</span> dressed rather mechanically +for the evening at the Durlands’, quite as she +always dressed to go to places. She chatted +pleasantly with her husband as she arranged her hair. +Martin Barron, as usual a little ahead of her, paused to +smoke a cigarette before putting on his collar. Evelyn +looked at him. She congratulated herself because he was +good-looking, awfully nice, in fact. Nothing extraordinary, +of course, but she had been married ten years and +he was pleasant and she was used to him. He seemed +nearly everything that a husband should be, and quite +satisfactory when compared with most other husbands +she knew.</p> + +<p>Evelyn was thirty-five. Even as she looked at herself +in the glass, and was pleased, she sighingly admitted that +they were both—well—getting rather settled. She was +not wrinkled or anything like that, of course, but she had +gained ten pounds in the past year. She pulled viciously +at a grey hair. She was glad that she was not really turning +wholly grey, the way some women did.</p> + +<p>Well, it wasn’t as if she were getting on alone. Martin +was aging, too. His rather sandy hair was receding +from his forehead. His skin, always slightly pink, was +a bit redder now after meals. He had taken to wearing +low collars, and with his newest lowest ones his flesh +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_214">[Pg 214]</span>formed two rolls over the top. But Martin was awfully +good. Evelyn knew that. He preferred a man as a private +secretary and even at parties he never paid much +attention to other women. A few years before Evelyn +had rather hoped that he would look at other women. It +would have added spice to things. Still, it was of no use +to borrow trouble. Good old Martin! She liked him the +way he was. He gave her everything he could afford.</p> + +<p>Theirs had been practically a love match—that is, +what usually passes for a love match. Martin had fallen +in love with Evelyn, brown-haired, brown eyed and jolly +and vivacious, at twenty-four. Evelyn, with no other +love affair in the immediate foreground, had recognized +his sterling qualities and his good business position and +had fastened her rather nebulous affection upon him. +She hadn’t made a mistake. She knew that. There +hadn’t been any one else she had cared for since. She +had settled down into comfortable domesticity, one-half +of a “little married couple” in an upper-middle-class New +York set. It was not especially exciting. Sometimes she +longed for thrills, but she had longed for them more years +before than she did now. She was pretty well satisfied +with things, now, most of the time. Especially with +Martin. They had quarrelled a bit, of course. About +trifles. But, usually, Martin was awfully good.</p> + +<p>To-night, even. Here he was, going to the Durlands’ +without a word, and he hated that sort of thing. Yet he +went because Evelyn liked to go. Of course he would +spend most of his time smoking with the men. But he +went, anyhow. Evelyn couldn’t go alone. In her set, +though they were awfully modern about a lot of things—all +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_215">[Pg 215]</span>of the women smoked and you could go to teas with +men if you liked—it wasn’t quite the thing to go to formal +parties without your husband. In any case, Evelyn +couldn’t have gone without <em>some</em> escort, and no other man +had ever asked her to go any place with him.</p> + +<p>She wondered, just for a minute, why she wanted to +go to the Durlands. Whenever she and Martin were invited +she always made quite a point of pretending to like +it. She wondered if she really did. She always felt a +bit out of things. But it was different from the affairs +she usually went to. Maud Durland was a writer, the +only writer Evelyn knew well. She was one of those serious +writers of little things who occasionally get into +some of the newer literary reviews with half a column, or +write a two-inch filler for a second-rate all-fiction magazine. +These, when Maud Durland wrote them, seemed to +have a special significance. She talked them over with +her friends and her friends spoke of them when she was +not with them.</p> + +<p>She wrote exclusively about people she knew. You +could pick out whom she meant if you knew her +crowd. She made no money by her writing, of course, +but she felt that she was in the midst of a career. Fred +Durland had some sort of a remunerative, though inartistic, +position connected with the coal industry, and Maud +Durland spoke of it slightingly and with a patronizing +sneer, though she never encouraged Fred to neglect coal +for a more artistic employment.</p> + +<p>One or two Sundays a month Maud Durland entertained +with teas in her studio. Why the Durlands had +chosen a duplex studio, instead of an ordinary apartment, +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_216">[Pg 216]</span>except that it was a better setting for tea parties, no one +ever knew. But all of Maud’s artistic friends liked it. +At these Sunday affairs, Maud gathered together as +many kindred souls as she could find. Usually they were +mostly married couples, one-half of each couple being a +mild devotee of some one of the arts. Sometimes, +though, couples like the Barrons were asked to fill in and +appreciate. There were always a few single people, too, +yearning young women in wrong colours, effeminate +young men trying to remember their poses, young business +men attempting, once a week, anyhow, to dip into a +higher culture than their routine office work afforded +them.</p> + +<p>The Durland apartment was removed from the stigma +of mere pretence by being uptown, a couple of blocks +from the park. Sometimes Maud managed to get real celebrities, +a man or a woman who had had things in the +big magazines or who had written—and sold—a book, or +verse writers who filled out the pages when fiction stories +ran too short and who turned an honest penny by working +part time for the advertising agencies.</p> + +<p>Evelyn had been to a number of these parties. She +liked the atmosphere, the being with people who counted. +Always, on the way home or the next day, she reflected +on Martin’s stolidity and wished he “did things” instead +of being in the wholesale leather business. It always +took several days to make her feel kindly toward him +again.</p> + +<p>Evelyn and Maud Durland had known each other +about four years. While they were not chummy and +found little to talk about when they were alone, they did +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_217">[Pg 217]</span>manage to have long telephone talks. Like most women, +they found more to say over the telephone than when they +were face to face. Occasionally they met at luncheon or +tea. Evelyn was always awfully pleased to be included +in Maud Durland’s parties.</p> + +<p>Now, her hair arranged and her face made up—Evelyn +used rouge and powder, but not with any degree of cleverness—she +slipped into her dress. It was rather a simple +frock of dark blue Georgette crêpe, a ready-made, with +conventional “smart” lines, the sort of dress hundreds of +women between twenty-five and fifty were wearing. It +was not an inexpensive dress, but it lacked personality +and effectiveness.</p> + +<p>Evelyn pulled Martin’s coat a bit, straightened his tie, +kissed him carelessly on the cheek. She felt she was +really very fond of him.</p> + +<p>“All ready, old dear,” she said cheerfully. “And please +don’t make Jeffry crawl along so. It’s late now. Other +people drive faster than a mile every two hours without +being arrested or having accidents.”</p> + +<p>When they arrived at the Durlands’, the guests had assembled—were, +in fact, already eating and drinking. +Guests usually started on the refreshments immediately +on arriving or as soon afterward as things were ready. +Evelyn removed her coat in Maud Durland’s room, an +exotic room, like all of Maud’s things. It was done in +peacock blue and lavender enamel and was heavy with +odd perfume.</p> + +<p>Martin was waiting at the studio door, and they went +into the studio together, nodding to people they knew. +In fifteen minutes Martin was with a group of business +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_218">[Pg 218]</span>husbands of artistic wives who were smoking in one corner. +Soon Evelyn was listening to the usual conversation. +This night there was so much talk of the punch, +which was pronounced extraordinarily good, that Evelyn +drank several glasses of it. She joined a group who were +discussing the newer lighting for the theatre.</p> + +<p>“You see, with this new lighting the foots are merely +incidental. Get a few thousand watts and a few baby +spots for a real moonlight effect—”</p> + +<p>Then,</p> + +<p>“Here’s the man who knows about things like that—all +about the theatre—writes for the stage—wrote the +lyrics for ‘Here Sat Miss Muffet’ and ‘Why Didn’t You +Phone Me?’ Hey, Northrup—”</p> + +<p>A man turned, smiled, came toward them. Evelyn +gasped. He was the sort of man she liked—the sort she +had fallen in love with, vaguely, whenever she fell in +love, years ago, before she met Martin. She had almost +forgotten that there were men of that type. It made +her feel different, alert, to realize that men still looked +that way. Of course, he wouldn’t notice her—men didn’t +notice her any more—hadn’t ever noticed her a great deal.</p> + +<p>His name was Franklin Northrup, she learned. She +felt, in some way, as if she knew quite a lot about him. +She was a bit confused as to whether lyrics meant the +words or the music to songs, but she knew it was one of +them. But that didn’t matter. Franklin Northrup! +He was the sort that had liked her, when she was younger. +Younger? Well, she wasn’t old—Northrup wasn’t so +young himself—her age or older. Why, she had been +asleep, had forgotten what men were! It had been +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_219">[Pg 219]</span>years since she had really looked at a man—really noticed—</p> + +<p>He was good-looking. He was the type she admired, +always. Blonde. Martin was blonde, of course, but +Martin was blonde in a heavy, red, sandy sort of way. +Northrup was slender, almost thin. His hair was shining +and smooth. She wanted rather to put her hand on it, to +see if it felt as smooth and soft as it looked. What a foolish +notion to have when you are married and thirty-five! +His skin was pale, too pale, really, and he had lines +around his mouth and rather deep shadows under his +eyes. Those eyes were dark and sleepy-looking, not +bright blue and stupid, like Martin’s. She knew that +type, cynical and yet sentimental and intense. How silly +to think of such things! She liked his mouth, the upper +lip rather thin, the under lip quite full. His nose was a +bit aquiline. She liked him awfully well.</p> + +<p>She wished, then, that she had not worn dark blue. +You can’t bring yourself out—show who you are—in +dark blue. Evelyn felt suddenly that it hid her personality. +A decent dark blue dress is a sort of a cloak of +invisibility. Unconsciously she ran her hand through +her brown hair, loosened it a trifle, pulled it a little farther +over her face. She was glad she had shampooed it +that morning. She was glad, too, that her eyes were +brown and didn’t need any make-up. She bit her lips, +moistened them, leaned forward.</p> + +<p>The others, chatting on about stage lighting, became +suddenly unimportant. Every one else became unimportant. +Northrup lounged on the arm of a chair.</p> + +<p>“This new lighting is all right, in a way,” he said; +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_220">[Pg 220]</span>“that is, they’re making an effort. But, except in night +scenes and things like that, I believe in enough light. +These new birds really haven’t anything on Belasco, +though they kid his realism. Half of these new artists +don’t know what they’re trying to do. Take that show +they put on last year—”</p> + +<p>His voice, quite deep, drawled pleasantly. Evelyn +shivered with enjoyment. He was nice. She would force +him to notice her. What should she do? He knew so +much about things. She leaned a trifle closer to him.</p> + +<p>Another man came up. Evelyn barely glanced at him. +He talked. Evelyn lost interest. She caught Northrup’s +eye.</p> + +<p>“Warm, isn’t it?” he asked. He rose, came up to her +chair. “An awful crowd here, too.”</p> + +<p>“You mean?”</p> + +<p>“Oh, these groups amuse me. They talk so much of +things they don’t know anything about. The theatre, +for instance. You interested in stage lighting?”</p> + +<p>“I’m one of those who don’t know anything about it,” +Evelyn laughed.</p> + +<p>“I know a little and it bores me a lot,” said Northrup. +“What about a sandwich and some punch? The old girl +put a big stick in it—quite like the old days, eh? Maybe +she knows that is the only way she can get a crowd.”</p> + +<p>Evelyn rose. They walked off together. Evelyn felt +Northrup’s hand on her elbow. She moved a trifle +closer to him. His fingers tightened around her arm.</p> + +<p>They drank several glasses of punch, nibbled at sandwiches. +Evelyn was not used to drinking.</p> + +<p>“Wouldn’t you like to get out of this mob?” Northrup +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_221">[Pg 221]</span>asked. “This chatter and near-music—I don’t know why +I came to this place. I live on the floor below—in one +of the little un-studio apartments. Maud Durland’s been +worrying me for weeks to come to one of her tea fights. +I didn’t know they could be as mad as this. I usually +don’t go in for this sort of thing.”</p> + +<p>Then,</p> + +<p>“Let’s go down to my rooms and get a real drink. +What say?”</p> + +<p>“Wouldn’t it seem a bit—unusual?”</p> + +<p>“Unusual, nothing. There’s been so many women in +those rooms that the hallboy thinks it’s a girls boarding +school. Honest, though, it’s better than this racket. +And a real drink. We’ll just stay a minute. Oh, come +on—”</p> + +<p>“I’d love to,” said Evelyn.</p> + + +<h3>II</h3> + +<p>They left the studio without any one noticing them. In +the hall Northrup took Evelyn’s hand and they ran down +the one flight of stairs. Evelyn felt young and buoyant +and carefree.</p> + +<p>On the floor below Northrup inserted a key in the +door, opened it, turned on a light.</p> + +<p>It was the usual bachelor apartment, but Evelyn had +seen few bachelor apartments. Once, when a friend of +Martin’s had been ill, she and Martin had visited him. +Once, with an aunt, she had visited the aunt’s brother-in-law’s +quarters. This, now, seemed wicked and pleasant +and mysterious.</p> + +<p>There was a little hall, a living-room, and beyond it the +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_222">[Pg 222]</span>dim outlines of bedroom things. And she and Northrup +were here, all alone! How much alone they seemed! +There was a divan near the fireplace, Turkish rugs in +rather bright colours, tables and smoking things on them, +lamps with red-orange shades. These were lit now. +The place was not especially artistic. The furniture was +modern mahogany of rather uncertain Colonial design. +But Evelyn thought it delightful.</p> + +<p>“This is more like things, isn’t it?” asked Northrup. +“The air up there, cheap perfumes and vile cigarettes—how +do they stand it? You go to that sort of thing +much?”</p> + +<p>“No, I’ve just been there a few times. Maud Durland +is an old friend of mine and she insisted that I come. +It’s rather fun, though, watching people.”</p> + +<p>“Fun enough. I like this.”</p> + +<p>“This—oh, yes.”</p> + +<p>Northrup went into the little kitchenette. He made a +great clatter with shakers and glasses and returned in a +minute or so with two rather warm cocktails. Evelyn +had to make a face over hers. Then they each had another. +Evelyn declined a third, but Northrup finished +them.</p> + +<p>“It’s a good thing,” he said, “that drinking never affects +me. I’ve been pouring things down all evening. +Some miserable high balls Ed Benchley had at dinner, +then a lot of that awful punch upstairs and now these. +If I couldn’t stand a lot, now that prohibition is here, I +don’t know how I’d ever get along—”</p> + +<p>Northrup sat near Evelyn on the couch. He touched +her hand, caught her fingers and smiled.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_223">[Pg 223]</span></p> + +<p>“We’re going to be friends, aren’t we?” he asked.</p> + +<p>Evelyn felt, suddenly, as if all of her youth had come +back to her. She felt the way she had felt, years before—before +she had met Martin. A funny little choking +feeling, far down in her throat—she had nearly forgotten +that—not in years—. She felt a sudden lightness, almost +an ache of happiness. So—she could still care—could +thrill—Northrup—how handsome he was!</p> + +<p>Northrup got up lazily, punched at some logs already +laid in the fireplace and touched a match to the paper +under them. It flared up. The logs blazed a moment +later. He turned out the orange lights.</p> + +<p>“This is what I like,” he said, “just you and I. Somehow, +from the minute I saw you, you seemed different—the +sort of woman who gets things—not like most +women ... as if I’d known you a long while.”</p> + +<p>“I—I felt like that, too,” admitted Evelyn. “There +was something about you that reminded me, some way, +of some one I must have known ages ago. I—you’re +rather different from most men—you seem....”</p> + +<p>“You’ve noticed that, then? It’s only with a few +women—just a few, that I dare to be myself. Most +women are a stupid lot, crude. I shrivel up, mentally, +when I am near them. But there is something about you—I +can be myself with you. You have a sympathy....”</p> + +<p>“I’m—I’m glad you feel that. I can’t express myself +with most people. But you....”</p> + +<p>Northrup talked about her—Evelyn talked about him. +They said sentimental, romantic things, the sort Evelyn +had almost forgotten. A moment later Northrup’s arms +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_224">[Pg 224]</span>were around her. She should have resisted, of course. +She knew that. But, instead, she hid her head in his +coat, a nice coat, pleasantly smelling of tobacco. Martin’s +clothes smelled of tobacco, too, but this was different, +more masculine—something.</p> + +<p>With one hand Northrup raised her head, looked at her. +Then he kissed her. It was a pleasant kiss. She had +forgotten—perhaps had never known—that any one +could kiss like that. It left her a bit breathless. The +choking thrill was in her throat again. How nice it was +to be kissed—like that—and by a man without a moustache! +Martin’s kisses were so hurried and moustachy +and bristly—you couldn’t feel his lips, even—and unemotional.</p> + +<p>They stood up, then. Northrup went to the piano.</p> + +<p>“I shall make up a song for you,” he said, “a song just +as dear and lovely and sweet as you are, a song that will +always remind me of you—”</p> + +<p>His fingers struck indefinite chords. Then he played +a plaintive, sentimentally pretty little air, improvising +words in a husky, deep voice. Suddenly he stopped with +a crash, turned around, caught Evelyn in his arms and +kissed her again. She loved the roughness of his caress.</p> + +<p>“You dear, you dear!” he said, over and over, very +softly.</p> + +<p>“I must go—I really must,” Evelyn said. “I—I—don’t +know why I act this way. I don’t do this sort of +thing, you know—really. What do you think of me? +Coming in here at all and now....”</p> + +<p>“I think you’re a dear, a darling ... why, child, I +love you ... I do, really....”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_225">[Pg 225]</span></p> + +<p>“I must go....”</p> + +<p>“Tell me you’re fond of me....”</p> + +<p>“Of course....”</p> + +<p>He caught her, kissed her again. She went to the door. +They were out in the hall ... up in the studio again. +The lights seemed brighter and more glaring, the voices +shriller than ever. No one had missed them. They +joined a group who were discussing plagiarism—how +much it was possible to take—not steal, of course—from +some other writer, without really doing anything wrong. +Evelyn was surprised at herself when she voiced an opinion. +The lights were dancing a bit. She felt as if she +were breathing something much lighter than air. Northrup +drawled replies. She caught his eye, dropped her own +eyes, met his again. A delicious secret was between +them. These other people—how stupid they were—they +didn’t know—couldn’t guess what had happened—while +they had been talking about nothing at all.</p> + +<p>Couples began to leave. Evelyn went to the dressing-room, +added powder to her face, pulled her hair out a +little more at the sides than she usually wore it, put on +her coat. In the hall, as Martin stopped to speak to +some one, Northrup joined her.</p> + +<p>“You’re going to see me?” he asked.</p> + +<p>“Of course.”</p> + +<p>“May I telephone you?”</p> + +<p>“Yes.”</p> + +<p>“When?”</p> + +<p>“Any time you like. Not—not in the evening, though.”</p> + +<p>“Oh, no.”</p> + +<p>He put a card into her hand.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_226">[Pg 226]</span></p> + +<p>“Here’s my ’phone number. I’m here most of the +time. I do my work here, you know. We’ll have tea—some +day this week....”</p> + +<p>“Lovely....”</p> + +<p>Other people separated them. He was gone. Evelyn +slipped the card into the pocket of her coat.</p> + + +<h3>III</h3> + +<p>On the way home Evelyn scarcely noticed Martin. She +was very happy, thinking. They must have talked, +though, for later she remembered that she had answered +questions that he had asked her. The ride seemed +rather bumpy. That’s all she remembered definitely +about it.</p> + +<p>At home, she undressed slowly, in a sort of a daze, still +with the lovely, breathless feeling in her throat. In bed +she snuggled in the pillows, closed her eyes.</p> + +<p>It didn’t seem possible—and yet—this had happened +to her ... Northrup—Franklin Northrup—his hand ... +his lips on her lips—kisses—his arms about her, roughly +tender.</p> + +<p>She slept restlessly, waking up for long periods of +pleasant thoughts. When she awoke in the morning Martin +was already splashing in the bathroom.</p> + +<p>“You don’t mind if I don’t get up for breakfast?” she +called. “Marie will have things the way you want them. +I’ve a headache.”</p> + +<p>“Sorry. Don’t bother about me. Lie with your eyes +closed—you’ll feel better.”</p> + +<p>A few minutes later Evelyn heard Martin awkwardly +pulling down the shades. She was more annoyed that he +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_227">[Pg 227]</span>was there at all than she was grateful for this thoughtfulness. +He interfered with her thoughts about Northrup.</p> + +<p>Martin finished dressing and stood beside her bed, put +a hand on her shoulder.</p> + +<p>“Feel better?”</p> + +<p>“Yes, a little. I’ll be all right.” She didn’t like the +feel of his hand, shrugged it away, pulled the covers +higher.</p> + +<p>He stamped out of the room in an attempt at quiet. +She heard him in the dining-room, a faint clatter of +dishes. Finally he left the house. She sighed with relief +when she heard the door close.</p> + +<p>Northrup ... now she could think comfortably of +him again. He seemed vague now, but still dear. She +knew she should have felt guilty. She knew Martin’s +theory about things like that. She had heard him express +it so many times. If a woman has an affair with +another man—and this was an affair in a way—not only +is the woman cheating her husband, but the other man +knows he is making a fool of the husband, too, and thinks +of him accordingly. In theory it seemed quite all right. +Evelyn didn’t want any one to make a fool of Martin—he +was her husband. But she remembered Northrup, his +sleek light hair, his full underlip, his half-closed eyes—how +dear he had been when he had kissed her. He did +care, of course. He’d ring her up to-day—this morning. +Of course he’d telephone, just to talk to her, to assure +her she hadn’t imagined things....</p> + +<p>She bathed slowly, taking as long as possible. She +put some of her best bath powder in the water. Then she +dried briskly and rubbed talcum powder into her skin. +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_228">[Pg 228]</span>She examined her body in the long mirror of her bathroom. +She did have rather nice lines—for thirty-five. +Her body was straight and white. Of course—that was +silly—thinking things—she might kiss Northrup again, +of course. But nothing further. It would be dangerous—more +than that. She was quite comfortably settled. +She had heard often enough that you can keep a man +caring for you only as long as you don’t yield too definitely +to him. A few kisses ... yes. She closed +her eyes and imagined herself in Northrup’s arms +again.</p> + +<p>She knew that he would not call, especially this morning, +without making an appointment. But she put on her +best negligée of rose-coloured chiffon and braided her +hair in a long braid down her back. She felt it made +her look younger arranged that way.</p> + +<p>He would telephone about eleven. Of course he was +the sort who rose late. Until ten she busied herself +with little things, a bit of torn lace on another negligée, +reading the newspapers and her mail. What uninteresting +mail—impersonal things from a lot of women—and +advertising! Why had she ever let herself get so +settled?</p> + +<p>That was it. Really, she was not old or settled at all. +Thirty-five isn’t old. Why, summer was barely over. +This was a coming back to youth again—a sort of Indian +summer. Of course. She would be as lovely as she had +ever been. Lovelier! She had learned things about life, +about men, that a young girl could never know. After +all, ten years of marriage ought to have taught her something—how +to get along with men, anyhow.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_229">[Pg 229]</span></p> + +<p>The telephone did not ring at eleven. But Northrup +could ring up at any time—in the afternoon, even. He’d +said something about tea. Maybe he’d ask her to-day....</p> + +<p>What could she wear, to tea?</p> + +<p>She went to her clothes closet, opened it wide, examined +her things. Suddenly a great truth about clothes +seemed to come to her. She knew, vaguely, that she +had known it before, that some young women knew it—some +older ones, too—but that she had forgotten it entirely. +The truth was that there are definitely two kinds +of clothes—clothes that women wear for men and clothes +that women wear for other women. She knew now, as +she had known, years before, that some women dress just +for men. She saw them every day. Yes, she had degenerated +in clothes, if she had ever been different. For her +clothes were picked out because they were “stylish,” because +they were the clothes other women liked.</p> + +<p>She took down a black satin dress. Yes—that was it—for +women. Seated on the edge of her bed, she snipped +at the neck. It was too high, of course. Lower, a bit +of dainty lace. That’s what men like—plain things, +but striking and dainty and cuddly. Of course, she had +known that all the time. How could she have let herself +go? Yet she had felt that she had been keeping +up with things. She felt that she knew, instinctively, +now, the kind of clothes she wanted.</p> + +<p>She finished the black dress, altered another gown with +a few stitches. She’d have a seamstress in the house. +She knew what her clothes needed—shorter sleeves, lower +neck and touches of lace at the throat, hats that were +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_230">[Pg 230]</span>little and trim and would show her hair at the sides, or +big hats, floppy and mysterious. How could she have +forgotten? Why hadn’t she dressed that way always? +She would show Martin that she really needed clothes, +get him to buy her some.</p> + +<p>Martin ... what a stupid, impossible fellow he was! +How could she have ever thought differently? How stupid +to let her put things over him. Why, she could put +anything over Martin.</p> + +<p>Then it came to her that she didn’t want to put things +over Martin, that she didn’t want to consider him or have +to worry about him at all. Why, his being around, the +necessary thoughts about him, were really too stupid, too +dreadful. She didn’t want him near her at all, in any +way.</p> + +<p>Martin—how could she have stood him, all these +years? How could she have liked him—stupid and awkward +and dull, with his bristly moustache and his unfeeling +kisses? She couldn’t stand any more. That was +certain. If she went away....</p> + +<p>She dreamed, then, over her sewing. After all—if she +left Martin ... could get a divorce ... Martin would +be good enough to let her get it ... then she could marry +Northrup. That was it—marry Northrup, be with him +all the time ... wait for him in the evening, as she +waited for Martin now.</p> + +<p>Martin ... what good was Martin, anyhow? She +remembered that Martin had increased his life insurance. +It was all made out to her. If anything happened to +Martin ... an automobile accident ... Martin made +Jeffry drive very carefully, but didn’t accidents happen +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_231">[Pg 231]</span>every day? Twenty-five thousand dollars—that was +something. Even the interest on that, with what Martin +had saved ... not so much, but she wouldn’t have to +go to Northrup penniless, anyhow. She pictured Martin +dying of half a dozen painless illnesses or accidents, saw +herself his devoted nurse, saw herself in widow’s weeds, +very becoming ones ... afterwards ... a few weeks +afterwards....</p> + +<p>She ate luncheon, hardly noticing what was served to +her. It was two o’clock. Northrup had not telephoned. +Martin telephoned to tell her he had got seats for a play +she had wanted to see—she was to meet him at the hotel +where they were to dine at seven. Plays, restaurants ... +they seemed stupid now, empty, without Northrup—if +he could be there—if she were with him.</p> + +<p>What if he didn’t know her telephone number? She +had told him, of course, but it was a difficult number to +remember. It was not in the telephone book. Maybe +he didn’t even remember her name. That was delicious—and +he had kissed her!</p> + +<p>She got his card from her dressing-table drawer, where +she had put it the night before, fingered it, went to the +telephone. She would call him, say just a word, ring off. +He’d want to talk more with her, then. She felt that she +must hear his voice, low, deep, tender. What lovely +things he had said to her!</p> + +<p>She gave the number to the operator. Her voice +broke into a falsetto. The line was busy. She drew little +idle squares on the fancy telephone book cover some +woman had given her for Christmas. A minute later +she rang again. She heard central ringing the number +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_232">[Pg 232]</span>this time. A minute’s ring. A masculine voice. Then,</p> + +<p>“Well?”</p> + +<p>“Is this Mr. Northrup?” Evelyn asked in her softest +tones.</p> + +<p>“No. It’s Northrup’s apartment.”</p> + +<p>“May I speak to him, please?”</p> + +<p>A pause, then,</p> + +<p>“Who is this, please?”</p> + +<p>“Mrs. Barron.”</p> + +<p>He was at home, then. She would hear his voice in +just a minute. He had company—of course that was +why he hadn’t telephoned her.</p> + +<p>“I’ll see if Mr. Northrup is at home.”</p> + +<p>She waited. It wasn’t a servant’s voice. Northrup +had said that he had a Japanese valet who took rather +good care of him, but Evelyn felt sure it wasn’t a Japanese +who had answered the telephone. How could a visitor +not know if Northrup was at home?</p> + +<p>The same voice,</p> + +<p>“I’m sorry, but Mr. Northrup isn’t in. If you’ll leave +your number I’ll have him call you when he returns.”</p> + +<p>Evelyn gave her number, hung up the receiver. What +did it mean? Northrup not at home—and the other +man had to find out—in a two-room apartment! The +voice had sounded rather amused, but of course that was +imagination. But, if he weren’t at home, why hadn’t he +telephoned to her? If he were at home, why didn’t he +want to speak to her? Because another man was there? +It hadn’t been Northrup’s voice, though. Of course that +wasn’t possible.</p> + +<p>She wandered around the apartment. The day had +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_233">[Pg 233]</span>turned from grey to a misty rain. It was not nice enough +to go out. Evelyn hated rain. Anyhow, until seven +there really was no place to go. She telephoned the garage, +so that her car would call for her at half-past six.</p> + +<p>She played a little on the piano, but she did not play +very well. Then she put a roll in it—it was one of the +reproducing players that played not badly for its kind. +She chose several sentimental rolls, and then, seated on +the couch in quite the same position she had sat the night +before on Northrup’s couch, she thought of him. She +tucked one hand under her cheek, the way his hand had +been under her cheek. Didn’t he care, really?</p> + +<p>Her restlessness grew greater. She must talk to some +one. She rang up two women friends. They were not +at home. Then she thought of Maud Durland. Of +course! Maud could tell her things about Northrup. +She wouldn’t say much—nor let Maud suspect. Maud +was always having affairs with other men, but she was +the first to talk if any one else had a little affair. Maud +was at home.</p> + +<p>“You had the most wonderful party last night,” Evelyn +started in gaily enough. “You do have lovely +parties.”</p> + +<p>“Yes.” Maud’s tone was pleasantly self-congratulatory, +“every one seemed to have a nice time. Some +punch, eh? Rogers and Maxwell and Hamilton each +brought bottles and I said, ‘Oh, be a sport and dump ’em +all in the punch,’ and they did, and see what happened. +Nothing exploded, at that, but it did add quite a lot of +pep to the party.”</p> + +<p>“It certainly did. I didn’t neglect the punch, you bet. +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_234">[Pg 234]</span>By the way, tell me about a man I met—rather interesting—Northrup +his name was—”</p> + +<p>“Franklin Northrup. He lives in my building. Does +lyrics. A dear, isn’t he?”</p> + +<p>“Rather nice.”</p> + +<p>“Northrup had a beautiful bun on, did you notice? +Still, he’s more fun with a bun on than not. Knows how +to carry it. He’s rather a dignified, retiring fellow when +he’s strictly sober, if at all. He—he didn’t by any chance +make love to you, did he, Evelyn?”</p> + +<p>“Why—the idea—why of course not....”</p> + +<p>“Yes he did, Evelyn. Naughty, naughty! Don’t tell +fibs to mamma! But don’t let that worry you. He’s +forgotten all about it to-day. Meet him to-morrow, sober, +and he’ll be a perfect gentleman. Meet him a bit +stippled and he’ll start in all over again. He’s the lovin’est +man any one ever saw. No harm, you know—you +needn’t feel ‘ruint’ over it or anything like that. He’s +just sort of soft and sentimental. And Evelyn, he’d +make love to a post or one of the Hartman girls if he +were in the mood. When he’s sober he’s in love with +Marjorie Blake. He dedicates all of his music to her. +And did you notice a tall, dark-haired fellow named +Millard—?”</p> + + +<h3>IV</h3> + +<p>Maud talked on. When she had finished, Evelyn hung +up the receiver rather limply and sank back into her +chair. So—Northrup was just a sort of a ... a town +lover! He acted that way to every one! And, when he +was sober, he was in love with Marjorie Blake! And +Marjorie Blake was a dancer about twenty, slender and +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_235">[Pg 235]</span>blonde and dimpled, a typical ingenue with blonde curls +and a naughty smile, all pink and white and young ... +and here she, Evelyn, was thirty-five and she had thought—hoped—that +Northrup....</p> + +<p>Suddenly, she hated Northrup and his love-making. +How dared he kiss her—because he had been drinking? +If she ever saw him again she wouldn’t speak to him at +all. And he hadn’t even had the decency to apologize—or +to talk to her when she had called him on the telephone! +What a fool he must think her. She hated herself—she +had been drinking a little, too. She hated him +worst of all.</p> + +<p>It was time to dress for dinner. Evelyn dressed hurriedly, +putting on the gown she had altered that morning. +How cheap it looked—like a shop-girl’s with the +neck cut so low! It was too late to alter it and they +were dining too informally for evening clothes. How +silly she had been this morning about dresses! Why, +she dressed very well for her position, nice things and +conservative. What idiocy to think that men like one +sort of thing and women another. Northrup—she shuddered.</p> + +<p>The telephone rang. Evelyn ran to answer it herself. +It was to announce that her car was waiting. She put +on her hat, tucking her hair in neatly at the sides. Why—she +was middle-aged ... getting middle-aged! Indian +summer indeed! She didn’t even know any men except +awful friends of Martin’s and the husbands of her +friends. There wasn’t any one who gave her any attention +at all. And now—one man, after drinking terrible +punch and worse cocktails, had put his arms around her—kissed +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_236">[Pg 236]</span>her—and it had kept her from sleeping, worried +her all day. Even now there were dark circles under +her eyes.</p> + +<p>Martin ... oh, he was all right. She liked him, of +course. Their life would go on, together, just the same. +But now Evelyn knew that in some way this dipping into +youth or an attempted youth had robbed her of something +rather important—of really liking Martin—of appreciating +him. She had looked up to him. But from +now on Martin would be just a husband—unimportant—getting +bald and fat. But then, she was just a wife, +getting grey and fat, too, without an adventure. Indian +summer? Evelyn doubted whether there really was such +a season.</p> + + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> +<div class="chapter"> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_237">[Pg 237]</span></p> + + + <h2 class="nobreak" id="A_LOVE_AFFAIR"> + A LOVE AFFAIR + </h2> +</div> + + +<h3>I</h3> + +<p class="drop-cap"><span class="upper-case">When</span> her mother knocked on her door, at +half-past seven, as she always did, Laura +Morgan called a drowsy “All right, Ma, I’ll +get up in a minute.” Then she lay in bed for twenty +minutes, in a pleasant, half-asleep state and thought of +Howard Bates. He seemed very close to her when she +was not quite awake, as if she were still with him in the +dream she had had. The remembrance of the dream, +comforting and warm, still surrounded her, though she +couldn’t remember the details. Not that it mattered. +Laura didn’t “believe in dreams,” though she had once +had a paper-covered dream-book, in which she could look +up things like daggers and handkerchiefs and learn their +significance. Half-asleep was better than dreaming. +She could change the dreams to suit herself, could picture +Howard more plainly, his soft tumbled hair, his sleepy +hazel eyes. She and Howard walking together, dancing +together, kissing, even.</p> + +<p>There was no reason for getting up promptly, anyhow. +Her mother and Maud could get breakfast for her father +and Philip, her brother, just as well as if she were down. +Lying in bed like this was the pleasantest part of her day.</p> + +<p>It didn’t seem possible to Laura, now, that less than +a year ago she and Howard had actually gone together. +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_238">[Pg 238]</span>He had come to see her and they had sat in the always-rather-stuffy +living room and had sung popular pieces, +their heads close together at the piano, or they had gone +out. Howard had taken her to Perron’s Drug Store for +sodas and sometimes to the semi-monthly dances at Stattler’s +Hall or to Electric Park. He had brought her +pound boxes of candy, pink and white bonbons intermingled +with assorted chocolates in a blue box tied with pink +ribbon. They had been to nearly every episode in “Her +Twenty Dangers” which had run, two reels at a time, at +the Palace Moving Picture Theatre. Howard had made +love to her, had held her close as he told her good-night, +had kissed her. And now Howard was going with Mary +Price.</p> + +<p>Laura never knew just how it had started—Howard +going with Mary. She and Howard had some sort of an +argument about nothing at all. Then Howard hadn’t +asked her to go to a dance at Stattler’s Hall. Not wanting +to stay at home, she had gone with a travelling salesman +from St. Louis, a fat fellow she didn’t like.</p> + +<p>She had watched for Howard all evening. He had +come in, alone, about ten, and had danced only once with +her, spending most of his time smoking cigarettes on the +fire-escape with some of the other boys or dancing with +other girls. Mary Price hadn’t been there at all. Mary +Price wasn’t even popular with the boys—hadn’t been +until Howard started going with her.</p> + +<p>Somehow, then, Howard had lost interest in Laura. +All of her little tricks hadn’t helped. Mary’s little tricks +had. He started going with Mary, instead. Laura knew +Mary but not awfully well. Mary had only been living +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_239">[Pg 239]</span>in Morristown for a couple of years. She was a silly, +giggly, clinging little thing.</p> + +<p>Laura hated Mary. She knew Mary hated her, too. +Hated and felt superior because she was “cutting her +out.” They pretended a great friendliness, with the over-cordiality +of girls who are a little afraid or jealous. But, +lately, there had been a peculiarly unpleasant smile on +Mary’s round face, a mixture of triumph and indifference, +when they met. For, now, Howard took Mary to all of +the places he had taken Laura a year before. It was +just as natural in the set of which Laura was a part to +say “Mary and Howard” as it had been to say “Laura +and Howard” last year.</p> + +<p>Of course Laura pretended not to care for Howard nor +to care whom he went with. She felt she succeeded for +no one ever teased her about him. Laura went with +other men now, travelling salesmen, Morristown boys, +too. She went with Joe Austin most of all because he +spent money on her and took her places. But they all +seemed alike, stupidly uninteresting, with little, annoying +mannerisms. Even the nicest of them was nice only +because of faint echoings of Howard’s manner. Mostly, +they were just a little better than no one at all. They +showed that she could get men to be nice to her.</p> + +<p>Not that Howard was at all remarkable. Laura knew +he wasn’t, knew that other girls in Morristown, outside +of Mary Price, didn’t seem to think much of him. But +to Laura he seemed very precious. He had rather a deep, +slow voice, a way of drawling the last words in sentences, +a way of caressing words, even, of putting meanings into +them that weren’t there at all. Little things he had said +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_240">[Pg 240]</span>were always coming back to Laura with a new poignancy, +now that she didn’t go with him any more.</p> + +<p>Why had she let him go? How had she lost him? +She hadn’t appreciated him. It seemed impossible now—he +was so very dear—and yet, a year ago he had been +nice to her, telephoned her, come to see her, liked her a +lot, really, didn’t go with other girls at all.</p> + +<p>There was no one else for her. The travelling men and +the Morristown boys were distressingly alike. Joe Austin +was her favourite only because other girls thought he +was a good catch. Laura knew that she would probably +never get away from Morristown. She had no special +ambition or ability. The family had just enough money +to get along, without the girls doing anything useful. +No one would ever come to Morristown who counted. +She was twenty-four and not awfully young looking, a +thinnish girl with light hair who was already getting lines +around her mouth and chin.</p> + +<p>There were several boys who liked Laura, Fred Ellison +and Morgan French and Joe. Joe was in love with her, +actually. It always surprised Laura when she thought +of it. For she never did anything to appeal to Joe. Of +course when he took her places, dances or movies, she +was nice to him, a sort of reward for his company. +Lately, too, she even went through the pretence of coquetting +with him if Mary or Howard were present, just to +show them that she was having a good time. She had invented +a sort of mask of gaiety for them, a rather tremulous, +shrill gaiety. She wanted them to see that she was +always having a good time, that she was popular, the +centre of things. It was hard, keeping up, when Howard +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_241">[Pg 241]</span>wasn’t there. Why did she like Howard? It seemed so +silly. Howard! His mouth was rather soft and full and +he had a way of raising one eyebrow with a doubting half-smile +... his hands were the sort you want to reach +out and touch, if they were near. Howard....</p> + +<p>Her mother called to her, annoyed, from downstairs,</p> + +<p>“Breakfast is all ready, now, Laura. You’re a great +help to me.”</p> + +<p>“Coming right away, Ma.”</p> + +<p>Laura yawned and stretched and got up, putting her +bare feet into the pink hand-crocheted bedroom slippers +that Julia Austin, Joe’s sister, had given her at +Christmas, shapeless things, never very pretty, like Julia +and all the Austins. In the bathroom she bathed her +face and arms and put on a blue cotton crêpe kimono, +embroidered in white butterflies, over her pink cotton +gown. She inserted a couple of hairpins in her hair and +went down stairs to breakfast and her family.</p> + +<p>Her mother and Maud, who was two years younger, +but more pleasantly plump, were clad in starchy blue +morning dresses, with checked aprons over them. They +looked agreeably capable as they placed the stewed fruit +and oatmeal on the table. Her father and her brother, +Philip, were already seated at the breakfast table.</p> + +<p>Laura sat down, smiled a mechanical “good morning” +and took her napkin from the plated-silver napkin ring +with her initials on it. The Morgans had clean napkins +twice a week.</p> + +<p>“Isn’t she the merry little sunshine!” Philip ventured.</p> + +<p>“Let me alone,” said Laura, and her voice trembled. +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_242">[Pg 242]</span>“If you’d been awake half the night with a headache +you’d be grumpy, too.”</p> + +<p>Philip subsided.</p> + +<p>Her father looked at her over his glasses.</p> + +<p>“Been having a lot of headaches lately, it seems to me,” +he said. “Running around too much to dances. If you +get to bed some night before twelve, you might wake +up in a better humour.”</p> + +<p>Laura didn’t answer. She wanted to scream out, to +tell them that her head didn’t ache at all but that they +annoyed her and bored her terribly, that she didn’t want +to talk to them, that all she wanted was Howard Bates, +wanted him there, with her now, always.</p> + +<p>She finished her breakfast. The two men left. Maud +and her mother, in a pleasant buzz of conversation, +cleared off the table, began pottering around the dining-room, +putting it in order.</p> + +<p>“I’ll dust the living-room,” Laura volunteered. She +had to do something, she knew. She could be alone, +there.</p> + +<p>It couldn’t be true—and yet last night at a dance at +Miller’s Hall there were rumours that Mary and Howard +were engaged.</p> + +<p>Engaged! If Mary once got him—If the engagement +were announced—she had lost him, then. She had lost +him anyhow. Of course. Lost him. It didn’t seem +possible. Howard!</p> + +<p>In the living-room she threw herself down on the +couch, buried her head in a cushion. There, on that +couch, Howard had first kissed her. She stretched out +her hand along the back of it. How many times she +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_243">[Pg 243]</span>had found his hand there. And Howard was going to +marry Mary Price. She wanted to scream out, to stop +things, some way. She didn’t know what to do.</p> + +<p>She got up and dusted the living-room. On the upright +piano was a pile of popular songs with garish +covers, torn. Some of those songs Howard had sung to +her—had brought to her. Howard didn’t have a very +good voice, just deep and pleasant. She had liked hearing +him sing because it was him singing. His hair, soft +and always mussed looking ... his hand.... And +now he was going to marry Mary. She had tried hard +enough ... everything she knew.</p> + +<p>She didn’t believe much in prayers—nor in God—since +she was grown up. She had often shocked her +family and her friends by declaring her unbelief in any +God at all. Yet, now, suddenly, she threw herself on her +knees, in front of the couch, and buried her head in the +seat cushion.</p> + +<p>“Oh, God,” she groaned, “send Howard back to me. +Make him love me! I—I haven’t asked for much. I +haven’t got much. He is all I want. I don’t care ... +I want him—please, God.”</p> + +<p>She got to her feet feeling a little better. Maybe it +was just a rumour, after all. How would Nettie Sayer +know? It was Nettie who had told her. Why, even +now, Howard might be thinking of her, deciding that he +loved her and not Mary, after all. How could he love +Mary, after all the good times they had had together, +little things, jokes, his kisses?</p> + +<p>Laura finished dusting the living-room with a little +flourish, even. Why, anything might happen.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_244">[Pg 244]</span></p> + +<p>Her mother and Maud were in the kitchen. She +joined them there, listening for half an hour to their conversation, +joining in, finally. Wasn’t Maud silly? If +only there were some one she could talk to about things. +But Maud—her mother—they didn’t know, couldn’t feel +things the way she did. Howard!</p> + +<p>He might be going to ring her up. Why, yes, maybe +he would telephone her. For an instant she forgot that +she had thought that same thing for a long time, months, +now. This was different. She had heard of the engagement. +She had prayed. Things couldn’t go on. Howard +worked in his father’s store. It was a musty store +that dealt mostly in leather and saddles but included +some hardware. Laura didn’t like it. It was a hard +store to find excuses for going into. But he could telephone +her from there, any time. Why, she used to telephone +him there, lots of times. He got down-town about +nine. It was ten, now. He’d been there an hour, more +than likely.</p> + +<p>“I think I’ll go up and dress,” she said. “I promised +Myrtle Turner I’d attend to those programs for the +Ladies’ Aid Benefit and get a proof for the meeting to-morrow.”</p> + +<p>Her mother and Maud nodded mechanically. What +difference did anything make to them?</p> + + +<h3>II</h3> + +<p>Laura bathed and dressed rather rapidly, in a sort of a +fever, listening all the while for the telephone to ring. It +did not ring. After she had dressed and put on her neat +blue coat and tan velvet hat, she made a pretence of talking +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_245">[Pg 245]</span>with Maud. If Howard did telephone, she didn’t +want to miss him. Then she had a feeling, suddenly, of +wanting to be out of the house.</p> + +<p>She hurried down-town, the business street that +stretched out from the Brick Church to the railroad depot. +Just off this street she stopped into a grimy little print +shop and received smudged copies of the Ladies’ Aid +Benefit program. That was all her errand consisted of. +She had nothing else to do down-town.</p> + +<p>She must see Howard, of course. She invented half a +dozen errands that took her past Bates’ Harness and +Leather Store, with its hideous imitation horse of dappled +grey in one window. She did not see Howard, though +she peered in, eagerly, as she passed. She must see him! +Once she fancied she did see him. What a dark store it +was.</p> + +<p>She had bought everything she could think of, down-town. +She had talked to half a dozen people, making +the conversation last as long as possible, giggling whenever +she could giggle. She had accepted an invitation to +go to the movies later in the week with Mark Henry, had +promised to dance with Archie Miller at the next dance, +at Stattler’s Hall. She couldn’t go home without seeing +Howard.</p> + +<p>She walked past the store again. Her steps dragged. +She looked inside. She did not see him. She must go +in—find a pretext for going in. What could she get? +She had thought of everything so many times. She must +go in.</p> + +<p>Her hand was on the door. She was inside the store.</p> + +<p>Ray Davenport, the clerk, a sprightly young fellow, +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_246">[Pg 246]</span>came up to her. Had she wasted this chance, coming in—and +not seeing Howard?</p> + +<p>She knew Ray and smiled at him. She couldn’t ask +for Howard, now.</p> + +<p>“Have you any—any of those new ice-scrapers?” she +asked. “Not the kind you chop ice with but the kind that +scrapes it, you know, with lots of teeth, into a sort of +little cup.”</p> + +<p>“I don’t think so,” Ray hesitated. “You don’t mean +this kind?”</p> + +<p>He walked back of the counter, took something from +a dusty bin and held it out to her.</p> + +<p>“Oh, no, we’ve got one like that—”</p> + +<p>In the back of the store was an office, with partitions +just high enough so you could see who was there. Inside, +now, was Howard!</p> + +<p>She hesitated. Then,</p> + +<p>“Hello, Howard,” Laura called, prettily.</p> + +<p>Howard Bates looked up, came out of the office toward +her. As he came she grew almost dizzy, held tightly +to her black leather purse. How lovely he looked—he +was dearer than she had thought him. He looked tired, +a trifle thin, even, and pale. His hair was dishevelled. +Howard—why—he had gone with her—had been hers—hers +to love, once....</p> + +<p>She smiled nervously as he came up to her, and held +out her hand. She wanted to keep his hand in her own, +to run her hand over his face, to put her fingers through +his hair, on his lips, as she once had done. She felt that +she could have stopped loving him, quite without trouble, +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_247">[Pg 247]</span>if his mouth had been different. Or his hair—or his +eyes.</p> + +<p>“I’m hunting for an ice-shaver,” she told him. “I’ve +been making a sort of a new drink we’re all awfully fond +of—folks say it’s good, but they are probably just being +polite about it—and the ice has got to be shaved. The +other night one of the boys nearly broke his finger with +our ice pick—Jerome Farmer—it’s taken it nearly a week +to heal. So I thought if I could get another kind—”</p> + +<p>Jerome Farmer was the banker’s son—awfully popular. +He had called, had hurt his finger on an ice pick. She’d +let Howard see that she didn’t sit at home and wait +for him, anyhow.</p> + +<p>He was sorry. He didn’t have the ice-shaver she +wanted. How was every little thing? Going to the +dance, Wednesday? He’d see her, then. Before, +maybe....</p> + +<p>What could she say? She had said everything she +knew how to say, weeks before.</p> + +<p>She was out on the street. Howard hadn’t said anything +she hoped he would.</p> + +<p>She walked home slowly. She was angry, now, at herself. +Why had she gone in the store at all? Wouldn’t +he know that she was running after him? He hadn’t +mentioned Mary, either. Maybe they weren’t engaged, +after all. Hadn’t she prayed to God?</p> + +<p>At home, she took off her serge dress and got into her +kimono again. Her mother and sister were not at home. +Curled up in the biggest living-room chair she read all +of the stories in her favourite magazine. She stopped in +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_248">[Pg 248]</span>between stories to think about Howard. Sometimes she +read a whole page before she realized that she didn’t +know a word she had read. Why had she gone to see +him? Still, she wouldn’t have got to see him at all if she +hadn’t gone. What did he see in Mary? A little thing +like that! Why couldn’t she get him back again? She +was as pretty as Mary, as clever, as nice in every way. +Maybe—still—hadn’t she prayed for him?</p> + +<p>She read, listening for the telephone.</p> + +<p>At five o’clock the telephone rang. A masculine voice +asked for her. She trembled, though she knew it was not +Howard. It was Joe Austin. She had an engagement +with him for that evening. He telephoned to ask if she +would prefer going to a vaudeville show to staying at +home.</p> + +<p>“Let’s stay at home for a change,” she said, and +wondered why she said it. Usually, she wanted to be +going places every minute. “I’ve been out late every +night for a week. I’ve got to get some sleep. I’ll be +awfully glad to see you, though, Joe. Around eight.”</p> + +<p>Half an hour later her mother came home and then +Maud. There were meat cakes for dinner and she did +not like them. She had not had any lunch. She went +without lunch frequently.</p> + +<p>Dinner was the usual meal. The family laughed over +the day’s events. She laughed, too, even permitted +Phillip to tease her when she said that Joe Austin was +coming to call.</p> + +<p>“Why doesn’t he take the spare room?” Philip cried. +“He’s here enough. Though he isn’t here much for dinner. +You got to hand it to Joe. He takes you places. +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_249">[Pg 249]</span>He isn’t one of these home comforts and mealers like +Howard Bates used to be, coming in just before we sat +down at the table.”</p> + +<p>“Is that so?” asked Laura.</p> + +<p>Yet she was not angry. She was really happy when, +under any circumstances, Howard’s name was brought +into the conversation.</p> + +<p>After dinner she dressed again putting on a cheap +pink frock that had done duty as a dance dress before it +lost its freshness. She did her hair over, puffing it out +around her ears. Her face was getting thin. She must +stop worrying about things. Why, she really looked +more than her age. Little fat things like Mary Price +always looked younger than they really were—fooled +men. She added an extra bit of rouge and powder. +What did it matter? She wouldn’t see Howard.</p> + +<p>At eight, Joe Austin came. Maud was spending the +evening with some girl friends. The rest of the family +always stayed in the dining-room when the girls had +company so, as usual, Laura had the living-room for her +young man and herself. He came laden with a large box +of candy, the chocolate creams already hardened by age. +Laura greeted it with extravagant praise and made a pretence +of feeding him the first piece.</p> + +<p>What a tiresome fellow Joe was! She looked at him +critically. Stupid. He had light hair that was rather +uneven, the sort that can’t be brushed quite smooth, but +it lacked the softness of Howard’s. Already it was starting +to recede. Worse than that, there was a thin place +on the back of his head. Yet Joe wasn’t more than +twenty-six or so, about Howard’s age. He was much +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_250">[Pg 250]</span>richer than Howard. His father owned the Austin +House, the second best hotel in town, the one frequented +by commercial travellers and theatrical companies, people +like that.</p> + +<p>Joe was a sort of manager and clerk, and no doubt +would take over the hotel when his father died. He was +more citified than Howard. He went up to Chicago two +or three times a year. He wore better fitting clothes, +with little fancy touches to them in lapels and pockets. +Howard wore awfully plain things, always in need of +pressing, always smelling slightly of tobacco—lovely +things—</p> + +<p>Joe was rather dapper, even. “Good company,” most +people called him. He knew a lot of vaudeville jokes, +and, in a crowd, could always say something to get applause. +Howard wasn’t much fun in a crowd. Howard!</p> + +<p>Joe was telling a long anecdote, now. As Laura looked +at him, she wondered why she allowed him to call, why +he liked her, anyhow. His nose was a trifle too short, +turned up just a little. His face was a little too thin. +There were slight lines in his cheeks. Howard was thin +too,—a different thinness. Joe was so stupid and talky +and useless. Why, if he died that minute it wouldn’t +matter. He had no force, no personality. Yet he was +more popular, more of a catch than Howard. She knew +that. Perhaps that, really, was the reason she kept on +going with him. What a bore he was! Should she keep +on letting him call, talking to him?</p> + +<p>The telephone rang. Almost rudely Laura rushed from +the room to answer it. The telephone stood on a little +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_251">[Pg 251]</span>table in the hall. She had hoped.... The voice was +Rosalie Breen’s.</p> + +<p>“Have you heard the news?” she wanted to know. +After the usual hesitation she went on, “I thought maybe +you had. You are one of the people she was going to +call up. Mary Price and Howard Bates. What do you +think of that? She just ’phoned me. I guess she’ll +’phone you right away, too. She’s having us all in to-morrow +night, a little party. I heard it last night at the +dance. Did you? Howard was one of your old flames, +once, wasn’t he, Laura?”</p> + +<p>“Oh, I didn’t mind him hanging around before I—I—had +some one else,” Laura managed to say. She managed +a giggle, too.</p> + + +<h3>III</h3> + +<p>So, Howard was engaged. Well, that was settled. +Gone! She might as well wipe him off her slate. She +knew Howard. She could never get him back, now. +She could never mean anything at all to him. Ever. +Something went out. Life was greyer, would always be +greyer. Things didn’t seem to matter as much. Maybe +things had never mattered, anyhow. Of course she’d +get over it. People got over things like that in years. +Years. To keep on living.... And she had prayed to +God. God!</p> + +<p>She told Joe. They talked about that, other things. +Howard gone! Joe was talking. She giggled over his +stories. She found she couldn’t giggle any more. She +lapsed into silence. What did Joe matter? What if she +never saw him again? What did anything matter? Joe—well, +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_252">[Pg 252]</span>he was the nicest man she knew—now. A better +catch than Howard. Mary knew that. Why of course. +Mary would have been glad to have gone with Joe. +Why, Mary had made up to Joe. He thought her a +stupid little thing. She was, too. Joe! After all, why +not? It was better than no one at all, than letting people +ask her about Howard.</p> + +<p>She went over and sat next to Joe on the couch. She +rested her hand, carelessly, near his hand. She leaned +toward him just a little. She was glad her dress was +rather low. She looked rather nice, that way.</p> + +<p>“I feel so nervous, Joe,” she said, “I don’t know why. +A sort of a mood. Why, I believe I’m trembling. Feel +my hand.”</p> + +<p>She held out one hand to him.</p> + +<p>“Not an excuse for me to play hands with you, Laura?”</p> + +<p>“You old silly. Don’t you know me better than that?”</p> + +<p>“Bet I do. What’s the matter?”</p> + +<p>“I don’t know. I just felt sort of—sad. Don’t you +get that way, sometimes?”</p> + +<p>“Not when a girl as nice as you lets me hold her hand. +I say, Laura....”</p> + +<p>“Now, Joe,” giggled Laura, and pulled her hand away. +Holding Joe’s hand gave her as much emotion as holding +Maud’s hand—or the cat’s paw.</p> + +<p>“I don’t know what’s the matter with me,” she said, +and sighed.</p> + +<p>“Now, now,” said Joe, and gave her shoulder little +pats. “Cheer up and tell papa what’s wrong.”</p> + +<p>She laughed at that and put one hand over his hand +as it lay on her shoulder.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_253">[Pg 253]</span></p> + +<p>“You’re a dear little girl,” Joe said, “if I only thought +you really liked me, Laura....”</p> + +<p>Half an hour later he had his arms around her, was +telling her he loved her, had asked her to marry him.</p> + +<p>Engaged to Joe! The years stretched out indefinitely, +without colour. Why not? She couldn’t be unengaged—unmarried—all +her life. She couldn’t let Mary laugh +at her—or Howard. Now, Howard couldn’t laugh. +Why, Howard had been jealous of Joe Austin, one time. +She’d show them—show Howard and Mary. She didn’t +need Howard. Howard’s father was stingy. Mary +wouldn’t have nearly as much as she could have. She +could have a new house—or stay at the hotel and have +no work at all, if she liked ... clothes, city things, trips +... she’d have a big wedding, too, bigger than the +Prices could afford.</p> + +<p>The telephone rang again.</p> + +<p>“Answer it, won’t you, Joe?” she begged, prettily.</p> + +<p>Joe answered it, came back in half a minute.</p> + +<p>“It’s for you—Mary Price to break the big news,” he +said.</p> + +<p>“Want to go to her house, to-morrow night?”</p> + +<p>“Sure thing.”</p> + +<p>“Shall I tell her—about us?”</p> + +<p>“Go ahead, spring it. She’s not the only one with +news. Good stuff. Give ’em something else to think +about.”</p> + +<p>She was at the telephone.</p> + +<p>Mary was pleasantly polite.</p> + +<p>“I’m having a few friends in to-morrow night.... +Howard and I—”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_254">[Pg 254]</span></p> + +<p>“Just heard it, dear,” said Laura. “I’m awfully glad. +And just for that—here’s something for you—you’re the +first I’ve told. Joe and I have decided the same thing. +Must be in the air. Thanks. Yes ... isn’t it? Won’t +it be fun ... lots of parties and things together. +I’m so excited. Aren’t you? You’ve got my very, very +best wishes. Congratulate Howard for me, won’t you? +I certainly know how lucky you are, too. Howard is a +fine fellow—one of the nicest boys I know. You know, +I used to go with Howard a little ... before—I—I +knew Joe. Yes—isn’t he fine? Thanks ... we’ll +both be delighted. See you to-morrow evening....”</p> + +<p>Howard! With a smile on her lips, Laura went back +into the living-room to her fiancé.</p> + + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> +<div class="chapter"> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_255">[Pg 255]</span></p> + + + <h2 class="nobreak" id="BIRTHDAY"> + BIRTHDAY + </h2> +</div> + + +<h3>I</h3> + +<p class="drop-cap"><span class="upper-case">It</span> was the old lady’s birthday. She was eighty-two +years old and well preserved. To be sure, she was +a trifle deaf, but not so deaf as she usually made out. +She could hear conversations not intended for her, though +she had an annoying way of saying “heh?” when she +didn’t want to hear a thing. Then, after it had been +repeated two or three times she would pass it off as of +no consequence, and few things warrant triple repetition.</p> + +<p>The old lady was proud of her age. After all, the +fact that she had lived so many years was the most remarkable +thing about her, as it usually is the most remarkable +thing about people who live long. She had +outlived her friends, her generation, her welcome.</p> + +<p>She was still useful and quite paid her way. She lived +with her son, Herman Potter, a thin man of over fifty, who +had leather skin and a bald head, and his wife, Minnie, a +too-fat woman of the same age, given to useless talk, exclamations +and mild hysteria.</p> + +<p>There were five children in the family of Herman +Potter and one grandchild. They all lived at home except +Roger, who was married and in business in Harrington. +Fred, the oldest, nearly thirty, had been married +but his wife had run away two years before with a soap +drummer. Lucius and Phillip, the other sons, had never +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_256">[Pg 256]</span>married. Fanny, the one daughter, had had marital misfortunes, +also. She had married, at twenty-four, and a +couple of years later her husband had “gone out West +to try his luck,” and she had never heard from him again. +Now she had a divorce, granted on grounds of desertion, +and was ogling every unattached man in Graniteville. +She had one child, a peevish, pale little boy of four, +named Elbert.</p> + +<p>The old lady had had three children. The older son, +Morris, lived in Kansas City, but Morris’ wife absolutely +refused to consider her husband’s mother as a part of her +household. In fact, Morris’ wife felt that she had married +beneath herself by accepting Morris at all, and held +herself aloof from Morris’ family. The old lady’s only +daughter, Martha, was dead. Martha had been her +favourite child. Martha’s husband had married again. +Her only child, Helen, was married and lived in Chicago.</p> + +<p>The old lady’s life was uneventful enough and not unhappy. +She was the first one up in the morning because +she “didn’t need much sleep.” She would dress quietly, +so as not to wake any one. If, occasionally, she stumbled +against a chair, some one would be sure to say, at breakfast, +“Didje hear Gramma? She woke me up, knocking +around before daylight.” The old lady was not very +steady and had to hold on to things sometimes when she +walked.</p> + +<p>There were always unwashed dishes from the night +before. The old lady would wash these and then put on +the oatmeal for breakfast. There was always oatmeal +because it was cheap and filling, and the old lady was +there to attend to it. She herself didn’t like oatmeal, +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_257">[Pg 257]</span>though she listened each morning to Herman and Minnie +who would say, “Gramma, you ought to eat some of this. +Fine. Nourishing. Make you grow young.”</p> + +<p>The old lady would purse her thin lips and then +answer, politely enough, “Thank you, but I’m not one +that’s much for oatmeal.”</p> + +<p>For breakfast the old lady would drink a cup of coffee +without sugar, but with milk in it. She preferred +cream but didn’t dare say so for the cream pitcher was +small and the men helped themselves to it first. After +breakfast, if there was any coffee left in the coffee-pot, +the old lady would drink another cup, standing up in the +kitchen, trying to force a few drops out of the cream +pitcher to put into it. If there was fruit for breakfast, +the old lady was given the worse piece. She contented +herself with one piece of toast, sparsely buttered, for she +always felt Minnie’s eyes on her when she helped herself +to butter. The old lady didn’t have a very large appetite.</p> + +<p>After breakfast she would help her daughter-in-law +with the dishes. Fanny affected delicacy. She was lazy +and housework annoyed her. She spent the mornings in +her own room reading magazines or running blue ribbon +through her lingeries or making rather effeminate little +suits for her son.</p> + +<p>The old lady was always afraid of her daughter-in-law. +Minnie was fat and slow-minded. She was constantly +telling the old lady how glad she ought to be because they +were all so “well fixed.” She liked to spend a long time +discussing trifles, how Mrs. Fink’s dress hung and didn’t +Gramma think it was her last year’s dress made over—she +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_258">[Pg 258]</span>had a blue dress last year, remember?—and did +Gramma think the butcher gave good weight—they had +just one meal from that pot-roast, and here there was +hardly enough of it left to slice cold.</p> + +<p>The Potters lived in a large, square house. Herman +had bought it at a forced sale when the children were +small. It was painted brown and there were big trees +around it. It looked gloomy. It had been one of Graniteville’s +best streets but the business district had been +creeping close until now a garage stood across the +street and a store selling cigars and notions just two +doors away. There were numerous small rooms in the +house and this meant housework. Herman always smiled +patronizingly when “the women folks” spoke of the difficulty +of keeping the house in order. He was well-to-do +in a moderate Graniteville way and was considering +changing the Ford for a larger car but he didn’t see why +three women couldn’t keep a house clean without outside +help. They gave out the washing, didn’t they?</p> + +<p>Herman didn’t consider that Fanny did none of the +housework and that the old lady really was old, that it +was almost a task to walk, sometimes, and that on damp +days when her shoulders ached it was rather difficult to +try to dust, even.</p> + +<p>In the afternoon when the house was in order, the old +lady would embroider. She did things for all of the +family and for the friends of Fanny and Minnie and for +church bazaars. She did guest towels, making them even +more annoying by the addition of bright blue “blue-birds +for happiness” or impossible butterflies; shoe bags with +outlines of distorted footwear to explain their use; dresser +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_259">[Pg 259]</span>scarfs with scalloped outlines which didn’t launder well.</p> + +<p>The old lady did the best she could. She made things +people liked and asked for. The only times she ever received +praise were when she gave away her finished +works of art. She never complained about her eyes, +though they did hurt after she bent over her sewing for +two or three hours at a time. She preferred to read, +though the family took only the cheapest magazines full +of sensational stories or articles about motion picture +actresses. Sometimes the old lady would go to the Carnegie +Library and bring home novels, favourites of thirty +years ago, but the family laughed at her when she did +that.</p> + +<p>In the evening the members of the family would go +their various ways without bothering much about her. +Fanny would persuade one of the boys to take her to +the movies or she would go with a girl friend, loitering +on the way home in hopes of being overtaken by masculine +admirers. The boys would go to the movies or +to a vaudeville show or play pool. They belonged to a +couple of lodges, the kind of lodges that are supposed to +have international significance—you can give the distress +sign to the ticket-seller and get a ticket to Europe in a +hurry, though none of the Potters would probably ever +want to go to Europe. They liked the idea. A boast of +one of the lodges was that none of its members had ever +been electrocuted and, though none of the boys looked +forward to a life of crime, they accepted the fact eagerly +and repeated it as something pretty big for the lodge. +The lodge rooms were pleasant places to waste evenings. +Minnie and Herman patronized the motion picture theatres, +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_260">[Pg 260]</span>too, but they cared more for cards than for the +drama, even in its silent form. Nearly every evening +they went to one of the neighbours for a game of bridge +or poker or had a few guests in. At ten-thirty there were +refreshments of rye bread and cheese and sardines, known +as “a little Dutch lunch,” and appreciated each night as +if it were a novelty.</p> + +<p>The old lady didn’t go out much evenings. She walked +slowly and stumbled a great deal, so no one liked to +bother with her. At the movies she couldn’t read the +captions easily and that meant some one to read them +aloud to her, and the family didn’t consider that refined. +She could not quite master the intricacies of bridge even +enough to fill in when another player was needed, though +she tried pitifully hard and her hand shook if she held +the cards. The old lady would sew or read. There were +socks and stockings to be darned and clothes to be +mended, besides the embroidering, so she had enough to +do.</p> + +<p>About nine she would nod over her sewing, pull herself +together, ashamed, and look around to see if any one had +observed her, when there was any one at home to observe, +which was seldom enough. She would start sewing +again, drop off into a doze, start up, finally take her sewing +and retire to her bedroom.</p> + +<p>The old lady had a fine room. Any of the family +would have told her that. It was above the kitchen and +got the winter winds rather badly, so that the old lady +frequently had sniffy colds, but it was a fine room, nevertheless, +with two windows in it. The one bathroom was +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_261">[Pg 261]</span>quite at the other end of the hall, but, after all, one +can’t have everything.</p> + +<p>Two of the boys roomed in the attic, so the old lady +could feel that she was having quite the cream of things +to be on the second floor. Fanny and her little boy +had the front room because Fanny often brought home +one of “the girls” to spend the night or her women +friends would run up to her room to take off their hats. +Her room was done in bird’s-eye maple with pink china +silk draperies. Herman and Minnie had the next room. +They used the furniture they had bought when they first +went to housekeeping, a high maple bed and an old-fashioned +dresser to match it. On the walls were enlarged +crayon portraits of the old lady and of Grandpa Potter, +who had died fifteen years before. Didn’t having these +pictures show what the family thought of the old lady? +The pictures had hung in the living-room until Art descended +on the household, a few years before, when they +had been removed in favour of two Christy heads, a +“Reading from Homer,” “The Frieze of the Prophets” +and “Two’s Company.”</p> + +<p>The old lady didn’t have a hard life. She knew that. +She was quite grateful for everything that was done for +her. She liked housework, even. Of course, Minnie had +rather an annoying way of taking all of the pleasure out +of it. Minnie did all of the ordering, all of the planning +of meals, the preparing of the salad, when there was a +salad, all of the interesting, exciting things connected with +the kitchen. But, after all, wasn’t it Minnie’s house? +Hadn’t she a right? Grandma knew she had liked doing +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_262">[Pg 262]</span>things in her own home. She didn’t blame Minnie +but it made things a bit monotonous. Not that things +weren’t nice, though, a room all to herself, even if the +furniture was rather haphazard, lots of time to herself, +things to embroider. If Grandpa Potter had lived—but, +of course, he wasn’t alive, any more than any of the +other relatives and friends of those other days were alive, +the Scotts, the Howards—Martha.</p> + + +<h3>II</h3> + +<p>Now it was the old lady’s birthday. She thought of +it the first thing in the morning when she woke up. She +dressed a bit hurriedly as if something were going to happen. +She put on a clean morning dress of black and +white percale, stiffly starched and, over this, a blue and +white checked gingham apron.</p> + +<p>She went to the kitchen to straighten things up. There +were a lot of dishes for Lu and Phil had brought some +boys home after the movies and Fanny had prepared a +rarebit for them, using, as is the way of all amateur cooks, +quite three times too many dishes.</p> + +<p>The old lady had the oatmeal done and the table set, +though, when the family came down, one at a time, for +breakfast, first Minnie, then her husband, then the boys. +Fanny didn’t often appear at breakfast.</p> + +<p>No one congratulated the old lady on her birthday, +though she made a great point of birthdays and they +knew it. However, it is easy enough for a family to forget +things like that. So, when they were all at the table, +making sucking noises over their oatmeal—no one spoke +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_263">[Pg 263]</span>much at meals at the Potters’—Grandma announced, +primly,</p> + +<p>“To-day’s my birthday.”</p> + +<p>“So it is,” said Herman, and, with an appearance of +great gallantry put his napkin on the table, arose and +went around to the old lady’s place. He kissed her with +quite a smack.</p> + +<p>“Congratulations and good wishes,” he said, which the +others echoed. Then,</p> + +<p>“How old are you, Ma? Over eighty, I know. Quite +an age. I’ll never live to see eighty.”</p> + +<p>“I’m eighty-two,” said the old lady.</p> + +<p>“Don’t think for one minute, Ma, that we forgot your +birthday,” said Minnie. “You know that we ain’t. Only +this morning, hurrying about breakfast and all, it slipped +my mind. I got something for you two weeks ago at +the Ladies’ Aid Bazaar. You’d rather have it at supper +time, wouldn’t you?”</p> + +<p>The old lady nodded.</p> + +<p>“Yes, I would,” she said.</p> + +<p>It was the custom of the family to have rather a birthday +celebration at the evening meal. They were usually +together then and gifts were heaped up at the celebrator’s +plate and there was a cake.</p> + +<p>“You’re all going to be home to dinner?” asked Minnie. +The men nodded.</p> + +<p>When the men left the table, Minnie followed them +out into the hall and whispered little warnings to them +about “not forgetting something for Grandma” and answering +whispers of “can’t you do it for me, Ma?”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_264">[Pg 264]</span></p> + +<p>The day passed as the old lady’s days generally passed. +In the morning she helped Minnie with the birthday +cake. It was a chocolate cake, of which the old lady was +not especially fond, but the boys all liked chocolate. +There was a white icing on it and they stuck marshmallows +on that. The old lady hoped not to get a marshmallow—they +stick to your teeth so when you wear a +plate. There were to be ten candles on the cake, for ten +happened to be the number of candles left over from Elbert’s +Christmas tree, and you can’t possibly put eighty-two +candles on a cake, anyhow. The candles were of +several colours.</p> + +<p>Minnie commented on the beauty of the cake when it +was finished. She let the old lady see how good the +family was to her. It isn’t every old lady of eighty-two +who has a birthday cake.</p> + +<p>About ten o’clock Fanny and Elbert appeared. The +old lady brought their breakfast into the dining-room. +Fanny and Minnie were going calling and shopping and +were going to take Elbert with them. Usually they left +him at home with the old lady. He was rather a spoiled +child.</p> + +<p>Then Fanny and Minnie dressed. The old lady bathed +Elbert, who cried because she got soap into his eyes. This +annoyed Fanny.</p> + +<p>“For Heaven’s sake, Gramma, don’t get him cross,” +she scolded. “We’re going to meet Mrs. Herron and +Grace for lunch, and I want him to act nice. He’ll be in +an awful temper if he starts crying.”</p> + +<p>The old lady didn’t say anything. She didn’t say anything +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_265">[Pg 265]</span>when Elbert pinched her as she was trying to button +his suit. She put on his blue reefer and the cap +like a sailor’s, and buttoned his leggins, though she did +wish he’d sit still while she did the buttons.</p> + +<p>At half-past eleven the others left and the old lady was +alone. She peeled the potatoes for supper and put them +in water, she straightened up her room, swept the dining-room, +dusted a bit, threw away last night’s newspapers.</p> + +<p>At half-past twelve she went into the kitchen for a bite +to eat. She could always “feel when lunch-time came.” +Minnie usually said, when she went out, “There’s always +plenty in the ice-box for lunch,” and the old lady never +contradicted her, though she always felt rather sure that +Minnie had made a mistake.</p> + +<p>Now, she found a dish of pickles—she did not care for +pickles—some eggs and some blackberry jam. She was +rather fond of eggs but she was afraid that if she did +eat one or two of them, Minnie might say something +about “never seem able to keep an egg in the house.” +Eggs were high, just now. So the old lady buttered two +slices of not especially fresh bread rather sparingly and +spread a little jam on them. She made herself a cup +of tea and ate her lunch sitting at the oilcloth-covered +table.</p> + +<p>She brushed the crumbs off the table, washed the few +dishes, went up to her room for a nap. She liked to +sleep, when she had a chance, afternoons.</p> + +<p>She woke up, an hour later. A long afternoon +stretched in front of her. Still, all of her afternoons +were long—mornings—evenings, too. She had heard, +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_266">[Pg 266]</span>years before, that time would seem to fly by when you get +old. It didn’t. Still, there couldn’t be many more days +now—eighty-two.</p> + +<p>She put on her best dress of black silk, with cuffs and +collar of lace that Helen had sent years before. Helen—she +was some one to think about. Helen—Martha’s +daughter. Helen was young and lovely and had everything. +Twice the old lady had gone to visit Helen. She +never felt at home with Helen at any time. Helen’s +maids were trained automatons; Helen’s home was full +of strange formalities. Helen’s days were full of unusual +things. Helen herself, perfectly groomed, cool, impersonal, +looked eighteen, though she’d been married six +years, did not seem like a human being at all.</p> + +<p>It was nice of Helen having her old grandmother visit +her, the old lady knew that. She never talked much to +Helen, never knew what to say, yet she loved her with a +strange yearning that she never felt toward any one else—maybe +because the others were so jealous of Helen, +of everything she did. The old lady didn’t especially +like to be at Helen’s—she was so afraid of doing the +wrong things—yet, though she never figured it out, Helen +seemed to belong to her, was more a part of her than +any of the others could be. Maybe because she was +Martha’s child. Martha had always been so much more +to her than any of the others.</p> + +<p>With fingers that trembled a little, the old lady fastened +her dress, the dress that was new the last time +she visited Helen. She smoothed her hair with the old +brush one of the boys had given her. She looked at the +things on her dresser, the cover she had embroidered in +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_267">[Pg 267]</span>violets—they were her favourite flower—the daguerreotype +of her and her husband, taken the year they were +married, holding hands unashamed. It was coloured, the +old lady’s cheeks pink and her brooch shining gold. +There was a snapshot of Helen on horseback, a stiffly +posed picture of little Elbert, a picture of Phil in sailor +uniform—he had gone into the navy just before the draft +law was put into effect.</p> + +<p>The bell rang. The postman!</p> + +<p>With quick little steps, the old lady hurried to the +door, smiled at the postman as she always did when she +took the mail from him and said something about “a +cold day,” even while she was anxious to close the door +so that she could look over the mail. A letter for Herman +from an insurance company—a picture post-card—a +letter in a lavender envelope for Fanny—a post-card +from Roger—a letter from Kansas City—Morris’ wife’s +writing—yes—she trembled a little—a letter from Helen. +She recognized the pale grey envelope, the deeper grey +seal. The women Minnie and Fanny went with didn’t +use grey sealing wax with a crest stamped into it nor +grey monogrammed paper—they didn’t live in Chicago +nor wear lovely pale clothes—didn’t do anything the +right way.</p> + +<p>The old lady put the mail, excepting her post-card and +two letters, on the hall table, took hers to her room. +Morris meant all right—he and his wife—good people +in their way—she was glad Morris was doing well—</p> + +<p>Helen’s letter! She opened it carefully, tearing off the +edge in little bits so as not to tear the contents. The +old lady got few enough letters. She never knew you +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_268">[Pg 268]</span>could take a letter-opener to them. She took out the +letter. There was an inclosure, but the old lady let that +lay in her lap while she read Helen’s rather smart +writing.</p> + +<p>She smiled, read it again, put the letter back into the +envelope, looked at the bit of paper on her lap—a cheque—twenty-five +dollars.</p> + +<p>Helen!</p> + + +<h3>III</h3> + +<p>The old lady took her work-bag and went down into +the living-room. She’d be careful not to get threads +around—she knew how Minnie hated that. She was +working on a centrepiece, in colours, to be sold at the +March sale of the Church Circle. The old lady was glad +she could do things like that. Her glasses were of silver +and quite bent. The lenses had been fitted for her years +before and she had to hold the sewing quite close. She +embroidered until it was too dark to see. Then she folded +her wrinkled hands in her lap. She didn’t believe in +“wasting electricity” by turning it on too early.</p> + +<p>She sat at the window and thought about things—about +Minnie and Herman—how mean Minnie was +about little things, about Herman’s stupidity and blindness +about everything excepting himself. Herman—and +the boys, too—never read anything or saw anything they +didn’t apply to themselves. They were never interested +in a single outside thing. All they talked about was +what “he said” and how business was going to be. Nothing +existed outside of Graniteville. They were so conceited, +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_269">[Pg 269]</span>satisfied. Fanny was just as bad and she whined, +too—but she had Elbert. A child is always a little better +than nothing. But Helen didn’t have any children.</p> + +<p>As the old lady grew older the necessity for progeny, +so overwhelmingly important in her younger life, had diminished. +What difference did it make, anyhow? Elbert, +pale and in the sulks, usually—the only one of a +fourth generation. Of course the boys might marry and +have children. What of it? Of course, if it weren’t for +Herman, if she hadn’t had children, she wouldn’t have +had a home, might have had to go to the poor-house, +maybe. But then, if she hadn’t had children, she might +have learned a trade and made enough money to get into +one of the homes she had read about, where you pay a +few thousand dollars and have a nice room and pictures +in the evening and company when you like. Still, of +course, things couldn’t be changed, were all right—there +was Helen’s letter—</p> + +<p>The twilight deepened. The old lady went into the +kitchen, turned on a light, put the meat into the oven.</p> + +<p>At six Lu came in, then Phil. Then Fanny and Minnie +and Elbert. They had gone to call on Mrs. Harden and +Elbert had fallen asleep and was cross, now. Fanny was +going upstairs to “make herself comfortable,” would +Gramma undress Elbert?</p> + +<p>Fanny put on a pink cotton kimono and went downstairs. +The old lady got Elbert to bed, finally. When +she got downstairs she saw that Fanny and her mother +were busy in the dining-room. She heard the crackle +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_270">[Pg 270]</span>of paper. Discreetly she stayed in the kitchen. They +were preparing her birthday presents.</p> + +<p>Dinner was ready. Herman had already come home. +Herman liked to eat as soon as he got into the house.</p> + +<p>The old lady went into the dining-room. The boys +were already seated at the table. Herman sat down. +Fanny was putting the potatoes on the table. The old +lady found a small pile of bundles at her place, the +birthday cake on the table.</p> + +<p>“This is very nice,” she smiled, “I thank you all even +before I look.”</p> + +<p>She sat down, unassisted. She opened the bundles.</p> + +<p>There was a bottle of violet toilet water from Fred. +She got that every year. It was not her favourite brand—rather +a cheaper kind, in fact, but she liked almost any +kind of violet. A pale pink satin pincushion came next. +A card was stuck on it with pins. On this was written +in Fanny’s rather stupid, slanting hand:</p> + +<p>“To great-grandmother from her little great-grandson, +Elbert Arthur Longham, on her 82nd birthday.”</p> + +<p>The present from Minnie was a hand-made camisole of +rather coarse lace—the old lady never wore camisoles, a +fact of which Minnie should have been faintly aware. +Well, she could make Minnie “take it back” and wear it +herself after a month or so. It was Minnie’s size, undoubtedly. +There was a pound box of chocolates from +Lu. Grandma preferred lemon drops or any hard candies +that you can suck and make last a long time, but the +family liked chocolates. A boudoir cap from Fanny—a +present some one had probably given her for Christmas—and +a combination drug-store box of soap, dental cream +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_271">[Pg 271]</span>and nail polish from Herman completed the gifts. Phil +apologized that he’d been busy every minute and he’d +“get something to-morrow.”</p> + +<p>The old lady put the wrapping paper neatly together +and put the things on the sideboard next to the cut-glass +punch bowl. She sat down again. Minnie, who served, +was filling the plates.</p> + +<p>“Thanks, everybody, again,” said the old lady. +“Your things are very nice and very welcome.”</p> + +<p>She looked at the group, the selfish, complacent faces. +She smiled.</p> + +<p>“I—I got a card from Roger and—and two other presents,” +she said, and took the card and letters from the +front of her waist.</p> + +<p>She passed the card around the table and opened a +letter.</p> + +<p>“It’s from Morris and Ruby,” she explained. “They +sent me five dollars.”</p> + +<p>“Not much for a rich man to send his mother,” Herman +commented. “He hasn’t any expenses from you +and all he ever does is to send you five dollars a month +for spending money. I hear he’s doing better every +month and that’s all—”</p> + +<p>“Now, Herman,” soothed Minnie. She wanted to hear +the letter. Ruby never wrote to her.</p> + +<p>The old lady read the letter, about Ruby’s cold and +the snow storm and Morris’ business success. She folded +it and put it on the table.</p> + +<p>“This one is from Helen, from Chicago,” she said. +She added “from Chicago,” purposely. She knew how +Fanny longed to live in a big city.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_272">[Pg 272]</span></p> + +<p>“Dear Gammy,” she read, and added, “Helen always +uses that nickname just like when she was a baby.”</p> + +<p>She knew the family hated nicknames. They thought +Gramma a proper pronunciation.</p> + +<p>“To think that you’re eighty-two,” she continued to +read. “Quite out of the flapper class, it seems. This +is to welcome the New Year and to send bushels of love +and good wishes from the two of us. I wish you were +spending your birthday with us, but I know the family +do all they can to make you happy.”</p> + +<p>The old lady glanced at them all. She was glad to see +they looked a little uncomfortable.</p> + +<p>“We’ve been awfully busy as usual,” the old lady read +on. “Since Jimmy’s been made president of the company +he’s getting so conceited that he insists on going to +horrid business meetings at night sometimes, so, in self-defence, +I have to go to dinners with some of my old +beaux.”</p> + +<p>The old lady looked at Fanny and smiled.</p> + +<p>“Helen has a good time,” she said, “I like to think of +a young girl enjoying herself.”</p> + +<p>Helen was Fanny’s age. Fanny had no “old beaux,” +nor any other kind to take her to dinner. Fanny was +unpopular.</p> + +<p>The old lady went on reading:</p> + +<p>“But Jim gets an occasional afternoon off and that’s +compensation. We have heaps of fun driving or just +trailing around together. Jim’s as devoted as ever—I’ll +say that for him. I’m afraid we’ll never quite settle +down, even if we have been married a long time.”</p> + +<p>“Helen’s a great girl,” said the old lady. “She and +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_273">[Pg 273]</span>Jim—I never saw a couple like them. She knows how +to hold him. I never saw a man so devoted.”</p> + +<p>The old lady smiled. Fred’s wife had eloped with +another man. Fanny’s husband had “gone out West” +and never returned. This would give them something +to think about.</p> + +<p>“I don’t know that I think her husband ought to stand +for her going places with other men,” said Fanny. “It +don’t sound right to me. When Helen came down here +to visit, when she was seventeen, she was fresh then.”</p> + +<p>The old lady looked at her.</p> + +<p>“Yes. I guess Helen did seem fresh in Graniteville,” +she agreed. “But Chicago’s different. And as most of +the folks they go with are millionaires, each owning two +or three cars and having boxes at the opera and making +a fuss over Helen all the time, I guess her ways are all +right up there. I don’t blame men wanting to take +her places. She’s just sweet to every one.”</p> + +<p>She went on with the letter:</p> + +<p>“I don’t know what to write that would interest you. +We saw Mrs. Blanchard, Mrs. Crowell’s mother, at the +theatre on Tuesday, and she wanted to be remembered +to you. She looked very well.... I have a new mink +wrap, good-looking. Jim thought it was a Christmas +present, but it came the week after so I’m not counting +it. It’s the only really splurgy thing I’ve had all winter.”</p> + +<p>The old lady didn’t have to comment. Fanny was +wearing her old coat. She’d been begging her brothers +and her father for a coat all winter, but they complained +about “hard times,” as they always did, so she had to +make her old seal, bare in spots, do for another year.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_274">[Pg 274]</span></p> + +<p>“I went to a charity fête last week,” the old lady’s +quavering voice continued, “and wore green chiffon and +was symbolic of something or other, but had a good time +anyhow. We made nearly eight thousand dollars for the +Children’s Home.”</p> + +<p>The old lady knew the church society entertainments +in Graniteville. Fanny and Minnie were never important +enough, socially, to take part in them, but had to +sell tickets as their share.</p> + +<p>“I’m enclosing a birthday remembrance. Buy a +warm negligée or something else you want. I didn’t +know what you needed. Let me know if there is anything +I can send you. Jim sends a big kiss and a lot of +birthday wishes. With love from Helen.”</p> + +<p>“How much did she send you?” asked Minnie.</p> + +<p>The old lady, who was served last, had been handed +her plate of food.</p> + +<p>“Twenty-five dollars,” she answered.</p> + +<p>She took the cheque from Helen and the one from +Morris, folded them together, made a last gesture.</p> + +<p>“Here, you take these, Fanny,” she said, “and buy +a dress with them. You’ll have to have something to +wear if you get a chance to go to the Ladies’ Aid Ball. +With all the things I got and my birthday presents and +all, I don’t need anything. Anyhow, Helen said to let +her know if I did.”</p> + +<p>It was said so simply that, if the family suspected the +old lady, they were silent. Fanny gasped, reached out +her hand. She did want a new dress.</p> + +<p>“Thanks, Gramma,” she said.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_275">[Pg 275]</span></p> + + +<h3>IV</h3> + +<p>The old lady smiled as she ate her dinner. She looked +around at the faces. She felt beautifully superior. She +knew that, for a moment, their conceit, their satisfaction +had been pierced—they had felt something—</p> + +<p>The birthday cake was cut and the old lady passed the +box of chocolates.</p> + +<p>The boys left for a game of pool at the club. Georgina +Watson came to get Fanny to go to the movies. +Mr. and Mrs. Potter went across the street to play +bridge with the Morrises. The old lady promised to go +upstairs and look at Elbert who might have caught cold +during the afternoon—he had sneezed a couple of times.</p> + +<p>The old lady finished the dishes. She read the evening +paper. Then she found herself dozing, woke up, +dozed again, woke up, put out the living-room light, left +one light in the hall, went upstairs. She stopped in +Fanny’s room to glance at Elbert in his crib. His +mouth was slightly open, as always, and he looked pale, +but the old lady saw that his condition was not unusual. +She went to her room and undressed for bed.</p> + +<p>In her high-necked flannel night-gown she stood at her +dresser preparatory to putting out the light. She looked +at her birthday presents, the cheap violet water, the unwearable +camisole and cap, the thoughtless gifts of indifferent +people. She looked at her pictures—she and +Grandpa when they were first married, Elbert—Helen. +Helen—she knew how to write a letter. Why, she +couldn’t have written a better one if the old lady had told +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_276">[Pg 276]</span>her what to write. The beaux—the car—the mink coat—the +charity fête—the attentive husband—</p> + +<p>Her birthday was over. She was eighty-two. Long +days ahead—housework—sewing—little quarrels—</p> + +<p>She thought of Helen’s letter again and chuckled. +For just a moment Fanny, Minnie, all of them had looked +envious, bitter. Nothing she could ever have done or +said could have made them as angry as that letter—and +none of them dared say what they thought about it. +That letter had opened vistas to them that they could +never approach. It had lasted only a minute—but even +so....</p> + +<p>“A pretty good birthday,” the old lady said to herself +as she put out the light, opened the window, and got into +bed.</p> + + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> +<div class="chapter"> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_277">[Pg 277]</span></p> + + + <h2 class="nobreak" id="CORINNA_AND_HER_MAN"> + CORINNA AND HER MAN + </h2> +</div> + + +<h3>I</h3> + +<p class="drop-cap"><span class="upper-case">Corinna</span> had always objected to her mother’s +attitude toward her father—to the attitude of +other women she knew toward their husbands. +She spoke frequently to her mother about it, even when +she was a young girl.</p> + +<p>“Ma,” she had said, “I don’t see why you slave so over +Pa. Your whole life is made up of worrying over him +and about him. He doesn’t pay any attention except to +sort of expect it and take it for granted. You spend +hours getting dinner and having it on the table hot, the +minute he gets home. He never notices, unless something +goes wrong. He just eats. You’re always picking +out things he likes or that are good for him, and having +those instead of what <em>you</em> like. First thing in the morning +you scurry around the kitchen and make me help, +getting breakfast, and you hurry home afternoons to +get dinner. You don’t dare ask people to the house evenings, +like Miss Herron, if he doesn’t like them. You +treat him so carefully, always trying not to worry him or +annoy him—always telling me ‘your Pa won’t like that,’ +when I do things. I wouldn’t live like you, you bet.”</p> + +<p>Mrs. Ferguson was a nervous, round little woman, full +of quick, meaningless little movements. She had a large, +rather flat face, full of small but not disfiguring wrinkles. +She had always smiled patiently, at Corinna.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_278">[Pg 278]</span></p> + +<p>“You don’t know your Pa,” she’d say, “or men. Men +have got to be waited on, got to be treated right. Wait +until you’re grown up and married—you’ll find out. +Men have got to have their meals on time and got to +have the house the way they want it, neat if they are +neat, full of people if they like things lively. You don’t +know men.”</p> + +<p>“Huh,” Corinna had sneered, “you bet I’ll never make +a slave of myself for any man. If I ever marry, the +man’ll do what <em>I</em> want. I shan’t be always worrying for +fear I’m doing the wrong thing.”</p> + +<p>Yet, looking among her mother’s acquaintances and +at the parents of her own friends, she noticed the existence +of this same state of affairs that so annoyed her in +her own family. The man was always being catered to. +When he was at home, if at no other time, the house had +to move along with an outward smoothness. Little unpleasant +things were hidden away. All of the plans +of the household were for amusing, entertaining, the man. +If he liked to play cards, the cards were brought out +immediately after dinner and one game followed another. +The man could quarrel with the plays of the others, +if he wanted to, grumble at his own ill-luck, at the playing +of his partners—it was all accepted with an assumed +merriment as part of life. If the man liked to read, his +chair, the most comfortable in the house, was drawn up +before the best light, and the children, when there were +children, had to talk quietly so as not to disturb him.</p> + +<p>“The man, the man, always the man,” thought Corinna. +“Just because he brings home the money. The +women pretend to joke about being home on time, about +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_279">[Pg 279]</span>slaving for him, but they do it just the same. You bet +when I’m married things won’t be like that. This is a +newer generation. It’s about time to quit worshipping +the man, making such a fuss over him, slaving for him.”</p> + +<p>Corinna, who was, in her way, thoughtful, somewhat of +a philosopher, worried a little over it. She didn’t like to +think that, in each household, one person—the male head +of the house—should govern things so thoroughly, blindly. +She didn’t believe especially in woman’s suffrage, she +wasn’t interested in voting, she knew women couldn’t +invent things—at least she knew <em>she</em> couldn’t; she wasn’t +interested in science or art, things like that. She just +didn’t like the idea of being subservient to—cowed +by—a man. Why—she knew men.</p> + +<p>In spite of her mother, she realized that men weren’t +superior people, after all. They were rather more stupid +than women, on the whole, a bit heavy, with a thick +sense of humour. Men were ashamed to show emotions, +easy victims to flattery. Of course they were all right +to marry. A girl ought to marry. An old maid sort of +admits that she can’t get a man. Being married gives +one a sense of being somebody. Marriage was all right—only +married women ought to learn—oughtn’t to be +such fools, making themselves servants and slaves and an +admiring audience, all in one. She wouldn’t.</p> + + +<h3>II</h3> + +<p>Because Corinna’s parents were poor, when she finished +high school at eighteen, she knew she had to do something +to support herself until such time as marriage +should relieve her of the necessity of buying her own +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_280">[Pg 280]</span>clothes and helping at home. She felt that school-teaching +required too much training—would be tiresome—and, +besides, most teachers became old maids in the end. She +didn’t want to go into a store. She had no special talent +or ambition. So she went to a business college and, after +eight months—she was not very clever or quick in learning +word-signs—she was able to take a business letter +with fair rapidity and transcribe it with some degree of +accuracy on the typewriter.</p> + +<p>She liked the profession of stenographer. It was decent, +dressy. She even looked ahead to becoming some +one’s private secretary, wearing good clothes and sweeping +in, half an hour later than the other stenographers, to +an office marked “private,” being consulted on numerous +business problems—saving the firm money by her wisdom—and +maybe marrying the boss in the end.</p> + +<p>Her first position lasted two months, her next three. +Then she got with a wholesale hardware concern and +took dictation a bit more rapidly from the stove buyer, +a married man who had four children and who was always +worrying about catching cold. She settled down, +fairly comfortably, making enough money to wear nice +clothes, arriving at the office always a bit late in the +morning, always anxious to leave a little before five at +night, wasting too much time at noon or in the cloak-room +gossiping with the other girls, but, on the whole, +as good as the firm expected of her.</p> + +<p>Corinna’s evenings were spent at dances or the theatre +or going to bed at seven to make up for lost sleep. She +accepted invitations from any one who asked her—men +she met at the office or through girls, old school acquaintances. +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_281">[Pg 281]</span>She didn’t care particularly for any of them, but +wanted to be with men, especially those who wore good +clothes and knew how to treat a girl. She was lively and +vivacious, rather a pretty girl in a light, indistinct way, +with a nice mouth and a pretty little nose.</p> + +<p>This smoothness of days at the office, and of evenings +having a good time, continued until Corinna was twenty. +Then she fell in love.</p> + +<p>She had been waiting, poised, to fall in love for a +long time. She had been eagerly looking for love, watching +every man she met with a kind of painful eagerness, +ready to yield affection at the first opportunity. She +met the fellow at a semi-public dance, where she was +taken by a boy she had met at business college. The man +she fell in love with was named Rodney Cantwell and her +escort had known him and had introduced them.</p> + +<p>All night, after that first meeting, the name “Rodney, +Rodney,” went through her mind. Rodney Cantwell! +He was quite wonderful, all that a man one loved ought +to be. He was tall, with light, rather rough hair, which +he brushed back from his forehead in an uneven sweep. +His eyes seemed a mysterious blue-grey. He held them +half-closed, squinting when he laughed. He danced +better than any one Corinna had ever danced with. He +asked her to go to a dance with him the following week.</p> + +<p>All week Corinna lived in a sort of delirium. She +borrowed money from her mother and bought a new evening +dress of flimsy pink silk, with no wearing qualities—Corinna +usually was rather careful to get durable things. +She thought of nothing but Rodney, to the detriment of +her dictation and the stove-buyer’s temper.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_282">[Pg 282]</span></p> + +<p>On Saturday night, when Rodney called, she met him +with a delicious lump of expectancy in her throat. She +learned, suddenly, without experience, a new coquetry. +Before this, she had been, with the boys and young men +she knew, more or less natural, as natural, that is, as +girls ever are with men. There had been a sort of decent +companionship. Suddenly, this was changed.</p> + +<p>On the way to the dance she found herself talking with +a new piquancy, hinting at adventures she had never +had, admirers she had never known, a life that was non-existent. +She tried to make herself valuable, desirable. +She became playful, indifferent. At the dance the music +seemed especially fascinating. She hardly spoke to +the few people she knew there, preferring to dance every +dance with Rodney, letting herself lie, hardly conscious, +in his arms as she danced.</p> + +<p>At the door of her apartment, as he took her home, he +put his arms around her and kissed her. Other men had +kissed her, but only after much playful fencing, long +acquaintanceship. Now, she yielded to Rodney’s kisses +in a way she had never done. After he had left her, +she lay awake most of the night and spent the rest of +it and all of Sunday morning, dreaming of him.</p> + + +<h3>III</h3> + +<p>Married to Rodney! That would be life! Not the +slavery of her mother. Married to Rodney, life would +have, constantly, a new meaning. She could coquette +with life, play with life—living became suddenly sparkling, +many coloured.</p> + +<p>Before this, she had not asked for romance. She had +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_283">[Pg 283]</span>never dreamed of even this much romance. She had just +asked that she become not like her mother, a slave to a +man who cared nothing for her, for whom she cared nothing. +Her mother did not love her father. Other women +she knew did not love their husbands. She saw that, +now. They tolerated them, because they were being supported. +They slaved for them because men wanted +slaves. Married to Rodney—love, a full flowering of +love—</p> + +<p>Rodney did not telephone her for two weeks. She +thought of him every day, more than she had ever thought +of one person—one thing—in all of her life before. Rodney—she +saw his light, thick, rather rough hair, felt his +cheek against hers. She thought of him every night +after she had got into bed, picturing him in the dark, +imagining herself kissing him and being kissed over and +over again.</p> + +<p>Then, just as she was bewilderingly accepting the fact +that perhaps, after all, he did not care for her, Rodney +telephoned her and asked her to go to another dance with +him—no excuse, no discussion of his two weeks of silence. +She accepted him eagerly—and bought another +new dress, a thin white one, this time. She must look +charming.</p> + +<p>The second dance was like the first. Her heart sang +when she was with him. She was astonished at herself, +at her emotions. She had not thought herself capable of +such things. She sneered at her mother even as she felt +sorry for her. What did her mother—the other women +she knew—know about such feelings—about men like +Rodney? They had never even met men like Rodney.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_284">[Pg 284]</span></p> + +<p>For three weeks, then, Rodney took her to a dance +every Saturday night. On a Wednesday he took her to +the theatre. And, after each outing there were kisses in +the front hall of the apartment. Finally he asked her +something—but it was not to marry him.</p> + +<p>Corinna was surprised. Then she was furious at Rodney +for misunderstanding her, at herself for not being +able to yield to him. She went over all of the old platitudes +of respectability—what kind of a girl did he think +she was? had she led him to think, by word or action, +that she would dream of such a thing—how dared he +talk to her—even think of her like that?</p> + +<p>And Rodney, with a stubborn sort of persistency went +over his list of platitudes, too. After all—what harm +was there? He liked her all right—would take care of +her—she knew that—he would marry her if he could—surely +she knew—had known from the first—that he +wasn’t the marrying kind. She had kissed him, hadn’t +she—encouraged him—led him on? Other girls....</p> + +<p>Corinna did not see Rodney any more. He never +telephoned her again. She knew where she could reach +him, knew where he was employed. But what was there +to say to him? She was properly bound with all of the +virtues of her class. Kisses were all right. Coquetries +were all right. Why, she had even definitely decided to +marry Rodney. Of course, her low-cut evening dresses, +her little tricks—pressing against him with her bare +shoulder, of kissing him, of touching his face with her +fingers—these were proper as long as they were baits to +matrimony. They were decent then, legitimate. But +Rodney had “insulted” her. He had misunderstood her.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_285">[Pg 285]</span></p> + +<p>As time passed, she definitely decided that she had been +mistaken in him, that Rodney had, from the first, been +unprincipled, unworthy of her company, that he had led +her on—tried to get the best of her, but that, at the first +hint of his true feelings toward her, she had sent him +from her in great and righteous wrath. She had had a +lucky escape.</p> + +<p>For months, then, she longed to see Rodney, but she +knew what seeing him would mean. She wanted only +matrimony. It was respectable, decent, the right +thing—to be married.... But now it was unthinkable +that she should even consider Rodney.</p> + +<p>Life became dull-coloured, tinted only by the thought +of what she had been through, of her escape—a fascinating, +secret thing. She went to dances with the men she +had known before, tried to look especially nice, in case +Rodney should see her. She carried with her, though, +from that time, some of the coquetry that being in +love with Rodney had given her. She found that, even +though it was artificial now, it added to her popularity.</p> + + +<h3>IV</h3> + +<p>A year later she fell in love again, a faint echo of what +she had felt for Rodney. He was blond, too, but in a +faded way, just as her love for him was faded. There +were some visits to the theatre—Fred didn’t care for +dancing—a few parties, his salary was small. Then she +found that Fred, too, had definite ideas against matrimony—would +not marry until his income was almost +twice its present size.</p> + +<p>Corinna knew the type—you go with them and go +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_286">[Pg 286]</span>with them for years and years, and become middle-aged; +finally, after every one you know is settled, you either +separate and remain single or lapse almost unconsciously +into matrimony. Not if she knew herself.</p> + +<p>Of course she wouldn’t be Fred’s slave if she married +him. She knew that. But—waiting years and years +and then maybe his changing his mind or his salary never +growing after all—It was not what you’d call a real +opportunity. Corinna’s pale love for Fred faded out +altogether. She broke an engagement or two, failed to +keep a telephone appointment—was surprised to find how +little she missed him.</p> + +<p>Matrimonial chances did not come in great numbers +to Corinna. In fact, during the next two years she did +not have a single proposal of marriage nor any chance +that might have been twisted into a proposal. Men took +her to the theatre or to dances—she was an excellent +dancer—told her their troubles, allowed her to be pleasantly +entertaining. She coquetted and flirted and giggled—talked +to the girls she knew about what a wonderful +time she was having and how popular she was. One +at a time the other girls she knew married and went to +housekeeping in little apartments. She was twenty-four. +It worried her, definitely, now, not being married.</p> + +<p>Then Arthur Slossen came to work at the woollen factory +where Corinna was now employed—she had left the +hardware concern several years before and took dictation +now from a grandfatherly old fellow who suffered +with asthma. Arthur Slossen was not handsome. Corinna +had no illusions about that. He was insignificant-looking, +rather retiring and had a slight accent, +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_287">[Pg 287]</span>showing unmistakably that he was foreign-born, a stigma +in the set in which Corinna moved.</p> + +<p>But, because he was a man and new, Corinna smiled at +him and coquetted. She was not surprised when he asked +her, three weeks after he entered the office, to go to +the theatre with him. He was as unattractive as any +man Corinna had ever known. He lacked, alike, all +vices and virtues that would have made for interest. He +was gentle, even gentlemanly. He was fairly well educated, +but, outside of reading the newspapers morning and +evening, he had no interest in the printed world. From +his evening newspaper he cut out the sermons written +by a well-known minister and read from them aloud +occasionally. He was kindly and meant well by every +one. Altogether, Corinna found him as boring as +possible.</p> + +<p>But, because he was a man and an escort, Corinna +smiled at him, made eyes at him, went through her +whole repertoire of tricks. Almost mechanically, she led +him on, as she had tried to lead on other men before him.</p> + +<p>One night, after she had “gone with” him for about six +months, he asked her to marry him. The proposal came +almost as a surprise to Corinna. Of course she had +definitely played for a proposal—yet she had always +played for proposals and had never received them. +And here was Arthur Slossen—less of a catch than any +man she had ever known—and he had asked her to marry +him. To be sure there was really nothing definitely the +matter with him. He was fairly nice-looking. He was +a little stoop-shouldered, a little indefinite. He had a +foreign accent and rather an embarrassed, humble way. +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_288">[Pg 288]</span>But he was really quite all right. As attractive as her +father must have been, or her Uncle Will. After all—a +husband.... She could stop work in the office—she +had never become a real private secretary, after all, +and her bosses were always married and paid no attention +to her. If she hadn’t any chances until now, she +wasn’t likely to have any after twenty-five—twenty-five +is getting on—her complexion wasn’t as good as it used +to be, her face was becoming broader, flatter, like her +mother’s.</p> + + +<h3>V</h3> + +<p>Corinna and Arthur were married in June, and +Corinna’s friends spoke sentimentally about “the month +of brides” and gave her a kitchen shower. The couple +went to housekeeping in a four-room apartment and +Corinna started in to learn how to cook—she’d never +paid much attention to kitchen arts before, being in school, +first, and later busy all day in the office.</p> + +<p>Corinna now had more time to notice Arthur. And +when she looked at him—and looked at the husbands of +the other girls she knew—he seemed as desirable as any +of them. He had a foreign accent and round shoulders +and no sparkle of style—but what were those others? +They had other faults just as glaring. But Corinna was +glad that at least her generation did not become slaves of +their husbands. And, as she rejoiced in this, she presently +made a new discovery; she found that she actually despised +Arthur. And, despising him, she watched her girl +friends, talked with them, and found that all of the other +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_289">[Pg 289]</span>young married women she knew despised their husbands, +too.</p> + +<p>She knew, too, why she despised Arthur. It was because +of his meekness and his stupidity, his lack of life +and excitement—because, in marrying him, she had +definitely killed any chances of a romantic marriage that +might, some day, have come to her. But, more than that. +Corinna knew that she despised him—and that other +women despised <em>their</em> husbands—<em>because she had been +able to marry him</em>. All other men she had known—Rodney +and Fred and the others, a man named Phillips and +one named Billy Freer and Jim Henderson—they had, in +one way or another, managed to escape her. They had +been cleverer than she—and avoided matrimony altogether, +or at least with her. It had been a duel, her wits +and tricks against theirs—and they had won. Only Arthur +had lost, simple Arthur, too stupid to get away. So +she despised him because he had allowed himself to be +caught—and to be caught by her tricks—old tricks, worn-out +tricks, tricks at twenty-five, tricks that had failed to +ensnare the others.</p> + +<p>Life settled down, monotonously. Because she despised +Arthur, Corinna was able to disregard him almost +entirely. She would spend whole days, slovenly, in a +soiled negligée, washing her face carelessly half an hour +before he came home, or allowing it to remain daubed +with cold cream, serving delicatessen dinners or cold +meats and beans. She had no scruples about cheating +him. She was true to him because no pleasant opportunities +presented themselves.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_290">[Pg 290]</span></p> + +<p>Finally, bored at staying home so much, she met men +she knew down-town and had luncheon with them or went +to the matinée. She even flirted with good-looking men +on the street or in hotel lobbies and then had tea. The +men were not very interesting nor were the flirtations very +exciting—the most desirable men wouldn’t notice her and +those who did got awfully “fresh”—but it was better than +nothing. What if Arthur <em>did</em> find out? What could he +do? Kick her out? She’d like to see him. What if he +did? She hadn’t done anything actually bad. She was +a married woman, had “Mrs.” in front of her name. It +wasn’t as if she were a poor worm, like her mother had +been. She was a good stenographer, could get a position +any day, she knew that. Of course it was easier, spending +her days in negligée reading magazines or eating +candy, or down-town shopping or flirting. It was a lot +better, more comfortable, than working. But, if the +worst came to the worst, it wouldn’t be so awfully bad if +she left Arthur. It wasn’t as if she couldn’t get along. +Poor old Arthur—he ought to be glad he had her—who +was he to be considered, anyhow?</p> + +<p>She thought of Rodney. His proposal no longer +seemed insulting now. She remembered Rodney—his +wonderful rough blond hair, his narrow grey eyes, his +kisses. She was no longer a young girl with a necessary +virtue. She was a married woman now, a woman of the +world, not a silly little working girl. If she wanted a +little affair....</p> + +<p>She tried to reach Rodney over the telephone. He had +left that position years before. No one there knew where +he was. She sent a note to him, addressed to his former +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_291">[Pg 291]</span>home. It was returned to her. Of course, she’d meet +him on the street some day. In the meantime....</p> + +<p>She spent as much money as she could on clothes, as +little as possible on the household. Arthur was pretty +good about money. He was getting ahead, too. He had +two raises the first year of their marriage. Wouldn’t it +be wonderful if, after all, he made good? She had never +thought of that possibility, of his making money. He +had been a pitiful way out—a way out of working and the +stigma of being unmarried. What if he became something—improved?</p> + + +<h3>VI</h3> + +<p>When they had been married a year and a half Arthur +was promoted to assistant buyer in his department with +quite a definite raise in salary. Then, suddenly, for the +first time since her marriage, Corinna stopped despising +him. He became almost important, some one to notice, +to pay attention to. He could and did give her small +luxuries far beyond those she would have been able to +earn had she still been employed.</p> + +<p>Almost unconsciously he took up more of her time. +They could not afford a servant, although they were living +in a more pretentious apartment—and Arthur, after +a long day in the office, often came home tired, out of +sorts. He needed cheering up, entertaining. His digestion +was not good and he complained of “delicatessen +slops,” so that Corinna was forced to cook a regular +dinner in the evening. She did it a bit grudgingly, but +she was a little afraid of Arthur when he complained or +when he quarrelled with her. After all, it was his money +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_292">[Pg 292]</span>that was used to run the house—he deserved a little +something from it....</p> + +<p>A few months later Corinna’s father died and her +mother gave up her own small apartment and came to +live with Corinna. Arthur liked his mother-in-law, in +an indefinite sort of way, and agreed to the arrangement +without a word. But, after that, when matters of money +for the household came up, he sometimes dared to assert +himself, mentioning that, after all, as long as he was +paying for the running of the household and was supporting, +unaided, both Corinna and her mother, perhaps +his opinion might be listened to and his desires fulfilled.</p> + +<p>The next year Corinna’s daughter was born. Corinna +did not especially want a baby. Still, all of her friends +were having them.... When she knew the baby was +coming, she yielded herself deliberately to having it, +spending more months than necessary in the house in +negligée, ashamed to go on the street on account of her +figure. She lay on the couch then, ate huge amounts of +chocolates and read sentimental stories in the magazines. +After the baby came she did not regain her figure, but +retained some of the plumpness which characterized her +mother.</p> + +<p>There was a maid, now, an ill-trained, slow girl, but, +even so, Corinna did not resume the pursuits of her early +married life. There were fewer teas with men acquaintances. +Perhaps because she was heavier and less entertaining, +perhaps because the baby took up much of her +time, perhaps because her mother and Arthur seemed to +question her more, there seemed fewer chances for “fun.” +She associated more with women and talked babies and +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_293">[Pg 293]</span>servants and played bridge. At the end of two years +another baby came, Arthur, junior, and before another +two years had passed, Corinna’s third child, Archie, was +born.</p> + +<p>Corinna was definitely middle-aged, now, although she +felt that she was still young and didn’t look her age, +nearly. She spent her time with the children mostly, for +even with the help of her mother and the one maid, the +children were always falling down or crying or needing +attention.</p> + +<p>There was always a lot to do. When she went down-town, +it was usually, definitely, on a shopping trip, with +a list of things in her purse that had to be looked after. +She wore rather expensive things, a bit flashy, too full of +ornament, not very carefully made, sometimes torn where +one of the children had pulled, but quite “in style” as to +the cut of the skirt and the colour.</p> + +<p>Arthur did very well in business. When Beatrice, the +oldest child, was twelve, he became buyer for his department. +With the years, Arthur had changed a little, too. +He was a nervous fellow and, when he was home, he insisted +that the children be kept quiet. He was on rather +a strict diet, which precluded most good things to eat and +did not help his disposition. But he retained his quiet +habits and his love of home and did not develop any new +desires outside of his business ambitions.</p> + + +<h3>VII</h3> + +<p>It was when Beatrice was thirteen that she said something +which surprised Corinna.</p> + +<p>“Mother,” she said, “when I get grown up and married, +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_294">[Pg 294]</span>you bet I’m not going to be a slave to a husband, +the way you are to Dad.”</p> + +<p>“The way I am, Bee? How can you talk like that? +Your father is the kindest man. Doesn’t he give you +everything? He never....”</p> + +<p>“He’s good to us, of course,” the child persisted. “It +isn’t that. It’s just—you’re sort of a slave to him. I +guess all women are. You bet I won’t be when I’m +grown up and married. You were worried all day yesterday +for fear Miss Loftus would call last night, because +she gets on Father’s nerves.”</p> + +<p>“You know how nervous he is; mustn’t be bothered....”</p> + +<p>“Oh, I know. Only it doesn’t keep you from being a +slave. You worry about what he eats—and if he’s a +little late, coming home from the office—and if company +stays too late—and if the matinée lasts too long and he’ll +be home first—and about his meals and clothes.”</p> + +<p>“Nonsense,” said Corinna, “you don’t understand +men, dear. They like to have their meals on time, things +regular. When you are grown up....”</p> + +<p>When her daughter had gone away, Corinna looked +back a little at her own life, started to think about things, +puzzled over things as she had done when she was +younger. With the children and all, there had been little +time for introspection. She remembered what she +had said to her mother, years before. She had believed—all +this time—that she had followed her original plan +of independence. She—a slave—to a man—as her +mother had been—nonsense! Why—Arthur was no one +to slave for—Arthur!</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_295">[Pg 295]</span></p> + +<p>She had thought—all these years—indefinitely—that +she still looked down on Arthur, did as she pleased. But +she knew, finally now, that after the first year or two of +matrimony she had never done that. She knew that her +daughter was right, as she had been right. All she was +living for was peace and quiet, a regular household, the +children well, Arthur satisfied.</p> + +<p>There had been quarrels, a few years before. But +Corinna had found that Arthur hadn’t greatly minded +quarrelling. There were always quarrels in the office, it +seemed. One quarrel more or less, in a day, hadn’t mattered +to him. But Corinna’s day was so tasteless—children, +the household—that it was Arthur’s coming home +that added flavour to her life. Arthur—whom she had +so despised! She had wanted peace in the evenings, because +evenings were the pleasantest part of the day. +She knew now, as she must have recognized subconsciously +then, that Arthur was the important thing in her +life, that his home-comings were the big events for her.</p> + +<p>Now she was fat and thirty-eight and already slightly +wrinkled. There was nobody—nothing—she was interested +in. The children—her home, of course—but outside +of that. She doubted if she could take shorthand +notes if she tried. She knew she could no longer operate +a typewriter—older women couldn’t get positions, anyhow.</p> + +<p>She thought of long days of dictation in an office, and +shuddered. Arthur made a good living. There were +two servants, now, and a good sized apartment and a little +place up in the country for the summer. They might +even afford a small car next year. Arthur was particular, +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_296">[Pg 296]</span>of course, a bit cranky, even. He still cared for her, +never looked at other women, she knew that. He was +not very affectionate, never had been. She had been glad +of that, at one time. Now she almost wished he were +a bit more demonstrative. But he still spoke of their +marriage as a success, of their affair as a “love match.” +She was glad he felt that way. After all, life was pleasant +enough; little household things during the day, shopping, +bridge, matinées—Arthur in the evenings. Other +women envied her—her home and her children and Arthur. +Why, Arthur was nicer than most husbands. She +went over in her mind all of the women she knew—all +the same—as they had been when she was a little girl—all +struggling, working to please the man—the man—</p> + +<p>Corinna remembered how strongly she had felt against +this when she was a little girl. She knew how her daughter +was beginning to feel now. It wasn’t fair of course. +It didn’t seem right—that the man should always come +first, that his wishes should come first—that she should +spend hours—her days—her life—planning for him, doing +things for him—always the man—the man.</p> + +<p>Yet Corinna thought of the women she knew who had +never married—fearing each day that they’d be too old +to be allowed to keep on working—discontented, lonely. +She knew that women, like herself, who had accepted matrimony—or +who had reached for and found matrimony—were +slaves. It wasn’t fair. But life wasn’t fair to +women. You couldn’t get out of it—do anything about +it. If you weren’t married—and didn’t have money—you +were lonely, worked hard—had a difficult time of it. +If you were married—Corinna knew people only in her +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_297">[Pg 297]</span>own class—you were a slave—as much of a slave as if +you had lived hundreds of years ago. Life was not beautiful +nor romantic nor lovely. She did not love Arthur—yet, +she certainly did not despise him—she really admired +him a great deal—getting ahead without pull or +anything like that. He worked hard—didn’t get much +out of life, either, deserved peace and quiet, things the +way he wanted them at home. Life was funny, not +especially interesting—children—little things.... She +was a slave, of course—still, life was better than it might +be—some one to look forward to seeing in the evenings—to +worry about pleasing—to do things for—a man.</p> + + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> +<div class="chapter"> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_298">[Pg 298]</span></p> + + + <h2 class="nobreak" id="THE_END_OF_ANNA"> + THE END OF ANNA + </h2> +</div> + + +<h3>I</h3> + +<p class="drop-cap"><span class="upper-case">Anna Clark</span> committed suicide. She did it +stupidly, with no striving after effects, no dramatic +value. Her death seemed as unfinished +as her life. At thirty-five, after ten years of an apparently +happy enough marriage, early in the afternoon of a +calm, clear day, she swallowed a dose of rather unpleasant +poison and died before any one found out about it.</p> + +<p>The incompleteness of Anna Clark’s death lay in her +own thoughtlessness. She did not leave even one short +note to tell of her reasons. There was nothing well-rounded +about the affair. One expects at least a note +from a suicide. It is little enough, considering the annoyance +the whole thing causes. Hurriedly, hysterically +written, left on the dresser to be discovered by the first +horrified intruder, a note forms the final, definite thing +to talk about. Anna Clark never liked to write. She +proved her own incompetence, her inadequacy, her love +of avoidance of duties, by neglecting note-writing now. +No one ever knew why she chose to escape from a continuance +of life as it had come to her.</p> + + +<h3>II</h3> + +<p>Anna’s younger sister found the body. It was late +afternoon. Anna must have taken the poison about one +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_299">[Pg 299]</span>o’clock, it was proved later. Ruth, as was her wont, +came by to get Anna to go for a walk or a call. Ruth, +who was married to a clerk in a haberdashery—a well-appearing +chap, too, who could criticize your cravats +and tell you if your trousers were of a proper cut—lived +in an apartment similar to Anna’s, though a trifle less +expensive. Anna’s husband, a city salesman for a spice +concern, was doing well and his commissions were far +above what they had been at the time of his marriage, +almost far enough to make him talk, ambitiously, of a +permanent savings account in a year or two.</p> + +<p>Ruth usually called for Anna about three o’clock. If +it was a nice day, the two women would meet other +women of their acquaintance, whom they called “the +girls,” and, in groups of three or more, would go down-town, +spending a pleasant hour or two looking in the shop +windows on Fifth Avenue or on the less pretentious, but +to them, more accommodating side streets.</p> + +<p>Then Anna would go home, stopping in at a neighbourhood +combination meat and vegetable market to purchase +her supplies for the evening meal, cooking it so that it +would be ready just when Fred Clark got in, which was +usually about half-past six. Fred did not dress for +dinner, but contented himself by washing his hands, +hurriedly, as adequate preparation. Fred liked his meals +on time.</p> + +<p>Sometimes “the girls” spent the afternoons sewing at +the home of one of them or calling on more distant acquaintances. +They all lived in practically identical apartments, +differing only as to a choice of wall paper, of +fumed oak or highly polished mahogany for living rooms +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_300">[Pg 300]</span>and of four-poster or brass beds in the sleeping chambers. +Sometimes each “girl” spent the afternoon alone, but +this was restricted, usually, to rainy days or days too +threatening to venture out. On those days, “the girls” +spent their individual afternoons doing their less nice +darning and sewing, washing garments too fragile to be +trusted to the laundry or making batches of fudge, according +to their individual needs and desires.</p> + +<p>Ruth had a key to her sister’s apartment, an extra key, +made for Anna’s mother-in-law, who lived in Canton, +Ohio, and came up each Spring for a visit. Anna had +given it to Ruth a few weeks before so that Ruth might +get a package in her absence. So, when her ring failed +to bring response, Ruth did not need to summon the +janitor in order to gain admission. She thought that +perhaps her sister had gone out earlier and left a note +for her on the table.</p> + +<p>Ruth opened the door with the key, which had lain +next to her own in her purse, and went in. The living +room was in its usual condition, fairly neat, stiffly arranged, +dusty in the corners. The mahogany “set” of +three pieces, green velour upholstered, a gift from Fred +two Christmases ago, the wicker chair with the broken +arm, the oval centre table with its rose-coloured silk shade, +which Anna had made with the help of “free instruction” +given when you buy materials at one of the department +stores, all stood in their accustomed places. In the bedroom, +the bird’s-eye maple set looked as impudently +clean as ever.</p> + +<p>In the bathroom, Ruth found Anna. She screamed. +Then she went closer and examined the body curiously, +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_301">[Pg 301]</span>as if Anna were a stranger. Anna was fully dressed. +She was wearing her new waist and her tan spats.</p> + +<p>Ruth screamed again.</p> + +<p>She got out into the hall.</p> + +<p>A bill collector for an instalment furniture house was +coming out of one of the other apartments and heard her. +He went to find the janitor.</p> + +<p>In less than five minutes a crowd had gathered. Two +policemen were there, questioning every one, writing in +small notebooks with thick fingers and stubs of pencils +and giving out sullen, inaccurate information.</p> + +<p>Ruth gave her name and Anna’s and Fred Clark’s +name and business address and told about finding the +body. In half an hour Fred Clark was there, questioning, +being questioned, sorrowful, melancholy, yet +conscious of his importance.</p> + +<p>The funeral was two days later. “The girls” all sent +flowers and the spice firm employés sent a large wreath +bought from money collected by the bookkeeper, who +always did such things. Every one said Anna was well +remembered and that it was a nice funeral.</p> + +<p>After the funeral, Fred let Anna’s two sisters, Ruth +and Sophie, and his brother Philip’s wife take what they +wanted of the household things, and sold the rest to a +second-hand dealer, where they brought little enough, +and he went to live with Philip, who had a room for him, +since his oldest boy had gone West on business.</p> + +<p>Ever since she discovered the body, Ruth had tried to +find out why Anna committed suicide. It was such a +terrible thing to do—the worst thing you could do—just +to end things—like that. How Anna must have suffered +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_302">[Pg 302]</span>there, alone! Yet she never left a note or anything. +Ruth couldn’t quite understand it. She knew that she +never could do away with herself. She was prettier than +Anna had been, rather plump and blonde, with little, fine +lines around her mouth and light eyes, which had been +very blue when she was sixteen.</p> + +<p>After a few days, when things began to settle down a +little, and Ruth had become accustomed to thinking of +Anna as being dead and no longer fell asleep meditating +on getting black clothes or the awfulness of finding Anna +in the bathroom, she began to reason out for herself why +Anna had committed suicide. And, after a while, it came +to her and she didn’t blame Anna at all. In fact, she +wondered why she herself didn’t do it.</p> + +<p>Anna had committed suicide, of course, because she +had been in love. Ruth knew now whom Anna had been +in love with. Why hadn’t she suspected it sooner? Of +course, Anna was in love with Martin, the clerk at the +Good Measure Grocery and Meat Market.</p> + +<p>It was very plain to Ruth, as she thought about it. +She remembered how, when the other girls suggested +buying things at grocery departments of down-town department +stores, Anna always said; “Oh, let’s not do that, +and carry all the bundles home on the subway.” And, +if any one suggested having things sent, Anna always +reminded them how long it took for deliveries—days +sometimes—and down-town stores never would deliver +fresh vegetables and fruits at all. “I like the little stores +in my own neighbourhood,” Anna would add.</p> + +<p>Ruth remembered that Anna had remarked, many +times, on the beauty of the clerk Martin’s eyelashes. +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_303">[Pg 303]</span>They were beautiful—long and dark and heavy, and his +eyes were an odd shape. Ruth remembered how Anna +often lingered with Martin, after the others had given +their orders and teased him about things or pretended +to scold because she had not been given full measure. +And Ruth remembered, too, how Anna always got the +pick of everything.</p> + +<p>Of course Martin—Ruth never even knew if that was +his first or his last name—was the social inferior of their +family. No one she knew had ever worked in a grocery +store. But, even so, that couldn’t keep Anna from being +in love with him. Of course, there hadn’t been anything +between them. Ruth knew that. She had been with her +sister every day and knew Anna was absolutely moral +and all that, but, no doubt, it was the hopelessness of it—loving +Martin and seeing only a glimpse of him every +day and maybe even knowing that he didn’t love her in +return. It was quite too awful. And yet Ruth knew +how Anna had felt.</p> + +<p>For Ruth was in love too. If Anna had only confided +in her, she could have confided in Anna. It just +shows how little sisters really know one another.</p> + +<p>Of course, Ruth knew that her love was far different +from Anna’s, far deeper and truer and more lasting. +Though, at that, hadn’t Anna’s love lasted as long as she +had? But, of course, there was a difference. For Ruth +was in love with no mere grocer’s clerk. She was in +love with Towers Wellman, her husband’s best friend.</p> + +<p>Towers Wellman worked at the same haberdasher’s +shop as her husband even, but there the resemblance +ended. For, while Dick was a nice little fellow, quite +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_304">[Pg 304]</span>loving and attentive, he never quite understood things. +His mind was wrapped up in collars and underwear sales. +But Towers Wellman was a man of the world. He +belonged to a bowling club and a political club and went +to stag dinners. He was not married and he made jokes +about matrimony.</p> + +<p>Ruth knew three women who were hopelessly in love +with him. Towers had told Ruth about the women himself. +Dick would bring Towers home to dinner and Ruth +would spend the whole afternoon preparing things he +liked, and, in the evening, the three of them would attend +a moving picture show, and, sometimes, before she knew +it, when there was a dark scene, Towers would be holding +her hand.</p> + +<p>Ruth thought of Towers the last thing before she went +to sleep at night, visualizing his dark, lean profile, his +deep-set eyes, his black, waved hair. No wonder women, +rich women, were in love with him. And yet, Ruth felt +that he loved her alone. Frequently, half in fun, he had +told how he had broken an important social engagement +to come to dinner, but Ruth knew that the look he gave +her had a double meaning, for he <em>had</em> come to dinner, +and there wasn’t a reason in the world why some rich +woman hadn’t invited him first.</p> + +<p>So—Anna had been in love too! And she had felt +so badly over it that she had taken poison! Maybe the +affair had gone further than Ruth suspected! Yet, how +could it? Wasn’t Fred home every evening and hadn’t +she seen Anna every day?</p> + +<p>Ruth almost wished that she had the courage to kill +herself, or something. It was mighty hard, living with +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_305">[Pg 305]</span>one man and loving another one. And spending the +days chatting about other things, never talking about +what you want to talk about or getting near the one you +care for. Never daring to tell any one about things! +Maybe, if she and Anna had confided in each other.... +But, it was too late for that now. Anna had loved and +found it hopeless, and gone out.</p> + +<p>Ruth knew her love was hopeless, too. For, though +she loved Towers and felt that he loved her, she knew +that he was too little to take her away with him. She +loved him none the less for his prudence, for she was +rather a coward and hated scandals and things like that +herself. Anna’s suicide was bad enough. The family +would never quite recover from it. Oh, well, life was +pretty messy after all. Here she had to keep on, day +after day, and Towers was the only one she cared for. +Nothing else, no one else mattered. If only Towers and +she could go away some place, away from every one and +be happy together! And she never could do that, she +knew. After all, hadn’t Anna done the wiser thing?</p> + + +<h3>III</h3> + +<p>Sophie missed her younger sister a great deal. The +girls were orphans, their mother had died when Sophie +was fourteen and their father three years later, and +Sophie, though just a few years older, had really raised +Anna.</p> + +<p>The last year Sophie didn’t see Ruth and Anna frequently, +for Sophie had four children and children take +time. Sophie’s husband was a union tailor and was on +strike a great deal and she couldn’t dress well or have +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_306">[Pg 306]</span>things as nice as the two younger girls. Not that she +envied them, only—well, there wasn’t much use feeling +bad by trying to go with them anyhow. They had their +own crowd and were younger and smarter and different. +But fine girls, of course.</p> + +<p>Sophie thought about Anna as she mended always-torn +blouses and washed always-dirty dishes. Why had +Anna done such a thing? After all the time she had +spent raising her! It seemed as if Anna were only a little +girl, instead of a woman of thirty-five. But even thirty-five +is young when one has a lot to live for. Didn’t Anna +have? Sophie had always thought of her two younger +sisters as rather happy and fortunate. Surely, Anna had +always seemed happy. And yet....</p> + +<p>What had made Anna hate the world enough to want +to get out of it? She had a nice home, nicer than Sophie +would ever have. There surely were no debts. Certainly +they got along well enough together, Anna and +Fred.</p> + +<p>But did they?</p> + +<p>People thought that she and Steve got along all right +too. You can keep people from finding out things like +that, if you’re careful. Hadn’t she done it? For years +and years? And she probably would keep on, until the +kids were grown up and then—oh, how could she get +along any other way? It was more than a habit.</p> + +<p>Still, Fred didn’t drink. At least, at first, Sophie was +pretty certain he didn’t. You couldn’t be too sure. +People didn’t all know about Steve.</p> + +<p>Though Steve was working, now, Sophie shuddered and +walked quietly, as if he were asleep in the next room. +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_307">[Pg 307]</span>For Steve got paid on Saturday, when he “worked +steady,” and on Saturday night he came in, his pay envelope +pitifully depleted, smelling horribly of cheap +whisky, and cursing. She’d pray the children wouldn’t +hear and she’d get him to bed.</p> + +<p>In the morning he’d be sick and lay there saying things +he shouldn’t, though usually he’d be up and able to work +on Monday. It wasn’t that Steve drank more than most +men. It was just that he was the sort that shouldn’t +drink at all. Even the doctor said he had a delicate +stomach and couldn’t stand it. But he did drink, though +not so terribly often like some men.</p> + +<p>But even when Steve didn’t drink, things weren’t so +much better. He had a mean disposition, the kind that +can take an innocent phrase and boomerang it into a +sneer. He was never quite satisfied about things, about +his home, about his children. He hated the Government +and joined various political societies, getting into fights +with the neighbourhood leaders and hating them in turn. +Steve wouldn’t read several of the newspapers, because +he “had it in for them” and their policies. He disliked +Sophie’s friends and her relatives, and quarrelled because +he had to spend the evening with them occasionally. He +called Dick a “damned white-collared little snob” and +Fred was a “sick roach who hadn’t the liver to have a +will of his own.” Steve was not a pleasant person to +live with.</p> + +<p>Thinking over her life since her marriage and the life +of Anna, since her marriage, as she knew it, little things +came to Sophie which showed her that Fred was not all +that Anna tried to picture him. She saw, now, clearly +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_308">[Pg 308]</span>enough, that Anna had been brave, that she had tried +to conceal Fred’s failings, but that, underneath, she hated +him for his cruelty to her. Little things that Anna had +said proved this. It could be nothing else.</p> + +<p>Why hadn’t Anna left Fred? Sophie felt that she +would have left Steve years ago, if it hadn’t been for the +kids. Anna could have left—any day. Only herself +to look out for and she had been a cashier before her marriage +and could have always made a living. Still, maybe +she did think of that way—and decided against it. +Sophie felt that there was something noble, something +brave, about what Anna had done. She wished she could +do it. She wished it on Saturday nights, when Steve was +drinking and on many other nights when he wasn’t. +There wasn’t very much use in living, most of the time.</p> + +<p>And yet—the kids. They were sweet. They had +mean tempers sometimes, especially little Steve, who +could be really bad. But then, again, sometimes when +they were in bed, they’d let her put her arms around +them, tight, some nights, and kiss her in return, too. +They were sweet, the kids, and worth a lot of hard +things.</p> + +<p>But Anna hadn’t any kids. Not a one. If the baby +hadn’t died, maybe she could have stood it, too. Still, +what is the use of it all? You can’t tell how kids’ll turn +out, even if you spend years sewing and cooking and cleaning +for them. It’s taking a chance. And the other +things ... it’s best to get away from them.</p> + +<p>Anna, without any one but Fred, and he mean to her +and she trying to conceal it with smiles and jokes and +changing the subject ... she had been brave. And one +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_309">[Pg 309]</span>person can’t stand everything. And, looking ahead and +seeing nothing but years of Fred and bad treatment or of +working to try to make a living, maybe, after all, Anna +had figured it out that her way was best. Fred had said +they hadn’t quarrelled. But then, Sophie never did trust +Fred too much from the first. Of course, he’d have said +that. They had probably had an awful quarrel the night +before, and rather than go through with it all again....</p> + +<p>Well, Anna was dead. It must be good to simply quit +and stop quarrelling and working. If she had Anna’s +chance to go out, without harming any one else, without +leaving any kids for maybe worse treatment ... Sophie +knew, in her heart, why Anna had committed suicide, +and though she shed many tears over her sister, understanding +things as she did, she couldn’t blame her. +Maybe Anna had picked out the right path.</p> + + +<h3>IV</h3> + +<p>After his wife’s death, Fred Clark went to live with his +brother Philip and Phil’s wife, Myrtle. Fred missed his +wife a great deal, especially during the first few months +after her death. A companionship of ten years—and as +close a companionship as a married couple, living together +in a city apartment, without children, are bound to have, +is not easily forgotten.</p> + +<p>But, in a few months, Fred grew accustomed to life +at Phil’s house, which was not much different from his +old life. It was the same social stratum. Fred enjoyed +the company of his two little nephews and liked +to bring small presents home to them when he came in +early on Saturday afternoon. He got along quite well +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_310">[Pg 310]</span>with Myrtle, a pleasant-faced pale woman, who was glad +of the extra money that Fred paid into the housekeeping +fund.</p> + +<p>Fred’s share of the expenses, as proportioned by Phil, +was much less than he had ever paid for the upkeep of +his own apartment and he was able to begin saving money +immediately after the funeral expenses were paid.</p> + +<p>Often, when he was alone in his room, Fred thought of +Anna and of her death.</p> + +<p>At first he had been too startled, too numbed into +silence to think that there had to be a reason for her suicide. +It had seemed more like an accidental death, something +that had taken Anna unawares as it had taken him. +He and Anna had shared so many of their sensations that +it seemed hard for Fred to believe that Anna had done +this thing herself.</p> + +<p>But, gradually, the unreality of the situation wore away +and Fred came to know that Anna was really dead—and +by her own hand. And, as he realized that she had killed +herself, at the same time came the realization of the motive +for it, the only possible motive. Anna had killed +herself because she was poor! It had been under the +burden of a continued poverty that must have eaten into +her spirit as he had often felt it eat into his, that Anna +had decided not to live any more. Anna had never said +anything to Fred about it. He was surprised, now, that +she never had—for he thought that she had told him +everything. And yet, he had felt the same thing so often +himself that he was not surprised to find that Anna had +felt it and that it had been too much for her.</p> + +<p>They had never really experienced the pangs of poverty, +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_311">[Pg 311]</span>it is true. Fred felt that it would have been easier to +bear if they had. He had always “done well,” in that he +had made a living. Each month, by hurrying around to +dozens of little, retail groceries, he had sold enough spices +to maintain his simple household.</p> + +<p>But each month there had been the fear that, perhaps, +there wouldn’t be enough for the month to come.</p> + +<p>Each month some household article had advanced in +price and had to be purchased less frequently or not at +all. If he and Anna went to the theatre—balcony seats—there +could be no other luxuries that week or the week +that followed. Even a guest in to dinner—and the Clarks +had little company—made a difference in the household +money. New shoes were to be talked over, several weeks +ahead, at the dinner table. A new suit meant that they +had to start saving for it a month or two in advance, and, +if one made a mistake and bought the wrong suit, which +happened quite often enough, the suit had to be worn just +the same, throughout the season. Fred had to look neat +all the time. And Anna had a certain position to uphold +too. She had to prove to “the girls” and to the rest of +her small world, that she was the wife of a prosperous city +salesman.</p> + +<p>Anna was not extravagant. Fred knew that. He +could picture her, brow-knitted, looking over small household +bills, trying to find which could be reduced without +radically altering a fairly comfortable manner of living. +Anna cleaned her own gloves and her own thin waists. +Outside of a few ice cream soda “treats” for “the girls” +she spent little money foolishly.</p> + +<p>Fred knew that Anna had always been a true wife to +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_312">[Pg 312]</span>him. He knew that he was the only man she had ever +cared about and that she had cared for him sincerely and +devotedly. He knew that there could have been no other +trouble. He knew only too well why Anna died.</p> + +<p>Fred had felt like that—himself. He and Anna must +have lain on the same bird’s-eye maple bed and thought +the same things about living. Only, Anna had ended it +and he had kept on.</p> + +<p>He hadn’t wanted Anna to work. He didn’t believe +that married women ought to have positions. A woman’s +place is in the home, he always maintained, and a position +for Anna, as a possible way out of their poverty, had never +entered his mind.</p> + +<p>But, how often he had wished for money, for some of +the smaller, cheaper luxuries! He had often gone to +sleep wondering how many years more he could keep up +the strain of spice-selling, the constant hammering of it, +the continued striving to make a living. Always, in the +end, he felt himself beaten, saw himself, before he had +reached old age, being overtaken by real poverty, finding +that he was unable to sell enough spices to support himself +and Anna. There was nothing else he could do as +well. He knew that. Selling, selling, day after day, just +for the privilege of living in a little, stuffy apartment and +never enough left over to put some by. No wonder the +outlook had been too much for Anna. He hadn’t known +that she had felt deeply about it—or cared. And she had +cared, so very much.</p> + +<p>Now that Anna was dead, things were different. Fred +wondered if Anna ever looked down from Up There and +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_313">[Pg 313]</span>saw that her sacrifice had not been in vain. The burden +of supporting two was lifted. He paid Myrtle each week, +bought little things for the boys and little extras for himself +that he never could have afforded before—a more +expensive brand of cigarette, a new cane, some collars of +an odd shape, and each week he put a little money into a +savings account.</p> + +<p>Fred felt years younger. He was preparing for old +age. There was something to look ahead to. But—to +have kept on the other way ... trudging always to a +poorer future.... It had looked mighty black. Too +black, sometimes. Fred had considered, often enough, +the very thing that Anna had done. He had been insured +for three thousand dollars, in her name, and he felt that +her sisters would both rather look out for her—they had +good homes—and she could have stayed with them and +gone to work at an easy job, if necessary. It seemed such +a cowardly thing to do—to step from under, and he had +never quite got to it, after all. And now—he was free.</p> + +<p>But Anna—wasn’t she free, too? Hadn’t she taken +the way out, as she saw it, a way that meant no more +scraping and saving, no more using up of left-overs, of +planning for new bargain shoes three weeks before the +soles ran through the old ones? It was sad enough, losing +Anna, but when he thought it over, Fred understood +perfectly. It was the simplest solution. He didn’t blame +Anna at all. Compared to living on, doing without nice +things, planning to keep on doing without them, and with +the strain drawing tighter and tighter, Anna had certainly +chosen the better way.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_314">[Pg 314]</span></p> + + +<h3>V</h3> + +<p>On the morning that she committed suicide, Anna +Clark waked up at seven. The round nickeled clock +on the bird’s-eye maple dresser awoke her as usual. +She yawned and stretched her arms above her +head as she did every morning. Then she nudged Fred, +sleeping rather noisily with his mouth not quite tightly +closed, as he always slept. Then, as she never missed +doing, Anna got up and shut off the alarm, went into the +bathroom, hung up the towels that Fred had thrown on +the floor the night before, and took a hurried bath. She +put on her “morning clothes” that hung in the disorderly, +tightly-crowded closet. They differed from her “best +clothes” in that the cheap lace edging of the underthings +was badly worn and that, instead of a dark skirt and a +georgette waist—her usual afternoon outfit—Anna wore a +checked gingham dress. Anna had three morning +dresses. Two were blue and white and one pink and +white. The pink and white one was slightly faded. By +wearing aprons over them, when she cooked, one dress +looked plenty clean enough to wear mornings, and when +she got dinner, for a whole week.</p> + +<p>After she had bathed, Anna went back into the bedroom +to dress and again waked Fred, who always fell asleep +after the first waking. This time, Anna talked to him +about what had happened to both of them the day before. +She had been with Ruth to call on Mrs. Ambier, an old +friend, who had just had her third baby at a neighbourhood +hospital.</p> + +<p>“She doesn’t look strong,” Anna said. “She ought not +to have any more children.”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_315">[Pg 315]</span></p> + +<p>Fred didn’t remember whether or not Mrs. Ambier had +looked strong the last time he had seen her—for several +months, Mrs. Ambier had not performed her accustomed +social duties—but agreed that, if she looked badly, there +should be no more children.</p> + +<p>Fred told Anna about old Klingman, one of his regular +customers, and how he made him taste the pickled herring +and other Klingman-prepared specialties.</p> + +<p>“He’s quite a character,” Fred added.</p> + +<p>While Fred shaved, Anna got breakfast. It was the +usual breakfast. There was half of a large orange for +each. When oranges were smaller, Fred and Anna each +had a whole one, but grapefruit and large oranges were +always divided. Then there was oatmeal, cooked the +night before and left standing, wrapped in a towel, on the +radiator all night. It’s just as good that way, Anna +always told her friends, as if prepared in a fireless cooker—and +a great deal less trouble. There were two soft-boiled +eggs apiece—on alternate mornings the eggs +were scrambled—but to-day was the day to soft-boil +them.</p> + +<p>Some mornings there was toast, but this morning the +bread was soft enough to be eaten without toasting—and +coffee. Before putting the eggs in water Anna went to see +how far Fred had progressed with his dressing. He was +putting his shirt on, which meant that Anna would have +to hurry things a little—as she always did towards the +end.</p> + +<p>Breakfast was at eight-thirty. Before sitting down, +Fred got the paper, which the boy had left at the door, +and read it as he ate. He was not too absorbed in the +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_316">[Pg 316]</span>news to listen to what Anna had to say nor pass morsels +of the last twelve hours’ happenings to her.</p> + +<p>After eating, Fred looked at his watch, a $2.50 Ingersoll, +which kept just as good time for him as a gold one +that he had had given to him when he was twenty-one, +and found that he was a trifle late. He tried to be at the +office at nine-thirty, starting from there on his rounds of +spice-selling, after dictating a few business letters and +handing in reports that he had not attended to the night +before.</p> + +<p>As usual, Fred was a trifle late. He folded his paper +irregularly and thrust it into his overcoat pocket. It was +early in the fall and slightly cool. He kissed Anna good-bye +a bit hurriedly, as usual, but he remembered later that +the kiss she gave him in response was no warmer, no +colder, for that matter, than the kiss she usually gave him. +It was the last time Fred saw Anna alive.</p> + +<p>After Fred left, Anna gathered together the breakfast +dishes and washed them in the sink, without a dishpan. +She preferred this method because it was quicker. The +water was not very warm. It scarcely ever was warm +enough to wash dishes properly and she frequently spoke +to the janitor about it. With the use of a cleaning powder, +she got the dishes fairly clean and dried them slowly.</p> + +<p>After putting the dishes away, Anna made the one bed. +Then, with a carpet sweeper which needed oiling and +squeaked badly she went over the brightly coloured rugs +in the living and dining-rooms. She did the bedroom on +alternate days. She dusted the furniture with an irregularly +shaped piece of cloth, the tail of one of Fred’s old +shirts.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_317">[Pg 317]</span></p> + +<p>A package she had ordered the day before came up the +dumb-waiter. Anna opened it. It was a bargain shirtwaist +and she noticed that one of the sleeves was sewed +in crooked. She took it into the bedroom, glanced at the +clock and saw that it was nearly ten-thirty.</p> + +<p>Anna tried on the shirtwaist. It fitted well enough, +except where the sleeve was wrong. She could wear it +that afternoon and fix it—in half an hour—some other +time. The collar was rather nice.</p> + +<p>She picked up a woman’s magazine—she had subscribed +to it and two more a few months before, “to help a boy +through college”—and read two stories in it. The second +story was quite pathetic and she wiped her eyes at +the ending.</p> + +<p>She looked over the back of the magazine at the cooking +recipes and found a simple recipe for spice cakes with +one egg. She found she had all the ingredients in the +house and Fred and she both liked spice cakes. She +went back into the kitchen, propped the magazine against +the built-in cabinet, using a yellow mixing bowl, and +made the cakes, following the recipe carefully, humming +a little to herself as she cooked. Anna was not especially +fond of cooking. She had been housekeeping for +ten years.</p> + +<p>While the little cakes were baking—she had poured the +batter into muffin tins—she read some more of the magazine. +When the cakes were done, she spread them on a +clean towel, and, as soon as they were cool enough, bit +into one. It was quite good. If the cakes had failed, +those who wondered about her suicide might have found +the spice cakes and considered them as a motive. But +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_318">[Pg 318]</span>the cakes were so good Anna ate two of them. She put +the others into the cake box along with a stale piece of +baker’s cake, left over from three days before, gathered +up the crumbs, washed the dishes her baking had soiled +and went into the bedroom. It was eleven-fifteen.</p> + +<p>She washed and started to change into her “afternoon +clothes,” choosing the new waist that Ruth found her in. +The ’phone rang just before she finished dressing. It +was Marie Cluens, one of “the girls,” asking her to come +over in the afternoon. Marie was expecting a few other +callers. Anna said that Ruth was coming for her and if +Ruth had made no other plans she’d be glad to go.</p> + +<p>She was all dressed, and looking at herself in the bird’s-eye +maple dresser mirror. She approved of her looks, +for, at thirty-five, it was quite all right to have a few wrinkles +and a sprinkling of grey hair. Most women of thirty-five +looked older.</p> + +<p>Then Anna remembered that she had neglected to put +on her spats. She had bought some tan ones, a few weeks +before, while shopping with Ruth, who had bought grey. +Spats are awkward things to button, after one is dressed, +when one hasn’t a maid, and Anna had taken on a few +extra pounds recently. She finally managed to button +them. Then, suddenly, button-hook still in her hand, +after she had finished buttoning her spats, Anna sat upright +on the bird’s-eye maple chair and thought, for the +first time in months, about herself.</p> + +<p>Here she was—buttoning spats! She hated to button +them. What a bore, what a terrible bore it was, to button +them! And, to-night, she would have to unbutton +them, and to-morrow afternoon, she would have to take +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_319">[Pg 319]</span>the spots out of them, if there were any spots, and button +them again.</p> + +<p>And it wasn’t only spats. Of course she didn’t have to +wear spats. It was the other things. Anna thought of +all of the other pieces of clothes she wore, her vest, copied +after its more expensive Italian silk sisters, her “Teddy-bears,” +the delicate and modest name “the girls” had +taken to calling their combinations, then corsets, stockings, +camisole, skirt—every garment requiring buttoning +or fastening or tying or pinning. Each one had to be +pulled in place or puffed or tied. And, in the evening, +each one had to be taken off again.</p> + +<p>Anna thought of how, each morning, she had to go +through the same process of bathing and putting on a +number of things. Then, she had to get breakfast and +wash the dishes. Then she had to clean and do some +washing, usually those same underneaths, and then dress +again. And then go out and then come home and cook +dinner—and eat it—and then wash more dishes and then +spend an evening at something tiresome—and then +undress again. Life stretched out before Anna—a void of +little things—punctuated only by dressing and undressing.</p> + +<p>The worst of it was, after she was dressed, there was +nothing to do. There is some object in dressing if one +has an appointment, a little secret meeting, a half hour’s +flirtation, a dinner, the meeting of new people, adventure, +anything. Then, indeed, may one dress without heeding +the buttons. But Anna knew that there were no surprises +in her day—that there never could be—that nothing could +come that would be pleasurable enough to make up for +the thousand unbuttonings.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_320">[Pg 320]</span></p> + +<p>Sitting there, button-hook held in her right hand, Anna +went over her life as it drifted back to her. First, years +of school, slow, stupid years, of little quarrels with playmates, +little misunderstandings with her teachers, lessons +at night at a round table, with Sophie and Ruth; occasionally +very dull parties on Friday evenings. Then, the +death of her parents. Then, school days were over and +the dull years stretched into long days of working and +long evenings with “the boys” and “the girls.” “The +boys” were the masculine set, who, attracted by “the +girls,” took them to possible social diversions. Fred had +been one of “the boys.” Three years of a dull monotone +of a courtship and she and Fred were married and the +years had gone on—and she had dressed each morning +for a day of colourless calm and undressed in the evening +to get rest for another.</p> + +<p>All things had come to Anna, and yet nothing had come. +School, courtship, marriage, and then, after two years, a +baby, a sickly, crying boy baby, who had taken all of her +time from useless things to the doing of little, constantly +repeated things for him. And then, after a year of the +baby, he had died and she and Fred had decided that they +did not want another. Mourning, then, calm, placid. +And then two years of absolute blankness.</p> + +<p>Then, Anna had had an admirer. It had seemed the +one experience that her grey life had missed, the one thing +that might have had some significance. Her admirer had +been the family dentist, a ruddy young fellow, getting +bald too young. In the unpicturesque pose of being +open-mouthed in a dentist chair she had fallen in love +with him and he had seemingly reciprocated her affection.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_321">[Pg 321]</span></p> + +<p>Anna’s passion had been brief, shallow. There had +been a number of pseudo-appointments, which had been +given over to love-making.</p> + +<p>Then the dentist, his first name was Harvey, had called +during the mornings, when Anna knew “the girls” weren’t +likely to come in. Harvey had stayed for lunch, and, +as that was the one meal of the day which Anna did not +usually have to prepare, she rebelled at having to cook +it for her lover, who had a large appetite. After only +the smallest glimmer of pleasurable excitement, Harvey +had dimmed into the monotony of her regular life, his +visits, the lunches with him, the fear of being discovered +with her lover gradually blotched into the background.</p> + +<p>And, as unexcitedly as he had drifted in, Harvey, perhaps +finding Anna as monotonous as she found him, +perhaps because a prettier patient appeared, drifted out.</p> + +<p>Anna did not grieve for him. Occasionally she shuddered +at the thought of what might have happened if +Fred or Ruth had discovered the affair, but even the +shudders grew to lack distinction.</p> + +<p>After Harvey, Anna had had no more lovers. Now, +thinking about it, Anna found that she had not talked, +seriously, to a man alone, for over three years. There +was no one she was interested in, no one she knew or +cared to know whom being alone with was worth the +effort of planning for it. She knew so few men. There +was a stupid grocer’s clerk with long lashes, a drug clerk +who simpered at her and a friend of Fred’s, who held her +hand when he told her good-night—and they all lacked +sex interest.</p> + +<p>Anna knew that Ruth was having a silly affair with a +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_322">[Pg 322]</span>friend of Dick’s, but it didn’t bother her. It didn’t interest +her enough to make her wish that Ruth would get +confidential about it. She had had her affair. She knew +what a bore affairs were.</p> + +<p>Anna had hoped, when she was younger, that she might +have a real lover, a great passion, but, as the years +passed, and she saw her youth slipping away, saw that her +social position was not one to attract men and that she +had no special gift of attraction, anyhow, she almost forgot +about it.</p> + +<p>She thought of Fred, pleasantly. Fred was good, awfully +good and awfully, awfully tiresome. There hadn’t +been a surprise in anything that Fred had done in five +years. Anna knew that he never could do anything but +calm, expected things. Fred had always been kind to +her. How different from Sophie’s husband, who was +such a terror. Poor Sophie! She tried so hard, always, +to conceal things. Well, there was nothing she could do +to help her, so she had never spoken to Sophie about it, +let her believe that no one knew what a brute Steve was. +Anna knew she wouldn’t have stood him a week.</p> + +<p>Anna thought of other things, of money. She knew +Fred worried quite a lot about it. She would have liked +to have money, too, of course, but, as long as Fred made +a good living, and she felt that he always would do that, +the question of finances did not greatly concern her. She +would have liked to have been rich, but, after all, they +were poor people and she had been brought up modestly.</p> + +<p>She still sat, button-hook in hand. And she looked at +the button-hook—and at her spats—and thought of the +thousands of other buttons that would have to be attended +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_323">[Pg 323]</span>to, on thousands of succeeding days. What was the use +of it all, anyhow? Why keep on? Why bother? She +really wasn’t interested in living, in anything. Why, +there was a way out, a way that meant no buttons at all!</p> + +<p>Anna felt, suddenly, that she couldn’t stand it another +day. The years that stretched out—the years of getting +old, monotonously, of hundreds of calls on and from +“the girls,” thousands of moving pictures with Fred, thousands +of dishes, thousands of—buttons. She couldn’t +stand it! Anything else!</p> + +<p>She threw the button-hook on the floor. It hit the +mahogany door, which she rubbed down so carefully, +every week, so it would retain its shine. And Anna +smiled. She could get out of polishing that door! It +had never occurred to her before. It had never entered +her mind that she washed the dishes and talked to Fred +and buttoned and unbuttoned because she wanted to—because +she chose that way. There was another way, +after all, a way that might hold something else or nothing +else at the end, but that, at least, would end, for always, +the things that kept on, unbearable, now.</p> + +<p>She went into the bathroom. From the top shelf of the +medicine chest she took a large blue bottle. On the label +it was marked “Poison” in large, black letters. It was +an excellent germicide.</p> + +<p>Anna tasted it. It rather burnt her lips a little and +was decidedly unpleasant. But—after all—it would taste +unpleasant for only a few minutes. And then it would +all be over—everything would be over.</p> + +<p>It seemed a miracle that things could be ended thus, +slightly. One drink and dirty dishes, bedmaking, dresssheitel +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_324">[Pg 324]</span>and undressing would cease to be. Fred would cease +to be—for her. There would be no need of trying to +appear interested when he was talking to her, of trying to +say things that would interest him. No dinners to plan +or cook. Nothing to have to waste time over! No time +that needed wasting! And she had never thought of it +before! Anna looked at her tan spats. They were +buttoned—and would stay that way—until some other +hands than hers unbuttoned them. If it hadn’t been for +the spats, now, for that last straw of additional +buttons....</p> + +<p>Anna poured the poison into a glass—she never liked +to drink things out of a bottle—and tasted it again. +Then she remembered what she was doing, and smiled. +It seemed unbelievable that there could be such an easy +solution. She drank the glassful.</p> + +<p>Ruth, coming in, later in the afternoon, with the extra +key, found her.</p> +<br> +<br> +<p class="center no-indent">THE END</p> + + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> +<div class="chapter transnote"> + <h2 class="nobreak fs150 bold" id="Transcribers_Notes"> + Transcriber’s Notes + </h2> + +<table class="autotable lh"> +<tr> +<td class="tdr"> +Pg 11 Changed: +</td> +<td class="tdl"> +like furniture—curliques and frills +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td class="tdr"> +To: +</td> +<td class="tdl"> +like furniture—curlicues and frills +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td class="tdr"> +Pg 158 Changed: +</td> +<td class="tdl"> +other women, chosing those that were +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td class="tdr"> +To: +</td> +<td class="tdl"> +other women, choosing those that were +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td class="tdr"> +Pg 280 Changed: +</td> +<td class="tdl"> +gossipping with the other girls +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td class="tdr"> +To: +</td> +<td class="tdl"> +gossiping with the other girls +</td> +</tr> +</table> + +</div> +<div style='text-align:center'>*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 78464 ***</div> +</body> +</html> diff --git a/78464-h/images/cover.jpg b/78464-h/images/cover.jpg Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..19654b7 --- /dev/null +++ b/78464-h/images/cover.jpg diff --git a/78464-h/images/title.jpg b/78464-h/images/title.jpg Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..88f8903 --- /dev/null +++ b/78464-h/images/title.jpg diff --git a/LICENSE.txt b/LICENSE.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..6c72794 --- /dev/null +++ b/LICENSE.txt @@ -0,0 +1,11 @@ +This book, including all associated images, markup, improvements, +metadata, and any other content or labor, has been confirmed to be +in the PUBLIC DOMAIN IN THE UNITED STATES. + +Procedures for determining public domain status are described in +the "Copyright How-To" at https://www.gutenberg.org. + +No investigation has been made concerning possible copyrights in +jurisdictions other than the United States. 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