Grevet’s was a fine old marble mansion just off the avenue with the
name in gold script and heavy silken draperies at the plate-glass
windows. It had the air of having caught and imprisoned the atmosphere
of the old aristocracy that used to inhabit that section of the city.
The quiet distinction of the house seemed to give added dignity to the
fine old street where memories of other days still lingered to remind
old residents of a time when only the four hundred trod the sacred
precincts of those noble mansions.
Inside the wrought-iron grill-work of its outer entrance, the quiet
distinction became more intense. No footfall sounded from the deep pile
of imported carpets that covered the floors. Gray floors, lofty walls
done in pearl and gray and cream. Upholstery of velvet toning with the
walls and floor. And light, wonderful perfect light softly diffused
from the walls themselves, seemingly, making it clear as the morning,
yet soft with the radiance of moonlight. A pot of daffodils in one
window, just where the silken curtain was slightly drawn to the street.
A crystal bowl of Parma violets on a tiny table of teak-wood. An
exquisite cushion of needle point blindingly intricate in its delicate
design and minute stitches. One rare painting of an old Greek temple
against a southern sky and sea. That was Grevet’s.
And when you entered there was no one present at first. It was very
still, like entering some secret hall of silence. You almost felt an
intruder unless you were of the favored ones who came often to have
their wants supplied.
A period of awesome waiting, of hesitation lest you might have made
a mistake after all, and then Madame, in a costume of stunning
simplicity, would glance out from some inner sanctum, murmur a command,
and forth would come a slim attendant in black satin frock and hair
cut, seemingly, off the same piece of goods, and demand your need; and
later would come forth the mannikins and models wearing creations of
distinction that would put the lily’s garb to shame.
It was in the mysterious side lines somewhere from which they issued
forth unexpectedly upon the purchaser of garments, that a group of
these attendants stood conversing, just behind Madame’s inner sanctum,
in low tones because Madame might return at any moment, and Madame did
not permit comments on the customers.
“She was a beautiful girl,” said one whose high color under tired eyes,
and boyish hair-cut on a head mature, were somehow oddly at variance.
“She was _different_!”
“Yes, different!” spoke another crisply with an accent, “quite
different, and attractive, yes. But she had no style. She wore her hair
like one who didn’t care for style. Becoming, yes, but not at all the
thing. _Quite out._ She didn’t seem to belong to him at all. She was
not like any of the girls he has brought here before.”
“And yet she had distinction.”
“Yes,” hesitating, “distinction of a kind. But more the distinction of
another universe.”
“Oh, come down to earth, Miss Lancey,” cried a round little model with
face a shade too plump. “You’re always up in the clouds. She had no
style and you know it. That coat she wore was one of those nineteen
ninety-eight coats in Simon’s window. I see them every night when I go
home. I knew it by those tricky little pockets. Quite cute they are
with good lines, but cheap and common of course. She was nothing but a
poor girl. Why try to make out she was something else. She has a good
figure of course, and pretty features if one likes that angelic type,
but no style in the world.”
“She was stunning in the black velvet,” broke in the first speaker
stubbornly. “I can’t help it, I think she had style. There was
something--well, kind of gracious about her, as if she were a lady in
disguise.”
“Oh Florence, you’re so hopelessly romantic! That’s away behind the
times. You don’t find Cinderellas nowadays. Things are more practical.
If a lady _has_ a disguise she takes it off. That’s more up to date.”
“Well, you know yourself she was different. You can’t say she wasn’t
perfectly at home with those clothes. She wore them like a princess.”
“She had a beautiful form,” put in an older salesperson. “That’s a
whole lot.”
“It takes something more than form,” said the girl persistently. “You
know that Charlotte Bakerman had a form. They said she was perfect in
every measurement, but she walked like a cow, and she carried herself
like a gorilla in a tree when she sat down.”
“Oh, this girl was graceful, if that’s what you mean,” conceded the fat
one ungraciously.
“It wasn’t just grace, either,” persisted the champion of the unknown
customer. “She didn’t seem to be conscious she had on anything unusual
at all. She walked the same way when she came in. She walked the
same way when she went out in her nineteen ninety-eight. She sort of
glorified it. And when she had on the Lanvin Green ensemble it was just
as if she had always worn such things. It sort of seemed to belong to
her, as if she was born with it, like a bird’s feathers.”
“I know what you mean,” said the woman with tired eyes and artificial
color. “She wasn’t thinking about her clothes. They weren’t important
to her. She would only care if they were suitable. And she would know
at a glance without discussing it whether they were suitable. You saw
how she looked at that flashy little sports frock, the one with the
three shades of red stripes and a low red leather belt. She just turned
away and said in a low tone: ‘Oh, not that one, Murray!’ as if it hurt
her.”
“Did she call him Murray?” asked the fat one greedily.
“Yes. They seemed to know each other real well. She was almost as if
she might have been a sister, only we know he hasn’t got any sisters.
She might have been a country cousin.”
“Perhaps he’s going to marry her!” suggested the fat one.
“Nonsense!” said the first girl sharply. “She’s not his kind. Imagine
the magnificent Mrs. Van Rensselaer mothering anything that wore a
nineteen ninety-eight coat from Simon’s! Can you? Besides, they say
he’s going to marry the Countess Lenowski when she gets her second
divorce.”
“I don’t think _that_ girl would marry a man like Murray Van
Rensselaer,” spoke the thoughtful one. “She has too much character. She
had a remarkable face.”
“Oh, you can’t tell by a face,” shrugged a slim one with a sharp black
lock of hair pasted out on her cheek, and a sinuous body. “She can’t be
much or she wouldn’t let him buy her clothes!”
“She didn’t!” said the first speaker sharply. “I heard her say, ‘I
wouldn’t think she would like that, Murray, it’s too noticeable. I’m
sure a nice girl wouldn’t like that as well as the blue chiffon.’”
“H’m!” said the slim one. “Looks as if she must be a relative or
something. Did anybody get her name?”
“The address on the box was Elizabeth Chapparelle,” contributed a pale
little errand girl who had stood by listening.
“Elizabeth!” said the thoughtful one. “She looked like an Elizabeth.”
“But if they weren’t for her that wouldn’t have been her name,”
persisted the fat one.
“I thought I heard him call her Bessie once,” said the little errand
girl--
“Then he was buying for some one of his old girls that is going to be
married,” suggested the slim one contemptuously. “Probably this girl is
a friend of them both.”
“Hush! Madame is coming! Which one did he take? The Lanvin green?”
“Both. He told Madame to send them both! Yes, Madame, I’m coming!”
A boy in a mulberry uniform with silver buttons entered.
“Say, Lena, take that to Madame and tell her there’s a mistake. The
folks say they don’t know anything about it.”
Lena, the pale little errand girl, took the heavy box and walked slowly
off to find Madame, studying the address on the box as she went.
“Why!” She paused by the thoughtful-eyed woman. “It’s her. It’s that
girl!”
Madame appeared suddenly with a frown.
“What’s this, Lena? How many times have I told you not to stop to talk?
Where are you carrying that box?”
“Thomas says there’s a mistake in the address. The folks don’t know
anything about it.”
“Where is Thomas? Send him to me. Here, Thomas. What’s the matter?
Couldn’t you find the house? The address is perfectly plain.”
“Sure, I found the house, Madame, but they wouldn’t take it in. They
said they didn’t know anything about it. It wasn’t theirs.”
“Did they say Miss Chapparelle didn’t live there? Who came to the
door?”
“An old woman with white hair. Yes, she said Miss Chapparelle lived
there. She said she was her daughter, but that the package didn’t
belong to her. She said she never bought anything at this place.”
“Well, you can take it right back,” said Madame sharply. “Tell the
woman the young lady knows all about it. Tell her it will explain
itself when the young lady opens it. There’s a card inside. And
Thomas,” hurrying after him as he slid away to the door, and speaking
in a lower voice, “Thomas, you leave it there no matter what she says.
It’s all paid for and I’m not going to be bothered this way. You’re to
leave it no matter what she says, you understand?”
“Sure, Madame, I understand. I’ll leave it.”
The neat little delivery car with its one word “Grevet” in silver
script on a mulberry background slid away on its well-oiled mechanism,
and the service persons in their black satin straight frocks turned
their black satin bobbed heads and looked meaningfully at one another
with glances that said eagerly:
“I told you so. That girl was different!” and Madame looked
thoughtfully out of her side window into the blank brick wall of the
next building and wondered how this was going to turn out. She did
not want to have those expensive costumes returned, and she could not
afford to anger young Van Rensselaer; he was too good a customer. He
had expected her to carry out his instructions. It might be that she
would have to go herself to explain the matter. Any one could see that
girl was too unsophisticated to understand. Her mother would probably
be worse. She would have notions. Madame had had a mother once herself,
so long ago she had forgotten many of her precepts, but she could
understand. Madame was clever. This was going to be a case requiring
clever action. But Madame was counting much upon Thomas. Thomas too
could be clever on occasion. That was why he wore the silver buttons
on the mulberry uniform and earned a good salary. Thomas knew that his
silver buttons depended on his getting things across when Madame spoke
to him as she had just done, and Madame believed Thomas would get this
across.
In the early dusk of the evening when it came closing time at Grevet’s
the service women in chic wraps and small close hats flocked stylishly
forth into the city and took their various ways home. The thoughtful
one and the outspoken one wended their way together out toward the
avenue and up toward obscure streets tucked in between finer ones,
walking to save carfare, for even for those who served at Grevet’s
there were circumstances in which it was wise in good weather to save
carfare.
Their way led past the houses of wealth, a trifle longer perhaps, but
pleasanter, with a touch of something in the air which their limited
lives had missed, but which they liked to be near and enjoy if only
in the passing. Their days at Grevet’s had fostered this love of the
beautiful and real, perhaps, that made a glimpse into the windows of
the great a pleasant thing; the drifting of a rare lace curtain, the
sight of masses of flowers within, the glow of a handsome lamp, and
the mellow shadows of a costly room, the sound of fine machinery as
the limousines passed almost noiselessly, the quiet perfect service of
the butler at the door, the well-groomed women who got out of the cars
and went in, delicately shod, to eat dinners that others had prepared,
with no thought or worry about expense. These were more congenial
surroundings to walk amid, even if it took one a block or two further
out of the way, than a crowded street full of common rushing people,
jostling and worried like themselves, and the air full of the sordid
things of life.
They were talking about the events of the day, as people will, the
happenings of their little world, the only points of contact they had
in common out of their separate lives.
“How much have you sold today, Mrs. Hanley?” questioned the girl
eagerly. “I had the biggest sale this month yet.” The sad-eyed one
smiled pleasantly.
“Oh, I had a pretty good day, Florence. This is always a good time of
year you know.”
“Yes, I know. Everybody getting new things.” She sighed, with a fierce
longing that she too might have plenty of money to get new things.
A sigh like that was easily translatable by her companion. For some
reason Mrs. Hanley shrank tonight from the usual wail that the girl
would presently bring forth about the unfairness of the division of
wealth in the world, perhaps because she, too, was wondering how to
make both ends meet and get the new things that were necessary.
She roused herself to change the subject. They were passing the Van
Rensselaer mansion now, well known to both of them. She snatched at the
first subject that presented itself.
“Why do you suppose Madame is so anxious to please that young man when
everybody says he doesn’t pay his bills?”
“Oh,” said Florence almost bitterly, “she knows his dad’ll pay ’em.
It’s everything to have a name like that. He could get away with almost
anything if he just told people who he was.”
“I suppose so,” said Mrs. Hanley almost sadly. “But I hope that girl
doesn’t keep those clothes. She’s too fine for such as he is.”
“Yes, isn’t she?” said Florence eagerly. “I suppose most folks would
think we were crazy talking like that. He’s considered a great catch.
But somehow I couldn’t see a girl like that getting soiled with being
tied up to a man that’s got talked about as much as he has. She’s
different. There aren’t many like that living. That is the way she
looks to be. Why, she’s like some angel just walking the earth because
she has to, at least that’s the impression her face gave to me. Just
as if she didn’t mind things us other folks think so much about, she
had higher, wonderful things to think about. I don’t often see any one
that stirs me up this way and makes me think about my mother. I guess I
ain’t much myself, never expected to be, but when you see some one that
is you can’t help but think!”
After which incoherent sentence Florence, with a gay good-night,
turned off at her corner, and Mrs. Hanley went home to a little pent-up
room high up in a fourth-rate rooming-house, to wash off her paint and
get a tiny supper on a small gas stove, and be a mother for a few brief
hours to her little crippled son who lay on a tiny couch by the one
window all day long and waited for her coming.