"Fanny! Where are my scissors? Did you take my scissors?"
Seated in the centre of the small parlor, before a round table fairly
well lighted by an electrolier suspended from the middle of the
ceiling and littered with chiffons and laces, Mrs. Blaine stopped
sewing and began a laborious search all over the board for the missing
article. Finally the scissors were found hidden in the folds of what
some day would be a graduation dress, but no sooner were they in use
than something else was missing. Impatiently, the widow called out:
"Fanny! I do wish you'd come here. I'll never get this dress done. Did
you see the roll of satin ribbon?"
But Fanny, busy just then with a customer in the outer shop, paid no
attention to the summons. Virginia's new dress could wait--it was a
whole month to graduation day anyhow--but business was not so good
that one could afford to neglect a possible purchaser.
Four summers had gone by since John Blaine's death yet in that
comparatively brief space of time, his widow appeared to have aged ten
years or more. Now bent, infirm, a chronic invalid, she did not look
as if she would long survive him. The world goes on just the same no
matter whose heart is breaking, and time flies so quickly that the
happenings of a decade seem only of yesterday. But John Blaine was not
forgotten. The flowers that each week decorated his grave, placed
there by loving hands, served to keep fresh the father's memory.
As far as was possible, the bereaved wife tried to keep to herself the
sorrow that had slowly but surely undermined her health and made her
an old woman before her hour. In her heart she knew that she would not
long remain after the dear departed one; all she asked was that she
should live long enough to see her girls happily married and taken
care of. At first it had seemed as if existence without him was
impossible, yet the regular routine of life must go on. Besides it was
not fair to the girls. Her own life was irretrievably wrecked, but
theirs had barely begun. It would be selfish to allow her grief to
cast a permanent shadow over their young lives. They loved their
father very dearly; his death had been a great shock to them. But they
were young. They had a thousand outside interests to distract their
attention. And youth, with its gaze still turned upward to the stars,
soon forgets.
When everything was settled, the widow found herself with a little
less than $3,000, all she possessed in the world. To attempt to live
on the interest alone of such a slender capital was obviously an
impossibility, so it was decided that they would move uptown, where
they would not be known, and open a little millinery shop. This was a
bright idea that had occurred to Fanny. She had always been clever at
trimming hats. Why not put her skill to commercial profit? She and her
mother could very well attend to such a business, while Virginia
continued in school. If they were only fairly successful, the income
would pay expenses, carry them along and help keep their capital
intact. Dr. Everett heartily approved the plan, not only because it
might prove a source of steady income, but also because it would be
distraction for the widow and help her to forget. Mrs. Blaine somewhat
reluctantly consented, and the girls set out enthusiastically to look
for a shop.
After no end of running here and there all over New York, they found
just what they wanted in one of the cheaper and more recently
developed districts of Harlem. It was a narrow little store, with a
fair-sized show window on Broadway, and with living rooms in the rear.
Fanny declared it was just too cute for anything, and as she was the
prime mover in the enterprise, a lease was signed without further
delay, and the Blaine family took immediate possession.
At first the girls were as delighted with their new home as are
children with a new toy. It being Summer time, there was no school for
Virginia, so she was free to assist in the store. She dressed the
window and waited on the customers, and after a very busy day, which
kept her on her feet from morning till night, thought she had never
had so much fun in her life. For the nonce, books and music were
forgotten. She was a smart little saleslady, succeeding in selling one
after the other, for ten dollars, hats which had cost Fanny not more
than two. But her coöperation was not to be for long. It was quite
decided that in the Fall she was to go to High School. This was her
mother's wish, and it had also been insisted upon by Fanny as a
condition of their taking the store. Virginia, at heart, was glad
enough to acquiesce. As they were too poor to keep a maid, she would
willingly have stayed at home and shouldered her share of the daily
toil, but an education meant a great deal to her, more than to most
girls, and she would have relinquished her schooling only with bitter
regret.
Autumn came with its cooler weather and longer evenings, and when High
School opened Virginia was sent to resume her studies, while her
sister and mother, busy in the store, exerted every effort to keep the
little household going. The younger girl felt keenly the sacrifice
they were making for her, and determined to prove worthy of it. She
began to apply herself more energetically than ever. A clever, brainy
girl, she was highly sensitive to every surrounding influence, with
ideas and ideals of her own, in full sympathy with the social side of
life, yet independent and self-reliant, and just beginning to choose
her own path in the bewildering maze of the world's devious
thoroughfare. In High School she made astonishing progress. Her fine
mentality enabled her to grasp quickly the most obtuse scientific and
economic problems, and her natural taste for _belles lettres_
making languages and general literature comparatively easy, she soon
distinguished herself above the other girls of her class. Especial
talent she showed for public speaking, having a good command of
English, with forcible delivery and sound logic. So successful,
indeed, was she in this respect, that in her final year, as graduation
day drew near, she was picked out from among three hundred and fifty
girls to deliver the class oration at the graduating exercises.
Mrs. Blaine, overjoyed at this fulfillment of her fondest hopes, at
once said she would make the graduation dress. Fanny and Virginia,
knowing well the labor it would involve, demurred. It was too much of
an undertaking. Their mother was far from strong; the sewing would
tire her eyes. Besides, they could not spare the time from the store.
It would be cheaper and quicker to buy the dress ready made. Even Dr.
Everett, when consulted, shook his head and tried to discourage the
widow from a task which he was afraid might prove beyond her strength.
But Mrs. Blaine was not to be put off so easily. Since their father's
death, she had let the girls have much their own way, but this time
she was determined. It would be a labor of love, she insisted. Daddie,
himself, would have wished it. And so, without further ado, work on
the beloved graduation dress was commenced.
And such work as it entailed! Running down town each instant, to buy
satin and ribbon and laces and lining, unable to find what was wanted,
or else purchasing something that did not suit and having to take it
back and exchange it for something else. The girls literally wore
their shoes to pieces, but they did not mind. They knew that making
this graduation dress was the one great joy that had come into their
mother's life since their father's death, and they were amply rewarded
when, after a long and arduous shopping tour they returned home with
the required article and handed it to her as she bent low over her
work at the board she would look up with a smile and exclaim:
"Oh, isn't it beautiful? That's just what I wanted! Now I can get on
with Virginia's dress."
Thus, between working and studying, the days passed pleasantly enough.
The little shop prospered, and all three were happy, each in her own
way, Fanny in looking after the customers, Virginia in doing her
lessons, Mrs. Blaine in working on her beloved graduation dress.
It was about this time that a romance came into Fanny's heretofore
prosaic existence. So far the poor girl had not enjoyed much of life.
Her time spent between four walls, there was a very narrow horizon to
her outlook on things. She rarely went out, took no part in the
pleasures and gaieties of other young women of her age. When not
waiting on customers, she was cooking. Yet she was always good-natured
about it. Laughingly she called herself Cinderella, because, while her
more favored sister might be dressing up to go to recitals, lectures
or concerts, she would be in the kitchen washing up the dishes. She
took it amiably, yet there were times when she had a quiet cry all to
herself, when she thought that her mother, instead of being so much
engrossed in making a fine graduation dress for sister, might remember
that she, too, needed something pretty to wear.
When, therefore, one evening at a neighbor's party, she happened to
meet a young man who went considerably out of his way to pay her
attention, she was greatly flattered and gratified. The very novelty
of it startled her. Until now none of the eligible young men had so
much as looked at her. Virginia, quite innocently, of course, had
always monopolized their society. But this particular young man, whose
name was James Gillie, seemed not in the least attracted to Virginia.
In fact, he rather avoided her, appearing to be somewhat intimidated
by her well-bred manners and cultured conversation. He made no secret
of his preference for the homelier virtues of the elder sister, whose
irrepressible propensity for picturesque, up-to-date slang and
free-and-easy style put them on a more equal social footing. So began
an acquaintance which resulted in the young man becoming a frequent
and intimate visitor at the Blaine home.
Mr. James Gillie was an original in more ways than one, and it was
some time before either Mrs. Blaine or Virginia could bring themselves
to approve Fanny's liking for a young man with ways so uncouth and
vulgar and whose antecedents were obviously so plebeian. Of Irish
parentage, but American born, James Gillie was a product of the newest
America, the typical _gamin_ of New York's streets, fresh and
slangy in speech, keen to the main chance, not over scrupulous, shrewd
and calculating. Fair and slight in build, he was about twenty-six
years old and his upper lip was adorned with a few thinly scattered
hairs, which he proudly termed a moustache. Otherwise he was
unintelligent and ordinary looking, one of the many thousands of New
York young men who, graduates of the slums, have been left to shift
for themselves, and whose chief intellectual pastime has been standing
on street corners reading baseball returns. Not only had he no
education, but he was rather proud of the fact, affecting to despise
bookish people as prigs and "high-brows." Incompetent and lazy,
without any real ability, he worked only because he had to, and his
standing grievance was that he was misunderstood, unappreciated and
underpaid. The one good side to his nature, and the one which,
perhaps, appealed most to Fanny, was the unconscious possession of a
rich fund of humor. He was funny without intending to be, and this not
only made him a diverting companion but ensured him a welcome
everywhere. With the straightest of faces, he would say funny things
in so ludicrous a manner that a roomful of people would go into
convulsions. He laughed with them, not realizing they were laughing at
him, but ever preening himself on being a very witty and clever person
indeed. His greatest fault was inordinate vanity. He had the highest
opinion of his own capacity, and he could never understand why
capitalists generally did not tumble over each other to secure his
services. At the present time he was earning the magnificent salary of
ten dollars a week as shipping clerk, but this, he explained, was only
a nominal stipend, as a starter. Before very long he would be
president of the company. His hobby was inventing things. So far he
had not made enough by his brain to purchase a collar button, but
ideas were coming thick and fast, and he was convinced that the day
was not far distant when he would make a great fortune. That is why,
all things considered, he believed himself, despite his obscure origin
and lack of education, a desirable match for the proudest girl in the
land.
"Fanny! Where's my tape measure? I can't find my tape measure."
Once more Mrs. Blaine laid down her work and began to rummage among
the mass of chiffons and laces piled up before her. In the shop
outside she could hear her daughter laughing and talking. Impatiently
the widow called out:
"Can't you come and help me, Fanny? Who are you talking to?"
"It's Mr. Gillie, mother," came the answer. "He's helping me close the
store."
A look of anxiety crossed Mrs. Blaine's face. It went against the
grain to entertain a person like Mr. Gillie, but for her child's sake
she said nothing, and when he called, as he had done very frequently
recently, she had tried to receive him as cordially as possible. But
to-night she was very tired. At times she felt dizzy and faint. His
interminable chatter and boasting would only weary her more. So,
hoping the visitor would take the hint, she called out again:
"Isn't Virginia home yet? It's getting very late."
"She couldn't be here yet," called out Fanny. "The concert's not over
till ten. We've all closed up now. I'm coming right in."
A moment later the young girl appeared, followed more leisurely by Mr.
Gillie.
The shipping clerk entered jauntily, a lighted cigar in his mouth,
full of self-assurance. He wore a check suit much too small for him, a
pink tie, and patent-leather shoes. Fanny's face was red and her
manner somewhat flustered, but this the mother, bent low over her
work, did not notice.
"Good evening, m'm," said Mr. Gillie, coolly seating himself without
waiting to be asked. Sitting back, crossing his legs and carelessly
flecking his cigar ash on the floor, he added in patronizing tones:
"How's the world using you?"
"Good evening, Mr. Gillie," returned the widow graciously. "How are
you?"
"Oh, fairly well to middlin'." Glancing at the littered table, he
said: "Still busy on the graduation dress, I see."
Mrs. Blaine sighed wearily.
"Yes--it's taking me longer than I bargained for. Sometimes I feel
very tired. I wish Virginia was here to try it on."
Fanny glanced at the clock. With a quick, significant look at Mr.
Gillie, she said quickly:
"She'll be here any moment now. The concert is usually out by this
time." There was an awkward pause and then she stammered: "Mr. Gillie
has something to say to you, mother."
Mrs. Blaine laid down her work and looked up in surprise.
"Something to say to me?" she echoed in amazement, looking inquiringly
from her daughter to the visitor.
But Fanny, her face crimson, had already bolted into the kitchen,
while Mr. Gillie, his chair tilted backward, a picture of magnificent
unconcern, coolly blew smoke rings into the air.
"Something to say to me?" repeated Mrs. Blaine.
"Asch--ooah!"
His chair suddenly returning to the floor level with a thud that shook
the house, Mr. Gillie sneezed violently, a physiological phenomenon
which curiously enough never failed to present itself when any
extraordinary pressure was put upon his brain cells. Wiping his watery
eyes with a pink-bordered handkerchief--a color he rather affected--he
began eloquently:
"Mrs. Blaine, you're a sensible woman. I feel I can talk to you plain.
There comes a time in every man's life when he feels lonesome--when it
looks good to him to have someone round all the time, looking after
things--his dinner, his clothes, and so on. Why, sometimes I go around
for weeks with my suspenders only half fastened, just because I've got
no one to sew a button on. It gets on a feller's nerves--yes, it
does--until at last he says to himself: 'Jimmie, my boy, you've
knocked about alone long enough. You want to hitch up with some girl
and take it easy a bit.'" He stopped a moment to gauge the effect of
his words, but as Mrs. Blaine gave no sign that she understood what he
was driving at, he proceeded: "I'm not much good at speechifying. With
the frills all cut and to come to the point, this is what it is: Fanny
seems the kind of girl I'm looking for, and I don't see I could do any
better. I've just asked her, and now it's kinder up to you--"
The widow took off her spectacles and gasped. Could she have heard
aright? He was actually asking for Fanny. She was amazed not so much
at his monumental selfishness and impudence as that Fanny herself
could have given him the slightest encouragement. She fully realized
that times had changed since the days when they lifted their heads
proudly in the world, but to sink as low as this seemed too terrible,
too humiliating. Yet, after all, could she blame her daughter? What
was her present life, what would be her future, without education,
without money--unless she had someone who could take care of her?
Dissembling her indignation as much as possible, she inquired suavely:
"This takes me very much by surprise, Mr. Gillie. You will, of course,
allow me leisure to talk it over with my daughter. May I ask if your
means permit you to provide a comfortable home for Fanny--the kind of
home to which she has been accustomed?"
The muscles of Mr. Gillie's nostrils contracted and for a moment it
looked as if his slight frame were again about to be shaken
convulsively by a mighty sneeze, but the spasm passed. He merely
coughed loudly to clear his throat. Then, glancing round the room in
which he was sitting, he said:
"Oh, I guess we'll be able to put on as good a front as this, all
right, all right." Tilting his chair back until it seemed physically
impossible that he could maintain his balance, he went on between
puffs of his cigar:
"You see, m'm, I'm not the kind of man that's satisfied to go on
working all his life for only just enough to keep body and soul
together. That's all right maybe for pikers--poor devils that have no
spunk--but not for 'yours truly.' I'm a pusher, a climber, I am, and,
what's more, I'm a man with ideas. No one can keep me down in the
world. One of these days I'll be driving my own automobile and Fanny
will be riding in it with me. It's no 'guff' I'm giving you. I'm the
real 'goods.'"
"You are a shipping clerk, I believe," said Mrs. Blaine when she could
get in a word sideways.
"Yes, m'm," he snapped, "a shipping clerk--what of it?"
"Is that a very--lucrative position?"
He laughed derisively as if it was absurd to imagine he was going to
remain a shipping clerk all his life.
"Oh, I'm only a clerk now, but I'll be boss some day--see if I don't."
"Might I ask what your present income is?" inquired the widow blandly.
For the first time Mr. Gillie seemed at a loss for an answer.
Awkwardly shifting his cigar to the other corner of his mouth, he
stammered:
"I'm not getting much now--ten a week--that's all." Hastily he
continued: "But it won't be for long. The big men down town know
me--they know what I'm worth to them. They're just watching me. Any
day they may make me an offer that would land me in Easy Street.
Besides, sooner or later I'll astonish people with one of my
inventions. I'm full of new ideas. Some of them are bound to make
money. It's a cinch!"
How long he would have continued in this strain there is no telling,
for, although not talkative usually, he always became extraordinarily
loquacious when encouraged to speak of his own affairs. Utterly
exhausted by his chatter and feeling dreadfully tired, Mrs. Blaine
began to wish that her unwelcome visitor would go. The room was full
of tobacco smoke and his free-and-easy manner irritated her extremely.
Of course, his proposal was ridiculous, an impertinence. It was
Fanny's fault for having encouraged him. But it was best to say
nothing--to just drop him gently. An awkward pause followed during
which the widow, fatigued as she was, plied her needle more
industriously than ever, while the would-be Benedict, nicely balanced
on his chair, amused himself sending rings of smoke up to the ceiling.
Happily, at this juncture, Fanny returned from the kitchen. She had
noticed the strained silence and feared it boded ill. A glance at her
mother's face was enough. Quickly she exclaimed:
"Now, mother, you must go to bed. Mr. Gillie will excuse you, I'm
sure. It's getting real late."
Taking the hint, the shipping clerk rose to his feet. With a grin he
said:
"That's right, m'm--all work and no play don't agree with nobody.
That's my maxim. Well, good night, ladies!" As he shuffled off,
accompanied to the door by Fanny, he said in an undertone: "It's O.K.,
Fan--I put it to her good and hard--it's you for mine, all right!"
As they passed along the dark passage he profited by the opportunity
to snatch a kiss, and as they bade each other good-bye he said:
"You'd better get after mother. She was for handing me a nice, juicy
lemon, but I gave her a line of talk that fetched her. Good night,
sweetheart!"
Just as he was going out at the front door, Virginia came up.
"Good evening, Mr. Gillie," she said politely.
He laughed as he chucked her playfully under the chin.
"Mr. Gillie?" he echoed. "What's the matter with James or Jimmie? Good
night, little sis!"
With a boisterous laugh he went out into the street and shut the door.
Virginia, astounded, looked at her sister and laughed.
"What's the matter with him to-night?" she exclaimed. "Is he crazy?"
Without waiting for an answer, she added quickly: "How's mother?"
Fanny averted her face. She dreaded taking Virginia into her
confidence; somehow she could not tell her. Briefly she said:
"She's very tired--been working until now. We expected you home
earlier. She wanted to try on the dress."
Quickly removing her hat and coat which she threw on a convenient
chair, Virginia answered:
"The concert was out later than usual. Dr. Everett was there. He
brought me to the corner. How long has Mr. Gillie been here?"
"All evening," replied Fanny. Then suddenly the elder sister flung her
arms round Virginia's neck.
"Virgie!" she exclaimed, "what do you think? Mr. Gillie has asked me
to marry him."