for winning this man over. For win him she would, in the end. It was
merely a question of method. She chose the simplest. There was a set
look about her jaw. Her eyes flashed. Two spots of carmine glowed in her
cheeks.
“I expected just this,” she said. “And I prepared for it.” She crossed
swiftly to her desk, opened a drawer, and took out a flat package. “I
expected opposition. That's why I had these samples made up to show you.
I designed them myself, and tore up fifty patterns before I struck one
that suited me. Here are the pajamas.”
She lifted out a dainty, shell-pink garment, and shook it out before the
half-interested, half-unwilling eyes of T. A. Buck.
“This is the jacket. Buttons on the left; see? Instead of the right, as
it would in a man's garment. Semi-sailor collar, with knotted soft
silk scarf. Oh, it's just a little kink, but they'll love it. They're
actually becoming. I've tried 'em. Notice the frogs and cord. Pretty
neat, yes? Slight flare at the hips. Makes 'em set and hang right.
Perfectly straight, like a man's coat.”
T. A. Buck eyed the garments with a grudging admiration.
“Oh, that part of it don't sound so unreasonable, although I don't
believe there is much of a demand for that kind of thing. But the
other---the--the knickerbocker things--that's not even practical. It
will make an ugly garment, and the women who would fall for a fad like
that wouldn't be of the sort to wear an ugly piece of lingerie. It isn't
to be thought of seriously--”
Emma McChesney stepped to the door of the tiny wash-room off her office
and threw it open.
“Miss La Noyes! We're ready for you.”
And there emerged from the inner room a trim, lithe, almost boyishly
slim figure attired in a bewitchingly skittish-looking garment
consisting of knickerbockers and snug brassiere of king's blue satin
messaline. Dainty black silk stockings and tiny buckled slippers set off
the whole effect.
“Miss La Noyes,” said Emma McChesney, almost solemnly, “this is Mr. T.
A. Buck, president of the firm. Miss La Noyes, of the 'Gay Social Whirl'
company.”
Miss La Noyes bowed slightly and rested one white hand at her side in an
attitude of nonchalant ease.
“Pleased, I'm shaw!” she said, in a clear, high voice.
And, “Charmed,” replied T. A. Buck, his years and breeding standing him
in good stead now.
Emma McChesney laid a kindly hand on the girl's shoulder. “Turn slowly,
please. Observe the absence of unnecessary fulness about the hips, or
at the knees. No wrinkles to show there. No man will ever appreciate the
fine points of this little garment, but the women!--To the left, Miss La
Noyes. You'll see it fastens snug and trim with a tiny clasp just below
the knees. This garment has the added attraction of being fastened
to the upper garment, a tight satin brassiere. The single, unattached
garment is just as satisfactory, however. Women are wearing plush this
year. Not only for the street, but for evening dresses. I rather think
they'll fancy a snappy little pair of yellow satin knickers under a gown
of the new orange plush. Or a taupe pair, under a gray street suit. Or a
natty little pair of black satin, finished and piped in white satin, to
be worn with a black and white shopping costume. Why, I haven't worn a
petticoat since I--”
“Do you mean to tell me,” burst from the long-pent T. A. Buck, “that you
wear 'em too?”
“Crazy about 'em. Miss La Noyes, will you just slip on your street
skirt, please?”
She waited in silence until the demure Miss La Noyes reappeared. A
narrow, straight-hanging, wrinkleless cloth skirt covered the much
discussed under-garment. “Turn slowly, please. Thanks. You see, Mr.
Buck? Not a wrinkle. No bunchiness. No lumps. No crawling up about the
knees. Nothing but ease, and comfort, and trim good looks.”
T. A. Buck passed his hand over his head in a dazed, helpless gesture.
There was something pathetic in his utter bewilderment and helplessness
in contrast with Emma McChesney's breezy self-confidence, and the
show-girl's cool poise and unconcern.
“Wait a minute,” he murmured, almost pleadingly. “Let me ask a couple of
questions, will you?”
“Questions? A hundred. That proves you're interested.”
“Well, then, let me ask this young lady the first one. Miss--er--La
Noyes, do you honestly and truly like this garment? Would you buy one if
you saw it in a shop window?”
Miss La Noyes' answer came trippingly and without hesitation. She did
not even have to feel of her back hair first.
“Say, I'd go without my lunch for a week to get it. Mrs. McChesney says
I can have this pair. I can't wait till our prima donna sees 'em. She'll
hate me till she's got a dozen like 'em.”
“Next!” urged Mrs. McChesney, pleasantly.
But T. A. Buck shook his head. “That's all. Only--”
Emma McChesney patted Miss La Noyes lightly on the shoulder, and smiled
dazzlingly upon her. “Run along, little girl. You've done beautifully.
And many thanks.”
Miss La Noyes, appearing in another moment dressed for the street,
stopped at the door to bestow a frankly admiring smile upon the
abstracted president of the company, and a grateful one upon its
pink-cheeked secretary.
“Hope you'll come and see our show some evening. You won't know me at
first, because I wear a blond wig in the first scene. Third from the
left, front row.” And to Mrs. McChesney: “I cer'nly did hate to get up
so early this morning, but after you're up it ain't so fierce. And it
cer'nly was easy money. Thanks.”
[Illustration: “'No man will ever appreciate the fine points of this
little garment, but the women--!'”]
Emma McChesney glanced quickly at T. A., saw that he was pliant enough
for the molding process, and deftly began to shape, and bend, and smooth
and pat.
“Let's sit down, and unravel the kinks in our nerves. Now, if you do
favor this new plan--oh, I mean after you've given it consideration, and
all that! Yes, indeed. But if you do, I think it would be good policy
to start the game in--say--Cleveland. The Kaufman-Oster Company of
Cleveland have a big, snappy, up-to-the-minute store. We'll get them to
send out announcement cards. Something neat and flattering-looking.
See? Little stage all framed up. Scene set to show a bedroom or boudoir.
Then, thin girls, plump girls, short girls, high girls. They'll go
through all the paces. We won't only show the knickerbockers: we
demonstrate how the ordinary petticoat bunches and crawls up under the
heavy plush and velvet top skirt. We'll show 'em in street clothes,
evening clothes, afternoon frocks. Each one in a different shade of
satin knicker. And silk stockings and cunning little slippers to match.
The store will stand for that. It's a big ad for them, too.”
Emma McChesney's hair was slightly tousled. Her cheeks were carmine. Her
eyes glowed.
“Don't you see! Don't you get it! Can't you feel how the thing's going
to take hold?”
“By Gad!” burst from T. A. Buck, “I'm darned if I don't believe you're
right--almost--But are you sure that you believe--”
Emma McChesney brought one little white fist down into the palm of the
other hand. “Sure? Why, I'm so sure that when I shut my eyes I can see
T. A. Senior sitting over there in that chair, tapping the side of his
nose with the edge of his tortoise-shell-rimmed glasses, and nodding his
head, with his features all screwed up like a blessed old gargoyle, the
way he always did when something tickled him. That's how sure I am.”
T. A. Buck stood up abruptly. He shrugged his shoulders. His face looked
strangely white and drawn. “I'll leave it to you. I'll do my share of
the work. But I'm not more than half convinced, remember.”
“That's enough for the present,” answered Emma McChesney, briskly.
“Well, now, suppose we talk machinery and girls, and cutters for a
while.”
Two months later found T. A. Buck and his sales-manager, both
shirt-sleeved, both smoking nervously, as they marked, ticketed, folded,
arranged. They were getting out the travelers' spring lines. Entered
Mrs. McChesney, and stood eying them, worriedly. It was her dozenth
visit to the stock-room that morning. A strange restlessness seemed to
trouble her. She wandered from office to show-room, from show-room to
factory.
“What's the trouble?” inquired T. A. Buck, squinting up at her through a
cloud of cigar smoke.
“Oh, nothing,” answered Mrs. McChesney, and stood fingering the piles of
glistening satin garments, a queer, faraway look in her eyes. Then she
turned and walked listlessly toward the door. There she encountered
Spalding--Billy Spalding, of the coveted Middle-Western territory, Billy
Spalding, the long-headed, quick-thinking; Spalding, the persuasive,
Spalding the mixer, Spalding on whom depended the fate of the T. A. Buck
Featherloom Knickerbocker and Pajama.
“'Morning! When do you start out?” she asked him.
“In the morning. Gad, that's some line, what? I'm itching to spread it.
You're certainly a wonder-child, Mrs. McChesney. Why, the boys--”
Emma McChesney sighed, somberly. “That line does sort of--well, tug at
your heart-strings, doesn't it?” She smiled, almost wistfully. “Say,
Billy, when you reach the Eagle House at Waterloo, tell Annie, the
head-waitress to rustle you a couple of Mrs. Traudt's dill pickles. Tell
her Mrs. McChesney asked you to. Mrs. Traudt, the proprietor's wife,
doles 'em out to her favorites. They're crisp, you know, and firm, and
juicy, and cold, and briny.”
Spalding drew a sibilant breath. “I'll be there!” he grinned. “I'll be
there!”
But he wasn't. At eight the next morning there burst upon Mrs. McChesney
a distraught T. A. Buck.
“Hear about Spalding?” he demanded.
“Spalding? No.”
“His wife 'phoned from St. Luke's. Taken with an appendicitis attack
at midnight. They operated at five this morning. One of those
had-it-been-twenty-four-hours-later-etc. operations. That settles us.”
“Poor kid,” replied Emma McChesney. “Rough on him and his brand-new
wife.”
“Poor kid! Yes. But how about his territory? How about our new line? How
about--”
“Oh, that's all right,” said Emma McChesney, cheerfully.
“I'd like to know how! We haven't a man equal to the territory. He's our
one best bet.”
“Oh, that's all right,” said Mrs. McChesney again, smoothly.
A little impatient exclamation broke from T. A. Buck. At that Emma
McChesney smiled. Her new listlessness and abstraction seemed to drop
from her. She braced her shoulders, and smiled her old sunny, heartening
smile.
“I'm going out with that line. I'm going to leave a trail of pajamas and
knickerbockers from Duluth to Canton.”
“You! No, you won't!” A dull, painful red had swept into T. A. Buck's
face. It was answered by a flood of scarlet in Mrs. McChesney's
countenance.
“I don't get you,” she said. “I'm afraid you don't realize what this
trip means. It's going to be a fight. They'll have to be coaxed and
bullied and cajoled, and reasoned with. It's going to be a 'show-me'
trip.”
T. A. Buck took a quick step forward. “That's just why. I won't have you
fighting with buyers, taking their insults, kowtowing to them, salving
them. It--it isn't woman's work.”
Emma McChesney was sorting the contents of her desk with quick, nervous
fingers. “I'll get the Twentieth Century,” she said, over her shoulder.
“Don't argue, please. If it's no work for a woman then I suppose it
follows that I'm unwomanly. For ten years I traveled this country
selling T. A. Buck's Featherloom Petticoats. My first trip on the road
I was in the twenties--and pretty, too. I'm a woman of thirty-seven
now. I'll never forget that first trip--the heartbreaks, the insults
I endured, the disappointments, the humiliation, until they understood
that I meant business--strictly business. I'm tired of hearing you men
say that this and that and the other isn't woman's work. Any work is
woman's work that a woman can do well. I've given the ten best years of
my life to this firm. Next to my boy at school it's the biggest thing in
my life. Sometimes it swamps even him. Don't come to me with that sort
of talk.” She was locking drawers, searching pigeon-holes, skimming
files. “This is my busy day.” She arose, and shut her desk with a bang,
locked it, and turned a flushed and beaming face toward T. A. Buck, as
he stood frowning before her.
[Illustration: “Emma McChesney... I believe in you now! Dad and I both
believe in you'”]
“Your father believed in me--from the ground up. We understood each
other, he and I. You've learned a lot in the last year and a half, T. A.
Junior-that-was, but there's one thing you haven't mastered. When will
you learn to believe in Emma McChesney?”
She was out of the office before he had time to answer, leaving him
standing there.
In the dusk of a late winter evening just three weeks later, a man
paused at the door of the unlighted office marked “Mrs. McChesney.” He
looked about a moment, as though dreading detection. Then he opened the
door, stepped into the dim quiet of the little room, and closed the door
gently after him. Everything in the tiny room was quiet, neat, orderly.
It seemed to possess something of the character of its absent owner. The
intruder stood there a moment, uncertainly, looking about him.
Then he took a step forward and laid one hand on the back of the empty
chair before the closed desk. He shut his eyes and it seemed that he
felt her firm, cool, reassuring grip on his fingers as they clutched the
wooden chair. The impression was so strong that he kept his eyes shut,
and they were still closed when his voice broke the silence of the dim,
quiet little room.
“Emma McChesney,” he was saying aloud, “Emma McChesney, you great big,
fine, brave, wonderful woman, you! I believe in you now! Dad and I both
believe in you.”
X
IN THE ABSENCE OF THE AGENT
This is a love-story. But it is a love-story with a logical ending.
Which means that in the last paragraph no one has any one else in his
arms. Since logic and love have long been at loggerheads, the story may
end badly. Still, what love passages there are shall be left intact.
There shall be no trickery. There shall be no running breathless,
flushed, eager-eyed, to the very gateway of Love's garden, only to bump
one's nose against that baffling, impregnable, stone-wall phrase of “let
us draw a veil, dear reader.” This is the story of the love of a man for
a woman, a mother for her son, and a boy for a girl. And there shall be
no veil.
Since 8 A.M., when she had unlocked her office door, Mrs. Emma McChesney
had been working in bunches of six. Thus, from twelve to one she
had dictated six letters, looked up memoranda, passed on samples of
petticoat silk, fired the office-boy, wired Spalding out in Nebraska,
and eaten her lunch. Emma McChesney was engaged in that nerve-racking
process known as getting things out of the way. When Emma McChesney
aimed to get things out of the way she did not use a shovel; she used a
road-drag.
Now, at three-thirty, she shut the last desk-drawer with a bang, locked
it, pushed back the desk-phone, discovered under it the inevitable
mislaid memorandum, scanned it hastily, tossed the scrap of paper into
the brimming waste-basket, and, yawning, raised her arms high above her
head. The yawn ended, her arms relaxed, came down heavily, and landed
her hands in her lap with a thud. It had been a whirlwind day. At that
moment most of the lines in Emma McChesney's face slanted downward.
But only for that moment. The next found her smiling. Up went the
corners of her mouth! Out popped her dimples! The laugh-lines appeared
at the corners of her eyes. She was still dimpling like an anticipatory
child when she had got her wraps from the tiny closet, and was standing
before the mirror, adjusting her hat.
[Illustration: “It had been a whirlwind day”]
The hat was one of those tiny, pert, head-hugging trifles that only
a very pretty woman can wear. A merciless little hat, that gives no
quarter to a blotched skin, a too large nose, colorless eyes. Emma
McChesney stood before the mirror, the cruel little hat perched atop her
hair, ready to give it the final and critical bash which should bring it
down about her ears where it belonged. But even now, perched grotesquely
atop her head as it was, you could see that she was going to get away
with it.
It was at this critical moment that the office door opened, and there
entered T. A. Buck, president of the T. A. Buck Featherloom Petticoat
and Lingerie Company. He entered smiling, leisurely, serene-eyed, as
one who anticipates something pleasurable. At sight of Emma McChesney
standing, hatted before the mirror, the pleasurable look became less
confident.
“Hello!” said T. A. Buck. “Whither?” and laid a sheaf of
businesslike-looking papers on the top of Mrs. McChesney's well cleared
desk.
Mrs. McChesney, without turning, performed the cramming process
successfully, so that her hat left only a sub-halo of fluffy bright hair
peeping out from the brim.
Then, “Playing hooky,” she said. “Go 'way.”
T. A. Buck picked up the sheaf of papers and stowed them into an inside
coat-pocket. “As president of this large and growing concern,” he said,
“I want to announce that I'm going along.”
Emma McChesney adjusted her furs. “As secretary of said firm I rise to
state that you're not invited.”
T. A. Buck, hands in pockets, stood surveying the bright-eyed woman
before him. The pleasurable expression had returned to his face.
“If the secretary of the above-mentioned company has the cheek to play
hooky at 3:30 P.M. in the middle of November, I fancy the president can
demand to know where she's going, and then go too.”
Mrs. McChesney unconcernedly fastened the clasp of her smart English
glove.
“Didn't you take two hours for lunch? Had mine off the top of my desk.
Ham sandwich and a glass of milk. Dictated six letters between bites and
swallows.”
A frown of annoyance appeared between T. A. Buck's remarkably fine eyes.
He came over to Mrs. McChesney and looked down at her.
“Look here, you'll kill yourself. It's all very well to be interested in
one's business, but I draw the line at ruining my digestion for it. Why
in Sam Hill don't you take a decent hour at least?”
“Only bricklayers can take an hour for lunch,” retorted Emma McChesney.
“When you get to be a lady captain of finance you can't afford it.”
She crossed to her desk and placed her fingers on the electric switch.
The desk-light cast a warm golden glow on the smart little figure in the
trim tailored suit, the pert hat, the shining furs. She was rosy-cheeked
and bright-eyed as a schoolgirl. There was about her that vigor, and
glow, and alert assurance which bespeaks congenial work, sound sleep,
healthy digestion, and a sane mind. She was as tingling, and bracing,
and alive, and antiseptic as the crisp, snappy November air outdoors.
T. A. Buck drew a long breath as he looked at her.
“Those are devastating clothes,” he remarked. “D'you know, until now I
always had an idea that furs weren't becoming to women. Make most of 'em
look stuffy. But you--”
Emma McChesney glanced down at the shining skins of muff and scarf. She
stroked them gently and lovingly with her gloved hand.
“M-m-m-m! These semi-precious furs _are_ rather satisfactory--until you
see a woman in sealskin and sables. Then you want to use 'em for a hall
rug.”
T. A. Buck stepped within the radius of the yellow light, so that its
glow lighted up his already luminous eyes--eyes that had a trick of
translucence under excitement.
“Sables and sealskin,” repeated T. A. Buck, his voice vibrant. “If it's
those you want, you can--”
Snap! went the electric switch under Emma McChesney's fingers. It was as
decisive as a blow in the face. She walked to the door. The little room
was dim.
“I'm sending my boy through college with my sealskin-and-sable fund,”
she said crisply; “and I'm to meet him at 4:30.”
“Oh, that's your appointment!” Relief was evident in T. A. Buck's tone.
Emma McChesney shook a despairing head. “For impudent and unquenchable
inquisitiveness commend me to a man! Here! If you must know, though I
intended it as a surprise when it was finished and furnished--I'm going
to rent a flat, a regular six-room, plenty-of-closets flat, after ten
years of miserable hotel existence. Jock's running over for two days to
approve it. I ought to have waited until the holidays, so he wouldn't
miss classes; but I couldn't bear to. I've spent ten Thanksgivings, and
ten Christmases, and ten New Years in hotels. Hell has no terrors for
me.”
They were walking down the corridor together.
“Take me along--please!” pleaded T. A. Buck, like a boy. “I know all
about flats, and gas-stoves, and meters, and plumbing, and everything!”
“You!” scoffed Emma McChesney, “with your five-story house and your
summer home in the mountains!”
“Mother won't hear of giving up the house. I hate it myself. Bathrooms
in those darned old barracks are so cold that a hot tub is an icy plunge
before you get to it.” They had reached the elevator. A stubborn look
appeared about T. A. Buck's jaw. “I'm going!” he announced, and
scudded down the hail to his office door. Emma McChesney pressed the
elevator-button. Before the ascending car showed a glow of light in the
shaft T. A. Buck appeared with hat, gloves, stick.
“I think the car's downstairs. We'll run up in it. What's the address?
Seventies, I suppose?”
Emma McChesney stepped out of the elevator and turned. “Car! Not I!
If you're bound to come with me you'll take the subway. They're asking
enough for that apartment as it is. I don't intend to drive up in a
five-thousand-dollar motor and have the agent tack on an extra twenty
dollars a month.”
T. . Buck smiled with engaging agreeableness. “Subway it is,” he said.
“Your presence would turn even a Bronx train into a rose-garden.”
Twelve minutes later the new apartment building, with its cream-tile
and red-brick Louis Somethingth facade, and its tan brick and plaster
Michael-Dougherty-contractor back, loomed before them, soaring even
above its lofty neighbors. On the door-step stood a maple-colored giant
in a splendor of scarlet, and gold braid, and glittering buttons. The
great entrance door was opened for them by a half-portion duplicate of
the giant outside. In the foyer was splendor to grace a palace hall.
There were great carved chairs. There was a massive oaken table. There
were rugs, there were hangings, there were dim-shaded lamps casting a
soft glow upon tapestry and velours.
Awaiting the pleasure of the agent, T. A. Buck, leaning upon his stick,
looked about him appreciatively. “Makes the Knickerbocker lobby look
like the waiting-room in an orphan asylum.”
“Don't let 'em fool you,” answered Emma McChesney, _sotto voce,_ just
before the agent popped out of his office. “It's all included in the
rent. Dinky enough up-stairs. If ever I have guests that I want to
impress I'll entertain 'em in the hall.”
There approached them the agent, smiling, urbane, pleasing as to
manner--but not too pleasing; urbanity mixed, so to speak, with the
leaven of caution.
“Ah, yes! Mrs.--er--McChesney, wasn't it? I can't tell you how many
parties have been teasing me for that apartment since you looked at it.
I've had to--well--make myself positively unpleasant in order to hold it
for you. You said you wished your son to--”
The glittering little jewel-box of an elevator was taking them higher
and higher. The agent stared hard at T. A. Buck.
Mrs. McChesney followed his gaze. “My business associate, Mr. T. A.
Buck,” she said grimly.
The agent discarded caution; he was all urbanity. Their floor attained,
he unlocked the apartment door and threw it open with a gesture which
was a miraculous mixture of royalty and generosity.
“He knows you!” hissed Emma McChesney, entering with T. A. “Another
ten on the rent.” The agent pulled up a shade, switched on a light,
straightened an electric globe. T. A. Buck looked about at the bare
white walls, at the bare polished floor, at the severe fireplace.
“I knew it couldn't last,” he said.
“If it did,” replied Emma McChesney good-naturedly, “I couldn't afford
to live here,” and disappeared into the kitchen followed by the agent,
who babbled ever and anon of views, of Hudsons, of express-trains, of
parks, as is the way of agents from Fiftieth Street to One Hundred and
'Umpty-ninth.