I
Grace was keenly disappointed at receiving no letter from Trenton the
next day. She canvassed all possible explanations of this first lapse
in their correspondence. Whatever might be the cause she decided not to
write until she heard from him again. She passed an unhappy morning and
was relieved when Irene asked her to go to lunch. It was possible that
Irene might have some news of Trenton, as he and Kemp were constantly
in touch with each other.
“Tell me I look perfectly all right--just as though nothing had
happened,” Irene remarked when they had given their order.
“Well, if you want to know, you’re just a trifle paler than usual; but
I’d never have noticed it. What’s the trouble?”
Irene answered by holding out her left hand.
“The emerald is no more! Oh, I haven’t sent it back! I’ve just stuck it
down in the bottom of a drawer with a lot of other old junk. It’s all
over, my dear.”
“You and Tommy have quit!” Grace exclaimed.
“Finished, quit--whatever you like. You’ll remember I told you such
things can’t last. Please don’t think I wasn’t prepared! But to a
certain extent Tommy did fool me. I thought he really cared for me and
I won’t deny that I thought a lot of him.”
“This is certainly a surprise,” Grace remarked, noting signs of
dejection in the usually placid Irene that had previously escaped her.
“Well, I got a line on him a few days ago. It’s a small world and
things have a way of getting round.”
Irene spoke as one whose philosophy is quite equal to any demand that
may be made upon it. She dilated upon the general perfidy of man as
though her personal disappointment was negligible and only to be
mentioned for purposes of illustration. She continued in this vein
so long that Grace began to fear she was not to learn just what had
happened to shatter Irene’s faith in Kemp.
“Let’s consider all the male species dead and buried! I’m dying of
curiosity. Just what happened to you and Tommy?”
“He lied to me, that’s all; and I found him out.”
“That’s too bad; I’m ever so sorry,” Grace replied, not knowing whether
Irene sought consolation for the loss of her lover or wanted to be
congratulated on her prescience in foreseeing the inevitable end of the
affair.
“Oh, it’s all right with me! But I can’t deny that when it came it was
a jar. You see Tommy’s mighty good fun and awfully clever. I learned a
lot from Tommy; he used to tell me everything. I’ll wager he’s sorry
now he told me a lot of most intimate things, about people and business
and even his family affairs; but they’re safe, I’d never betray his
confidence even if he has gone back on me.”
“Of course not; you’d never do that,” Grace assented, and saw that
Irene was pleased by this testimony to her high-mindedness. “Maybe
there’s some mistake about it. Of course you’ll give Tommy a chance to
explain.”
“Oh, I gave him the chance all right enough. It was over the telephone
and, my dear, you should have heard him gasp when I put it up to him!”
“Go on and tell me what Tommy did or let’s stop talking about it!”
“I’m going to tell you. You and Minnie Lawton are the only people I
_could_ tell. I’ve been meeting Tommy at Minnie’s apartment and she
has to know why I’m not going there any more. Tommy’s always told me
I was the only one--that old, old story! Well, a certain person--he
didn’t know I knew Tommy--was asking me about him the other day. He
said he’d seen Tommy in Chicago with a very nifty girl he seemed to be
chummy with. He saw them together last Saturday night. Now, Tommy had
a date with me for Saturday evening but he told me Friday he was going
to Chicago unexpectedly with his wife for the opera. He didn’t take his
wife to Chicago--I easily found that out. Tommy went to Chi all right
enough but not to hear Mary Garden. So, there’s the end of our little
romance.”
“What did Tommy have to say for himself?”
“What _could_ he say!” Irene exclaimed disdainfully. “He wanted to see
me of course; said he could explain everything, but I said good-bye
very sweetly and hung up on him. I’d like to see him explain a thing
like that! I suppose he thought he’d send me a box of candy and
everything would be lovely. I’m a good deal of a fool, my dear, but
hardly to that extent.”
“I shouldn’t just pick you out to try putting anything over on.”
“They’re all alike!” Irene resumed, ignoring Grace’s tribute to her
perspicacity. “Men expect women to take everything. Poor Tommy! If
he doesn’t stop drinking he’s going to die real quick one of these
days. I guess he didn’t like my lecturing him so much. You know I
was interested in all his plans--he’s no end ambitious and he used to
invite my little hints and suggestions; not that I really know about
machinery or finance, but I suppose I have got a business head.”
“You certainly have, Irene. You’ll have a big business of your own some
day or a wonderful position in New York. You could easily swing our
department now.”
“I suppose I might, but I’ve almost decided to get married. Oh, don’t
jump! I mean when I see a good chance. Now that I’m done with Tommy the
idea doesn’t seem so bad. Perhaps,” she added, “perhaps we’re not fair
to marriage! There may be something in it after all.”
“There are still people who think so,” said Grace, impelled to laughter
by Irene’s gravity.
“Oh, I suppose we’ve got to recognize it! How’s Ward these days? Still
roaming the world?”
“In New York the last I heard of him, and terribly busy.”
“Do you know, there’s something pathetic about Ward Trenton,” said
Irene. “There’s something away back in his mind that he tries to hide
even from himself! You know what I mean? It’s his wife, I suppose. I
saw her picture in a magazine not so long ago and meant to show it to
you. She’s not at all the frump you’d expect from her being an author
and lecturer, but quite handsome and smartly got up. It’s certainly
queer that a woman like that who has scads of money and a real man
for a husband won’t stay at her own fireside, but has to trot around
showing herself off. And Ward’s fascinating; those quiet self-contained
men are always fascinating. And they certainly keep you guessing as to
what they think. Take poor Tommy; once he’s away from business he’s
got to be amused. But Ward’s different. That man does a lot of solid
thinking even when he’s out to play.”
“He’s kind, he’s awfully kind,” Grace murmured.
With the Cummings’s episode and its very obvious lesson still playing
through her thoughts Grace eagerly welcomed Irene’s praise of Trenton,
feeling the need of just the assurances her friend was giving her as
to his fine qualities, which attained a new dignity in view of Kemp’s
inconstancy.
“Ward’s perfectly splendid,” Irene continued as though fearing she
hadn’t done Trenton full justice. “I’ve never had any illusions about
Tommy; I always knew I’d have to pass him up some day. But don’t let me
shake your faith in dear old Ward. He won’t lie to you; he’d tell the
truth if it ruined him.”
“You really think that?” asked Grace with a slight quaver in her voice
which the watchful Irene did not miss.
“Of course I think it! But with two people as intense in your different
ways as you and Ward, you’re likely to hurt each other terribly. I’ve
been awfully careful what I’ve said to you, Grace, about--well--about
going the limit with Ward. But I can see you’re not just throwing
yourself at his head. And Ward, if I know him, is not going to expect
you to.”
“Oh, he’s fine!” said Grace, averting her eyes. “No one could be finer,
but----”
“Yes, my dear; there’s that _but_ we always bring up against! I won’t
say a word about Tommy and me. Of course I never loved Tommy but I
thought he was a good fellow and on the level; and it was exciting
while it lasted. That’s what catches a lot of girls who go in for
such little affairs as mine with Tommy. It’s the excitement of doing
something they know’s dead wrong and bound to end in a smash-up.”
As Grace was eating little and seemed dispirited, Irene recurred to
Trenton.
“Ward would never be satisfied just to play around with a girl, knowing
that whenever he got tired he’d chuck her and pick up another. I’m
saying this because I know he fell for you hard that very first night
you met; it was a clear case of love at first sight with you two. I’m
not just kidding you; you know as well as I do you’re different from
other girls. You’ve got brains and poise. Not that you weren’t always a
lot of fun and a good pal,--I never knew a girl who was as much fun to
play with. But you’ve always kept your self-respect and held your head
high. Ward likes that in you because he’s that sort himself.”
“I wish I could believe you’re right but, Irene, sometimes I don’t feel
I know myself at all! When I quit college I was full of self-conceit
and thought I had a strong grip on myself. I was going to test out
life--find out everything in my own way. But there are times when I
get scared. I thought it would be fun to drift along for awhile, just
trying myself out and I was sure I could stop whenever I pleased and
settle on something. But I’m not doing it! What’s the matter with me
anyhow?” she demanded mournfully.
“You’re in love! Don’t you think I haven’t been watching the awful
symptoms. You’ve got a real case!”
“Do you really mean that? Would you really know?” asked Grace eagerly.
“Would I know? I could see it with my eyes shut. And I can see it’s
troubling you. These are things we’ve all got to settle for ourselves,
my dear. And from what I know of Ward I’ll wager he’s taking it just
as hard as you are. He’s married and he knows just what the whole thing
means. I’d be disappointed in him if he didn’t give you a good chance
to drop him now even though he suffered terribly. And he’s of the kind
who do suffer all right.”
“It might be better,” said Grace soberly, “if I didn’t see him again!”
“You’re going to be unhappy if you do that. You’d both be unhappy. Of
course, there’s his wife. He’d be likely to think of her pride and
dignity,--chivalry and all that sort of stuff. And if he got a divorce
and married you the whole business might be unpleasant. You’re not the
sort of girl who could go through a thing like that without suffering
terribly. It’s something for you to think about, my dear!”
In spite of her trouble with Kemp, Irene was eating a substantial
luncheon. There were times when Grace felt an aversion for Irene. The
most sacred relationships of life the girl treated with a cold cynicism
that affected Grace disagreeably. She was pondering the sordidness of
Irene’s liaison with Kemp. The lofty condescension with which Irene
spoke of him amused Grace only mildly.
“Wouldn’t it be grand,” Irene continued, “to be made love to--I mean by
some one who really knew how! Somebody who’d approach you as though you
were a queen and stand in terrible awe of you! The trouble with all us
women nowadays is that we’re too easy. The next time a man shows any
symptoms of being interested in me I’m going to be the coy little girl,
I can tell you! Oh, I’m not thinking of Tommy”--her lip curled--“I mean
where the man really respects you first of all. I tell you, Grace, I’m
pretty well fed up on this new woman stuff. Believe me, I’m staying
home with mother these nights knitting a sweater for father, and Sunday
I’m going to put on a big apron and bake a cake--honest, I am! Women
do better as a domestic animal like the common or fireside cat.”
“You don’t really think that!” Grace exclaimed.
“Oh, I know Grace, you’re all for our glorious independence and
fighting in the ranks shoulder to shoulder with the men. But the
trouble is we can’t fight _with_ them; we’re fighting against them
every hour of the day! My dear, there’s a curse on us--the curse of
sex! There’s absolutely no ducking it. You may talk all you like about
equality and how men and women meet in business and the woman is the
equal of the man. All right! She may have just as good a head as the
man she’s dealing with but if she still has home-grown teeth and her
face isn’t painful to look at sex is all mixed up in the figures. You
can’t get away from it.”
“But, Irene----!”
“Oh, I saw you sell a woman a coat yesterday--that old girl from up in
the bushes whose husband came along to keep her from blowing his bank
roll, and it was the man you sold that rag to, not the woman. Sex!
You’re a pretty girl, you know, and he spent twice what he’d let her
blow on herself if it hadn’t been for your blandishments. And when I
go down to New York on a buying jaunt the polite gentlemen in our line
buy me expensive dinners and take me in swift taxies to the theatre and
to supper and to snappy dance places afterwards. That’s sex! If the
store sends a _man_ down there the same birds buy him a quick lunch and
that’s all. But a woman’s different! Sex, my dear, sex!”
“Oh, it’s not as bad as that!” Grace protested. “I want to be
considered as a human being first and as a woman afterwards. I don’t
mind saying that there have been times lately when I’ve wished I could
see things as mother does, but I can’t. There’s no use trying to live
backwards. I just couldn’t stay in a house all the time and cook and
sew and darn for a husband; I’d go crazy!”
“Well, the home life listens good to me right now!” replied Irene with
a sigh. “No; this is my turn to pay the check. By the way, did you
notice that woman I waited on this morning--the dish-face with too much
paint and pearl earrings as big as your fist--well,” she broke off
abruptly--“here’s a happy surprise! If I’m not mistaken here’s the tall
sycamore of Raccoon Creek!”
“What on earth are you talking about--a raccoon with pearl earrings?”
“No; a certain party just coming in the door. Looks like your old
college chum who took you to the football game.”
Grace turned to find John Moore bearing down upon their table.
“You _will_ excuse me, won’t you?” he exclaimed radiantly as he shook
hands. “Oh, I remember Miss Kirby; ashamed of myself if I didn’t.
Well, Grace, they told me you were up here at lunch so I thought I’d
take a chance. Hope you’ve got a minute. I came to town on particular
business. Sold an Airedale pup and brought him up to make special
delivery.”
“You have a kennel, Mr. Moore?” asked Irene. “I adore Airedales.”
“I’ll say it’s a kennel!” John answered as he drew a chair from an
adjoining table and seated himself. “Grace knows the place; an old
barn, one of the professors let’s me use for taking care of his
furnace. I’m selling off my pups now before I move to the great city.
I’ll be lonesome without a dog when I come up after Christmas. When I
went West last summer as an honest farm hand I had to leave my dogs
for a darky to look after and I certainly did miss them. But I’ve got
twenty-five dollars apiece for them,” he concluded, with a frank appeal
for their approval.
He gave Grace the latest news of the university, explaining his items
for Irene’s enlightenment. When Grace asked him about particular girls
he protested that he had never heard of their existence. Grace was just
kidding him, he said.
“The fact is, Miss Kirby, since Grace left the campus I haven’t seen
any girls.”
“I can well believe it,” Irene replied. “With Grace gone there’s
nothing left of the picture but the frame. She’s one in a million.
You’ll look a long time before you find another girl like Grace
Durland.”
“You’ve said something!” John affirmed, and pretending that Grace was
not present he and Irene engaged in a lively discussion of Grace’s
merits. With Irene this was of course only a device for flirting with
John. John understood perfectly that she was flirting with him. As
this went on John and Irene were taking careful note of each other.
Two natures could not have been more truly antipodal. Grace was amused
to see them at such pains to please each other. She interrupted them
occasionally with a question as to some virtue attributed to her, which
they feigned not to hear but answered indirectly.
He was already preparing for his removal to the city and wore a new
suit and hat and carried a pair of tan gloves which obviously had not
been worn. He struck his hat with them occasionally as he talked. John
had always been quick to note little tricks of manner and speech and
when they pleased him he frankly adopted them. His manner of playing
with his gloves was imitated from a young instructor at the university
who carried gloves with him everywhere, even into the class room, where
he played with them as he heard recitations. John in his new raiment
looked less like a countryman than Grace had thought possible. She
recalled what a cynical senior had once said of him--that above the
collar he looked like a signer of the Declaration of Independence but
that the rest of him was strongly suggestive of the barnyard. His eyes
missed nothing; he was too eager to get ahead in the world not to study
his own imperfections and overcome them. Having impressed John with
the idea that for the few minutes they spent together he was the only
specimen of the male species in the world, Irene languidly glanced at
her watch.
“Only ten minutes to get back, Grace. I’ll keep the wheels of commerce
turning while you talk to Mr. Moore. Do forgive me, old things, for
keeping you waiting.”
As she gathered up her purse and vanity box Moore protested that he and
Grace had nothing to say to each other which she might not hear.
“Oh, don’t try that on me!” Irene replied, looking from one to the
other meaningfully.
“If you leave us alone John will begin talking poetry,” said Grace.
“Please wait, I don’t feel a bit like poetry today!”
“There, Miss Kirby; you see Grace doesn’t want to be alone with me!
I’ll tell you what! I’m staying in town tonight and it would be fine
if we could all go to a show together. There’s a picture I’ve read
about--‘Mother Earth,’ they call it; said to give a fine idea of
pioneer life. I guess we owe it to the folks who drove out the Indians
and cleaned up the varmints to show ’em a little respect, and they say
that picture’s a humdinger. If you don’t like the notion and there’s
some other show----”
His eyes were bright with expectancy as he awaited their decision.
“You see,” he added with a broad smile, “now that I’ve sold my last pup
and paid my debts I feel a little like celebrating.”
“Thank you ever so much, Mr. Moore,” said Irene, “but really, I----”
“Why, of course you can go, Irene,” exclaimed Grace, who had not
missed Irene’s look of consternation when John suggested spending an
evening viewing a movie illustrative of the sacrifices of the pioneers.
However, Irene had quickly recovered from the shock and seemed to be
seriously considering John’s invitation.
“I’ll be glad to go, thank you, John; but of course we must have Irene!”
“Certainly, we want Miss Kirby,” John declared.
“But if you hadn’t seen me here, Mr. Moore, you’d never have thought of
asking me. You know you wouldn’t.”
“Honestly, I thought of it before I came into the store! Ever since
that day you were so nice about letting Grace off to go to the game
I’ve had a feeling I’d like to show you some trifling attention. I’ll
take it as another favor if you’ll go.”
“Oh, if you put it that way, Mr. Moore, of course I accept,” said
Irene. “I must skip; you stay, Grace, and arrange the little details.”
“It’s mighty nice of Miss Kirby to go,” John remarked as he resumed
his seat after bowing Irene from the table. “And it must make things
a lot easier for you to have a fine girl like that to work with. You
can tell she knows her business. I guess nothing’s going to rattle her
much!”
“What are you trying to do, John; make me jealous?” laughed Grace.
“Now Grace, you know----”
What would John think, Grace wondered--John of the high ideals and
aspirations, if he knew that it was only because Irene had broken with
a man whose mistress she had been and in consequence was disposed to
take refuge in things wholly foreign to her nature and experience, that
she had accepted an invitation to attend a picture show that celebrated
the joys and sorrows of the pioneers!
It was settled that John should go home with her for supper and that
they would meet Irene in the lobby of the theatre. Grace took occasion
to caution John against mentioning Irene at home. Her mother and Ethel
didn’t like Irene, she explained.
“I don’t see but she’s a pretty fine girl,” John replied. “And it makes
a hit with me that she’s such a good friend of yours.”
“Of course I’m not going,” said Irene when Grace went back to her
department. “I supposed you understood that.”
“I certainly didn’t. John wanted you or he wouldn’t have asked you.
You know what you were saying about sex! Here’s a chance to prove you
can forget it. Let’s assume John’s taking us to a movie merely because
we’re charming and amusing persons; just as he might take a couple of
young men.”
“Well I don’t care anything about going to a show right now when I’m
wearing mourning for myself, but I’d just like to sit near that suitor
of yours for an hour or two. He does me good.”
This was not like Irene, and Grace discounted heavily her friend’s
admiration for John. It was merely that Irene was contrasting John with
Kemp, in much the same spirit that she had praised Trenton at the lunch
table.
“If he knew me for what I am he’d probably run like a scared rabbit,”
said Irene, slipping a tape-line through her fingers. “I felt myself an
awful fraud all the time I talked to him.”
“You can always rely on John to think the best of everybody and
everything,” Grace replied. “He’s a mighty satisfactory sort of person.
If I ever got into trouble I know John would stand by me.”
“I believe you’re right,” Irene returned. “A man with eyes like his is
bound to be mighty square. But when I sat there kidding him about you I
did feel awfully guilty and ashamed of myself. I was afraid those eyes
might see too much!”
“Come out of the dark!” exclaimed Grace. “We’d better go to work.
John’s going home to supper with me and we’ll meet you in the Pendennis
lobby at a quarter before eight.”