HEREIN CAPTAIN MORTON FALLS UNDER SUSPICION AND HENRY FENN FALLS FROM
GRACE
On Market Street nearly opposite the Traders' National Bank during the
decades of the eighties and nineties was a smart store front upon which
was fastened a large, black and gold sign bearing the words "The Paris
Millinery Company" and under these words in smaller letters, "Mrs.
Brunhilde Herdicker, Prop." If Mr. George Brotherton and his Amen Corner
might be said to be the clearing house of public opinion in Harvey, the
establishment of Mrs. Brunhilde Herdicker, Prop., might well be said to
be the center of public clamor. For things started in this
establishment--by things one means in general, trouble; variegated of
course as to domestic, financial, social, educational, amatory, and at
times political. Now the women of Harvey and South Harvey and of Greeley
county--and of Hancock and Seymour counties so far as that goes--used
the establishment of "The Paris Millinery Company, Mrs. Brunhilde
Herdicker, Prop.," as a club--a highly democratic club--the only place
this side of the grave, in fact, where women met upon terms of something
like equality.
And in spring when women molt and change their feathers, the
establishment of "Mrs. Brunhilde Herdicker, Prop." at its opening rose
to the dignity of a social institution. It was a kind of folk-mote. Here
at this opening, where there was music and flowers and bonbons, women
assembled en masse. Mrs. Nesbit and Mrs. Fenn, Mrs. Dexter and Violet
Hogan, she that was born Mauling met, if not as sisters at least in what
might be called a great step-sisterhood; and even the silent Lida
Bowman, wife of Dick, came from her fastness and for once in a year met
her old friends who knew her in the town's early days before she went to
South Harvey to share the red pottage of the Sons of Esau!
But her friends had little from Mrs. Bowman more than a smile--a cracked
and weather-beaten smile from a broken woman of nearly forty, who was a
wife at fifteen, a mother at seventeen, and who had borne six children
and buried two in a dozen years.
"There's Violet," ventured Mrs. Bowman to Mrs. Dexter. "I haven't seen
her since her marriage."
To a question Mrs. Bowman replied reluctantly, "Oh--as for Denny Hogan,
he is a good enough man, I guess!"
After a pause, Mrs. Bowman thought it wise to add under the wails of the
orchestra: "Poor Violet--good hearted girl's ever lived; so kind to her
ma; and what with all that talk when she was in Van Dorn's office and
all the talk about the old man Sands and her in the Company store, I
just guess Vi got dead tired of it all and took Denny and run to cover
with him."
Violet Hogan in a black satin,--a cheap black satin, and a black hat--a
cheap black hat with a red rose--a most absurdly cheap red rose in it,
walked about the place picking things over in a rather supercilious way,
and no one noticed her. Mrs. Fenn gave Violet an eyebrow, a beautifully
penciled eyebrow on a white marble forehead, above beaming brown eyes
that were closed just slightly at the moment. And Mrs. Van Dorn who had
kept track of the girl, you may be sure, went over to her and holding
out her hand said: "Congratulations, Violet,--I'm so glad to hear--" But
Mrs. Denny Hogan having an eyebrow to spare as the gift of Mrs. Fenn
passed it on to Mrs. Van Dorn who said, "Oh--" very gently and went to
sit on a settee beside Mrs. Brotherton, the mother of the moon-faced Mr.
Brotherton and Mrs. Ahab Wright, who always seemed to seek the shade.
And then and there, Mrs. Van Dorn had to listen to this solo from Mrs.
Brotherton:
"George says Judge Van Dorn is running for Judge again: really, Laura, I
hope he'll win. George says he will. George says Henry Fenn is the only
trouble Mr. Van Dorn will have, though I don't see as Henry could do
much. Though George says he will. George says Henry is cranky and mean
about the Judge someway and George says Henry is drinking like a fish
this spring and his legs is hollow, he holds so much; though he must
have been joking for I have heard of hollow horn in cattle, but I never
heard of hollow legs, though they are getting lots of new diseases."
By the time Mrs. Brotherton found it necessary to stop for breath, Laura
Van Dorn had regained the color that had dimmed as she heard the
reference to Henry Fenn. And when she met Mrs. Margaret Fenn at a turn
of the aisle, Mrs. Margaret Fenn was the spirit of joy and it seemed
that Mrs. Van Dorn was her long lost sister; so Mrs. Margaret Fenn began
fumbling her over to find the identifying strawberry mark. At least that
is what Mrs. Herdicker, Prop., told Mrs. Nesbit as she sold Mrs. Nesbit
the large one with the brown plume.
Mrs. Herdicker, Prop., made it a rule never to gossip, as every one who
frequented her shop was told, but as between old friends she would say
to Mrs. Nesbit that if ever one woman glued herself to another, and
couldn't be boiled or frozen, or chopped loose, that woman was Maggie
Fenn sticking to Laura Van Dorn. And Mrs. Herdicker, Prop., closed her
mouth significantly, and Mrs. Nesbit pretended with a large obvious,
rather clumsy pretense, that she read no meaning in Mrs. Herdicker's
words. The handsome Miss Morton, with her shoe tops tiptoeing to her
skirts, who was in the shop and out of school for the rush season,
listened hard, but after that they whispered and the handsome Miss
Morton turned her attention to the youngest Miss Morton who was munching
bonbons and opening the door for all of Harvey and South Harvey and the
principalities around about to enter and pass out. After school came the
tired school teachers from the High School, her eldest sister, Emma
Morton, among them, with their books and reports pressed against their
sides. But Margaret Fenn did not see the school teachers, nor even the
fifth Mrs. Sands towed about by her star-eyed stepdaughter Anne, though
Margaret Fenn's eyes were busy. But she was watching the women; she was
looking for something as though to ward it off, always glancing ahead of
her to see where she was going, and who was in her path; always
measuring her woman, always listening under the shriek of the
clarionettes, always quick with a smile--looking for
something--something that she may have felt was upon its way, something
that she dreaded to see. But all the shoulders she hobnobbed with that
day were warm enough--indifferently warm, and that was all she asked. So
she smiled and radiated her fine, animal grace, her feline beauty, her
superfemininity, and was as happy as any woman could be who had arrived
at an important stage of her journey and could see a little way ahead
with some degree of clearness.
Let us look at her as she stands by the door waiting to overhaul Mrs.
Nesbit. A fine figure of a woman, Margaret Fenn makes there--in her late
twenties, with large regular features, big even teeth, clear brown
eyes--not bold at all, yet why do they seem so? Perhaps because she is
so sure and firm and unhesitating. Her skin is soft and fair as a
child's, bespeaking health and good red blood. The good red blood shows
in her lips--red as a wicked flower, red and full and as shameless as a
dream. Taller than Mrs. Nesbit she stands, and her clothes hang to her
in spite of the fullness of the fashion, in most suggestive lines. She
seems to shine out of her clothes a lustrous, shimmering figure, female
rather than feminine, and gorgeous rather than lovely. Margaret Fenn is
in full bloom; not a drooping petal, not a bending stamen, not a wilted
calyx or bruised leaf may be seen about her. She is a perfect flower
whose whole being--like that of a flower at its full--seems eager,
thrilling, burning with anticipation of the perfect fruit.
She puts out her hands--both of her large strong hands, so well-gloved
and well-kept, to Mrs. Nesbit. Surely Mrs. Fenn's smile is not a
make-believe smile; surely that is real pleasure in her voice; surely
that is real joy that lights up her eyes. And why should they not be
real? Is not Mrs. Nesbit the one person in all Harvey that Margaret Fenn
would delight to honor? Is not Mrs. Nesbit the dowager empress of
Harvey, and the social despot of the community? And is not Mrs. Nesbit
smiling at the eldest Miss Morton, she of the Longfellow school, who is
trying on a traveling hat, and explaining that she always wanted a
traveling hat and suit alike so that she could go to the Grand Canyon if
she could ever save up enough money, but she could never seem to afford
it? Moreover is not Mrs. Nesbit in a beneficent frame of mind?
"Well," smiles the eyes and murmurs the voice, and glows the face of the
young woman, and she puts out her hand. "Mrs. Nesbit--so glad I'm sure.
Isn't it lovely here? Mrs. Herdicker is so effective."
"Mrs. Fenn,--" this from the dowager, and the eyebrow that Mrs. Fenn
gave to Mrs. Hogan, and Mrs. Hogan gave to Mrs. Van Dorn and Mrs. Van
Dorn gave to Mrs. Brotherton and Mrs. Brotherton gave to Mrs. Calvin
who, George says, is an old cat, and Mrs. Calvin gave to Mrs. Nesbit for
remarks as to the biennial presence of Mr. Calvin in the barn (repeated
to Mrs. Calvin), the eyebrow having been around the company comes back
to Mrs. Fenn.
After which Mrs. Nesbit moves with what dignity her tonnage will permit
out of the perfumed air, out of the concord of sweet sounds into the
street. Mrs. Fenn, who was looking for it all the afternoon, that thing
she dreaded and anticipated with fear in her heart's heart, found it. It
was exceedingly cold--and also a shoulder of some proportions. And it
chilled the flowing sap of the perfect flower so that the flower
shivered in the breeze made by the closing door, though the youngest
Miss Morton presiding at the door thought it was warm, and Mrs.
Herdicker thought it was warm and Mrs. Violet Hogan said to Mrs. Bowman
as they went through the same door and met the same air: "My land,
Bowman, did you ever see such an oven?" and then as the door closed she
added:
"See old Mag Fenn there? I just heard something about her to-day. I bet
it's true."
Thus the afternoon faded and the women went home to cook their evening
meals, and left Mrs. Herdicker, Prop., with a few late comers--ladies of
no particular character who had no particular men folk to do for, and
who slipped in after the rush to pay four prices for what had been left.
Mrs. Herdicker, Prop., was straightening up the stock and snapping
prices to the girls who were waiting upon the belated customers. She
spent little of her talent upon the sisterhood of the old, old trade,
and contented herself with charging them all she could get, and making
them feel she was obliging them by selling to them at all. It was while
trade sagged in the twilight that Mrs. Jared Thurston, Lizzie Thurston
to be exact, wife of the editor of the South Harvey _Derrick_ came
in. Mrs. Herdicker, Prop., knew her of old. She was in to solicit
advertising, which meant that she was needing a hat and it was a swap
proposition. So Mrs. Herdicker told Mrs. Thurston to write up the
opening and put in a quarter page advertisement beside and send her the
bill, and Mrs. Thurston looked at a hat. No time was wasted on her
either--nor much talent; but as Mrs. Thurston was in a business way
herself, Mrs. Herdicker, Prop., stopped to talk to her a moment as to an
equal--a rare distinction. They sat on a sofa in the alcove that had
sheltered the orchestra behind palms and ferns and Easter lilies, and
chatted of many things--the mines, the new smelter, the new foreman's
wife at the smelter, the likelihood that the Company store in South
Harvey would put in a line of millinery--which Mrs. Herdicker, Prop.,
denied with emphasis, declaring she had an agreement with the old devil
not to put in millinery so long as she deposited at his bank. Mrs.
Herdicker, Prop., had taken the $500 which the Company had offered for
the life of poor Casper and had filed no lawsuit, fearing that a suit
with the Company would hurt her trade. But as a business proposition
both women were interested in the other damage suits pending against the
Company for the mine accident. "What do they say down there about it?"
asked the milliner.
"Well, of course," returned Mrs. Thurston, who was not sure of her
ground and had no desire to talk against the rich and powerful, "they
say that some one ought to pay something. But, of course, Joe Calvin
always wins his suits and the Judge, of course, was the Company's
attorney before he was the Judge--"
"And so the claim agents are signing 'em up for what the Company will
give," cut in the questioner.
"That's about it, Mrs. Herdicker," responded Mrs. Thurston. "Times are
hard, and they take what they can get now, rather than fight for it. And
the most the Company will pay is $400 for a life, and not all are
getting that."
"Tom Van Dorn--he's a smooth one, Lizzie--he's a smooth one." Mrs.
Herdicker, Prop., looked quickly at Mrs. Thurston and got a smile in
reply. That was enough. She continued:
"You'd think he'd know better--wouldn't you?"
"Well, I don't know--it's hard to teach an old dog new tricks," was the
non-committal answer of Mrs. Thurston, still cautious about offending
the powers.
Mrs. Herdicker, Prop., brushed aside formalities. "Yes--stenographers
and hired girls, and biscuit shooters at the Palace and maybe now and
then an excursion across the track; but this is different; this is in
his own class. They were both here this afternoon, and you should have
seen the way she cooed and billed over Laura Van Dorn. Honest, Lizzie,
if I'd never heard a word, I'd know something was wrong. And you should
have seen old lady Nesbit give her the come-uppins."
Mrs. Herdicker, Prop., dropped her voice to a confidential tone.
"Lizzie?" a pause; "They say you've seen 'em together."
The thought of the quarter page advertisement overcame whatever scruples
Mrs. Thurston may have had, and so long as she had the center of the
stage she said her lines: "Why I don't know a single thing--only this:
that for--maybe a month or so every few days along about five or six
o'clock when the roads are good I've seen him coming one way on his
wheel, and go down in the country on the Adams road, and about ten
minutes later from another way she'd come riding along on her wheel and
go down the Adams road into the country following him. Then in an hour
or so, they come back, sometimes one of them first--sometimes the other,
but I've really never seen them together. She might be going to the
Adamses; she boarded there once years ago."
"Yes,--and she hates 'em!" snapped Mrs. Herdicker derisively, and then
added, "Well, it's none of my business so long as they pay for their
hats."
"Well, my land, Mrs. Herdicker," quoth Lizzie, "it's a comfort to hear
some one talk sense. For two months now we've been hearing nothing but
that fool Adams boy's crazy talk about unions, and men organizing to
help their fellows, and--why did you know he's quit his job as boss
carpenter in the mine? And for why--so that he can be a witness against
the company some say; though there won't be any trial. Tom Van Dorn will
see to that. He's sent word to the men that they'd better settle as the
law is against them. But that Grant Adams quit his job any way and is
going about holding meetings every night, and working on construction
work above ground by day and talking union, union, union till Jared and
I are sick of it. I tell you the man's gone daft. But a lot of the men
are following him, I guess."
Being a methodical woman Mrs. Herdicker, Prop., wrote the copy for her
advertisement and let Mrs. Thurston go in peace. She went into the
gathering twilight, and hurried to do a few errands before returning to
South Harvey.
At the court house Mrs. Thursston met Henry Fenn coming out of the
register of deeds office where he had been filing a deed to some
property he had sold, and at Mr. Brotherton's Amen Corner, she saw Tom
Van Dorn smoking upon the bench. The street was filled with bicycles,
for that was a time when the bicycle was a highly respectable vehicle of
business and pleasure. Mrs. Thurston left Market Street and a dozen
wheels passed her. As she turned into her street to South Harvey a bell
tinkled. She looked around and saw Margaret Fenn making rapidly for the
highway. Mrs. Thurston was human; she waited! And in five minutes Tom
Van Dorn came by and went in the same direction!
An hour later Margaret Fenn came pedaling into the town from the country
road, all smiling and breathless and red lipped, and full of color. As
she turned into her own street she met her husband, immaculately
dressed. He bowed with great punctiliousness and lifting his hat high
from his head smiled a search-light of a smile that frightened his wife.
But he spoke no word to her. Five minutes later, as Tom Van Dorn wheeled
out of Market Street, he also saw Henry Fenn, standing in the middle of
the crossing leering at him and laughing a drunken, foolish, noisy
laugh. Van Dorn called back but Fenn did not reply, and the Judge saw
nothing in the figure but his drunken friend standing in the middle of
the street laughing.