The day that Bessie Chapparelle had met her old playmate, Murray Van
Rensselaer, for the first time in seven years had been her birthday.
She was twenty-one years old, and feeling very staid indeed. It is odd
how very old twenty-one can make itself seem when one reaches that
mile-post in the walk of life. A girl never feels half so grown-up at
twenty-five as when she reaches twenty-one. And Bessie was counting
back over the years in the way a girl will, thinking of the bright
and sad epochs, and looking ahead eagerly to what she still hoped to
attain. She was wondering how long it would be before she could give
her beloved mother some of the luxuries she longed for her to have, and
as she stood on the street corner waiting for a trolley, she watched
the shining wheels of a new car come flashing down the street, and
wished she were well enough off to begin to buy a car. Just a little
Ford roadster, of course, or maybe a coupé. A second-hand one, too, but
there were plenty of nice cheap second-hand ones. It would be so nice
to take mother for a ride in the Park evenings, when she got home from
her work. They could put up a lunch and eat it on the way in the long
summer twilights. What wonderful times they could have together! Mother
needed to get out more. She was just stuck in the house sewing, sewing,
sewing all the time. Pretty soon she would be able to earn enough so
that mother would not have to sew so much, perhaps not at all. Mother
was getting to the age when she ought to rest more and have leisure for
reading. The housework was really all she ought to be doing. If only
she could get a raise within a year and manage to buy some kind of a
car so they could take rides!
Bessie Chapparelle had been tremendously busy during those seven years
since she and Murray Van Rensselaer used to play games together in
the evenings and listen to the books her mother read aloud to them,
when they grew tired of chess and “Authors” and crokinole. Murray
had gone off to Prep. School, and Bessie had studied hard in High
School. She had not even seen him at vacations. He had been away at a
camp somewhere in the West, or visiting with some schoolmate. He had
remembered her graduating day, for they had talked about it before he
left, and he had sent back a great sheaf of roses, which were brought
up to her on the platform after she read her essay. Everybody wondered
and exclaimed over the beauty and quantity of those roses, telegraphed
across the continent, with a characteristic greeting tied on the card,
“Hello, Pal, I knew you’d win out! Murray.”
The roses had brought other roses to her cheeks and a starry look to
her eyes as she came forward with wonder in her face and received
the two tributes of flowers, one of tiny sweetheart rosebuds and
forget-me-nots, small and exquisite, and this other great armful of
seashell-pink roses with hearts of gold. She was almost smothered
behind their lavish glory, and her little white dress, simple and
lovely, made by her mother, looked like a princess’ robe as she stood
with simple grace and bowed with gravely pleased smile toward the
audience. She took the roses over her arm and looked out from above
them, a fitting setting for her happy face, but the little nosegay of
sweethearts and forget-me-nots she held close to her lips with a motion
of caressing, for she knew they came from her mother. They were like
the flowers her mother had received from her father long ago when he
was courting her, and they meant much to the girl, who had listened,
fascinated by the tales of her mother’s girlhood, and treasured every
story and incident as if it had been a part of her very own life-story.
Oh, she knew who sent the forget-me-nots and sweetheart rosebuds! No
one but her dear, toiling mother could have done that, and it filled
her heart with tender joy to get them, for she knew they meant much
sacrifice, and many hours’ overwork, far into the night, perhaps, to
get the price for those costly little blossoms. She knew how much they
cost, too, for she had often wanted to buy some for her mother, and had
not dared. But she did not know nor guess who had sent the larger mass
of roses, not till she got by herself in the dressing-room for a second
and read the brief inscription on the card, and Murray’s name. Then
something glowed in her face that had not been there before, a dreamy,
lovely wonder, the foreshadowing of something she could not name and
did not understand--a great gladness that Murray, her playmate, had
not forgotten her after all this time, a revelling in the lavishness
of his gift, and the wonder of the rare flowers, which she knew were
more costly than anything else she had ever had in her life before.
Not that she estimated gifts by costliness, or prized them more for
that, but her life had been full of anxious planning to make a penny
go as far as possible for the dear mother who toiled so hard to give
her education and all that she needed, and money to her meant toil and
self-sacrifice and love. She would not have been a girl if it had not
given her a thrill to know that her flowers were more wonderful than
any flowers that had been sent up to that platform that day. Not that
she was proud or jealous, but it was so nice to have them all see that
somebody cared.
It was only a moment she had for such reflection, and then the girls
came trooping in, and she had barely time to secrete the little white
card in the folds of her dress before they all demanded to know who
sent them. They had not expected her to have such flowers. They were
almost jealous of her. She was a brilliant scholar, was not that enough?
She had been popular enough, though too busy to form the friendships
that make for many flowers at such a time. They had conceded her right
to the place of honor because of her scholarship, but they felt it
their right to shine before the public in other ways.
But Bessie was radiantly happy, and gave them each a rose, such
wonderful roses! They all openly declared there had never been such
roses at a high-school commencement before in all their knowledge. And
she went her way without ever having told them the name of the sender,
just vaguely saying: “Oh, from a friend away out West!” and they looked
at one another wonderingly as she passed out of the dressing-room and
into the cool dusk of the night, where her mother waited in the shadow
of the hedge for her. Then she had friends out West! Strange she never
mentioned any one before! Yet when they stopped to think they realized
Bessie never talked about herself. She was always quietly interested
in the others, when she was not too busy studying to give attention to
their chatter. And perhaps they had not given her much opportunity to
talk, either. They never realized it before.
Then she passed from their knowledge, except for an occasional greeting
on the street. They were fluttering off to the seashore and the
mountains, and later on to college. But Bessie went to work.
Her first job was as a substitute in an office where a valued
stenographer had to be away for several months with an invalid mother.
She did not know short-hand, and had only as much skill on the
typewriter as one can acquire in high school, and with no machine of
one’s own, but she worked so diligently at night school and applied
herself so carefully to the typewriter in the office that long before
the absent secretary returned she had become a valued asset to that
office.
As fast as a helper in an office can climb she had climbed, working
evenings on a business course, and getting in a little culture also
by the way. But she had not had time nor money for parties and the
good times other young people had. One cannot study hard in the
evening and take courses at a night school, then get up early and work
conscientiously all day, and yet go out to dances and theatres.
Moreover, her life interest was not in such things. She had been
brought up in an old-fashioned way, in the way that is condescendingly
referred to today as “Victorian.” She still believed in the Bible and
honored her mother. She still believed in keeping the laws of the land,
and the law of purity and self-respect. She had not bobbed her hair nor
painted her face, nor gone to any extreme in dress.
And yet, when Murray Van Rensselaer saw her standing on that corner
that morning of her twenty-first birthday, waiting for her car, she was
sufficiently attractive to make him look twice and slow down his speed,
even before he recognized her for the playmate of his childhood’s days.
There had been no more roses, no letters even passing between them, and
Bessie had come to look back upon her memory of him as a thing of the
past, over forever. She still kept the crumpled rose-leaves folded away
in tissue paper in her handkerchief box, and smiled at them now and
then as she took her best handkerchiefs out for some state occasion,
drawing a breath of their old fragrance, like dried spices, whose
strength was so nearly gone that it was scarcely recognizable. Just
sweet and old, and dear, like all the pleasant things of her little
girlhood. Life had been too real and serious for her to regret the
absence of her former friend, or even to feel hurt at his forgetfulness
of her. He had passed into college life and travels abroad. Now and
then his name was in the paper in connection with college sports, and
later, as a guest of some young prince or lord abroad. She and her
mother read these items with interest and a pleasant smile, but there
was no bitterness nor jealousy in their thought of the boy who used
to find a refuge in their kitchen on many a stormy evening when his
family had left him alone with servants, and he had stolen away for
a little real pleasure in their cosey home. It was what was to have
been expected when he grew up. Was he not Murray Van Rensselaer? He
would have no time now, of course, for cosey pancake suppers and simple
stories read aloud. His world expected other things of him. He was
theirs no longer. But they had loved the little boy who had loved them,
and for his sake they were interested in the young man he had become,
and now and then talked of him as they turned out their own lights and
looked across the intervening alley to the blazing lights in the big
house where his mother entertained the great ones of the city.
His coming back to his own city had been heralded in the papers, of
course, and often his name was mentioned in the society columns, yet
never had it happened that they had met until this morning. And Bessie
was heart-whole and happy, not expecting young millionaire princes
to drop down on her doorstep and continue a friendship begun in
lonely babyhood. She was much too sane and sensible a girl to expect
or even wish for such a thing. Her mind now was set upon success in
her business world, and her ambition to put her mother into more
comfortable circumstances.
She met him with a smile of real pleasure, because he had cared to
stop and recognize her for old times’ sake, yet there was just the
least tinge of reserve about her that set a wall between them from the
start. He had recognized her with a blaze of unmistakable joy and
surprise on his face, and brought his car to such an abrupt stop that
a taxi behind him very nearly ran up on the top of his car and climbed
over him, its driver reproaching him loudly in no uncertain terms. But
Murray had sprung from his car and taken her by the hand, his eyes
devouring her lovely face, taking in every detail of her expression.
Clear, unspoiled eyes, with the old glad light in them, fresh, healthy
skin, like velvet, flushed softly at the unexpected meeting, lips that
were red enough without the help of lipstick, and hair coiled low and
arranged modishly, yet without the mannish ugliness affected by so many
girls of the day, trim lines of a plain tailored suit, unconscious
grace, truth, and goodness in her looks. To look at her was like going
into the glory of a summer day after the garishness of a night in a
cabaret.
He would have stood a long time holding her hand and finding out all
that had been happening to her during the interval while they had been
separated, but the traffic officer appeared on the scene and demanded
that he move his car at once. He was not allowed to park in that
particular spot where he had chosen to stop and spring to the pavement.
“Where are you going? Can’t I take you there?” he pleaded, with one
foot on the running-board and his eyes still upon her face.
She tried to say she would wait for the trolley, it was not far away
now, but he waved her excuses aside, said he had nothing in the world
to do that morning, and before she realized it she was seated in the
beautiful car whose approach she had watched so short a time before.
As she sank down upon the cushions she thought how wonderful it would
be if sometime she could buy a car like this. Not with such wonderful
finish, perhaps, but just as good springs and just as fine mechanism.
How her mother would enjoy it!
The car moved swiftly out of the traffic into a side street, where they
had comparatively a free course, and then the young man had turned to
look at her again with that deep approval that had marked his first
recognition.
“Where did you say you wanted to go?” he asked, watching the play of
expression on her face and wondering about it. She did not seem like
the girls he knew. She was so utterly like herself as he used to know
her when they were children, that it seemed impossible.
“You don’t have to get somewhere right immediately, do you?” he asked
eagerly. “Couldn’t we have a little spin first?”
She hesitated, her better judgment warning her against it. Already
she was reproaching herself for having got into the car. She knew her
mother would have felt it was not wise. They were not of the same walk
of life. It would be better to let him go his way. Yet he had been so
insistent, and the traffic officer so urgent to clear the way. There
seemed nothing else to do.
“Why, I was going to the Library for a book I need this evening in my
study,” she said pleasantly. “My employer is out of town and gave me a
holiday. I’m making use of it doing some little things I never have
time for.”
“I see,” said Murray, with his pleasant, easy smile that took
everything for granted. “Then I’m sure I’m one of the things you
haven’t taken time for in a good many years. You’ll just give me a
little of your time, won’t you? Suppose we go toward the Park, where
we’ll have more room.”
While she hesitated he shot his car up a cross-street and was soon
whirling on the boulevard toward the entrance of the Park, enjoying the
light in her eyes as the car rolled smoothly over the asphalt. It was
so apparent that she loved the ride! She looked as she used to look
when he brought her over the canary in the gold cage that he had bought
with some of his spending money one Christmas. He began to wonder why
he had let this delicious friend of his drop out of his acquaintance.
Why, come to think of it, he had not seen her since the night his
mother made him so mad telling him he was disgracing the family by
running to play with little “alley” girls; that he was too big to
play with low-born people any more. He remembered how he tried to
explain that Bessie did not live in the alley, as his mother’s maid had
informed her, but just _across_ the alley, and how he tried to force
her to go to the window and look out across the back area, where she
could see quite plainly the neat two-story brick, with the white sheer
curtains at the windows, and a geranium between the curtains. It had
all looked so pleasant to him he felt sure his mother would understand
for once if she would only look. He could not bear that she should
think such thoughts about these cosey friends of his who had given so
many happy hours to him that his mother would have left desolate. But
she shook him off angrily and sent him from the room.
That had been the last time he had seen Bessie. They told him the next
day that he was to go to a summer camp, and from there he was sent
to boarding school in the far West. It had all been very exciting at
first, and he had never connected his mother’s talk with his sudden
migration. Perhaps the thought only vaguely shadowed itself in his mind
now as a link in the chain of his life. He was not given to analyzing
things, just drifting with the tide and getting as much fun out of it
all as possible. But now, with Bessie before him, he wondered why it
was that he had allowed seven whole years to drift by apart from her.
Here she had been ripening into this perfect peach of a girl, and he
might have been enjoying her company all this time. Instead he had
solaced his idle hours with any one who happened to drift his way. Bah!
What a lot they had been, some of them! Something in him knew that this
girl was never like those. Something she had had as a little girl that
he admired and enjoyed had stayed with her yet. He was not like that.
He was sure he was not. He was quite certain he had been rather a fine
chap in those early days before the evil of life had been revealed
to him. A faint little wish that he might have stayed as he was then
faltered through his gay mind, only he flippantly felt that of course
that would have been impossible as life was.
Bessie was enjoying her ride. She exclaimed over the beauty of the
foliage, where some of autumn’s tints were still left clinging to the
branches. She drank in the beauty of cloud and distant river, and her
cheeks took on that delicate flush of delight that he had noticed
in her long ago. He marvelled that a human cheek could vary in its
coloring so exquisitely. He had unconsciously come to feel that such
alive-looking flesh could only be on the face of a child. Every woman
he knew wore her coloring stationary, like a mask, that never varied,
no matter what emotion might cross her countenance. The mask was always
there, smooth and creamy and delicate and unmoved. He had come to feel
it was a state that came with maturity. But this girl’s face was like
a rose whose color came and went in delicate shadings and seemed to be
a part of the vivid expression as she talked; as the petals of a rose
showed deeper coloring at their base when the wind played with them and
threw the lights and shadows in different curves and tintings.
Murray as a rule did little thinking, and he would have been surprised
and thought it clever if some one had put this idea into words for him.
But the impression was there in his mind as they talked. And then he
fell to wondering how she would look in beautiful garments, rich silks
and velvets and furs. She was simply and suitably dressed, and might be
said to adorn her garments, but she would be superb in cloth of silver
and jewels. How he would enjoy putting her in her right setting! Here
was a girl who would adorn any garments, and whose face and figure
warranted the very greatest designers in Fashion’s world.
An idea came to Murray.
They often came that way by impulse, and sometimes they had their
origin in the very best impulses. He leaned toward her with a quick,
confidential air. They were on their way back now, for the girl had
suggested that she had taken enough of his time.
“I wonder if you won’t do something for me?” he said in his old boyish,
pleasant tone that reminded her of other days together.
“Why, surely, if I can,” she complied pleasantly.
“You certainly can,” he answered gaily. “No one could do it better.
I want you to come with me to a shop I know and help me to select
something for a gift for a friend of mine. You are her figure to an
inch, and you have her coloring too. I want to see how it will look on
you before I buy it.”
There was perhaps just the least shade of reserve in her voice as
she graciously assented. Naturally she could not help wondering who
the gift was for. Not his mother, or he would have said so. He had
no sister, she knew. A cousin, perhaps? No, he would have called her
cousin. Well, it was of no consequence, of course. It gave her just
the least little bit of an embarrassed feeling. How could she select
something for one in his station of life? But she could at least tell
what she thought was pretty. It was on the whole quite exciting, come
to think of it, to help in the selection of something where money did
not have to be considered--just for once to let her taste rule. It
would be wonderful!
Then they turned from the avenue into the quieter street, and drew
up suddenly before Grevet’s. She drew her breath with pleasure. Ah!
Grevet’s! She had often wondered what a shop like this was like
inside, and now she was to know! It was like playing a game, to have
a legitimate reason for inspecting some of the costly wares that
were here exclusively displayed. She stepped from the car with quiet
composure, however, and no one would have dreamed that this was her
first entrance into these distinguished precincts.