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*** 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 ***