The fifteenth of December Mary Faithful left the office of the
O'Valley Leather Company, carrying the thing off as successfully as
Beatrice O'Valley carried off her wildest flirtation. As Mary had
often said: "When you can fool the letter man and the charwoman you
have nothing to fear from the secret service."
And no employee of the office suspected that anything lay beneath
the surface reasons given for changing firms. She accepted the
handsome farewell gift with as much apparent pleasure as if she
were to be married and it were a start toward her silver chest. Mary,
too, had learned how to pretend. Nor did she permit Steve to come
snarling--masculine fashion of sobbing--at her in vain protests
trying to shake her from her resolve.
During the last days of rushed work to help her successor find the way
comparatively easy Mary kept Steve at arm's length. The same strange
joy at having told him her secret and released the tension was being
relived again in knowing that she was to leave the tangle with the
Gorgeous Girl in command of it, and go live her commercial nun's
existence in the offices of unromantic old graybeards who merely
thought of her as a mighty clever woman who would not demand an
assistant.
Mary felt that she had truly passed her commercial novitiate; she made
herself admit that a commercial life was hers for all time. She would
leave a forbidden world of romance, watching Luke become a six-footer
and an embryo inventor as her special pride and pleasure. It was good
to have it settled, to have it a scar, pale and calm, throbbing only
under extreme pressure. She even welcomed Beatrice's hurried visit to
the office and met with gentle patience her half-veiled reproaches for
leaving her husband's employ.
"I can't see why you go," Beatrice protested, undecided whether it was
because Steve and Mary had come to some understanding, as Trudy
hinted, and it would be wiser for Mary to be removed from the everyday
scene of action; or whether Mary had never thought of Steve except as
a man who would not pay her such and such a salary and therefore,
being tailor-made of heart as well as dress, she coolly picked up her
pad and pencil and was walking off the lot. With the complacent
conceit of all Gorgeous Girls who fancy that clothes can always
conquer, Beatrice really inclined toward the latter theory. But being
a woman she could not resist having a few pangs of unrest and trying
out her fancied detective ability upon Mary.
She brought her a farewell gift also--a veil case which had been given
to Beatrice two summers ago. A fresh ribbon had made it quite all
right, so she acted the Lady Bountiful as she presented her offering
and listened carefully to Mary's sensible reply.
"I can't go running off to Bermuda and Florida like you people can. I
am forced to find my recreation in my work--and hides and razors are a
queer combination for a woman who really likes gardens and sea
bathing." She laughed so genuinely that Beatrice told herself that
Trudy was an unpardonable little fool. "I have stayed at the post for
some time, and now that I've the chance to change my recreation to
fabrics--I'm tempted to try it. I'm sure you do understand--and it is
with great regret that I leave the office."
"It will make it hard for Mr. O'Valley," Beatrice continued, blandly.
"Of course I have realized what an unusual man my husband is--his
phenomenal rise and all that; and papa has always said he never met
any one who was so keen as Steve. I have always tried to be diplomatic
in whatever I said to Mr. O'Valley about his business; I never
encourage his discussing it at home since it is not fair to ask him to
drag it into his playtime. So I can't talk over actual details with
you. But I know it will be hard for him and he will have quite a time
getting readjusted. He says this Miss Coulson is a nice girl but
temperamentally a Jersey cow."
Beatrice smiled at this; she had viewed Miss Coulson immediately upon
the news concerning Mary's resignation, and had felt more than
satisfied. Even Beatrice realized that Miss Coulson was a nice
pink-and-white thing who undoubtedly had a cedar chest half filled
with hope treasures and would at the first opportunity exchange her
desk for a kitchen cabinet and be happy ever after.
When Beatrice tried discussing the matter with Steve he responded so
listlessly and seemed so apathetic about either Miss Coulson or Mary
that Beatrice became vastly interested in fall projects of her own,
telling Aunt Belle that her theory was correct: It was easier to be
disappointed in one's husband than in one's friends, and that Steve
was the sort who was never going to be concerned about his wife's
disappointment; in fact, he would never realize it had occurred.
The night Mary left the office for good and all, leaving clean and
empty desk room for Miss Coulson and the little tea appointments as a
token of good will, Luke met her at the corner and they walked home
together.
"Are you sorry?" Luke asked, curiously. He had been too busy in
technical high school to be office boy for some time past.
"No; only you grow accustomed to things. You remember how mother felt
about the old house." Somehow the thing was harder to discuss with
Luke as a questioner than with any one else.
"I guess they'll miss you a lot."
"Everyone's place can be filled, we must never forget that. And I
think the change is wise. The new firm seems agreeable."
"Did Mr. O'Valley give you anything?"
Mary flushed. It had been Luke who received the armful of flowers sent
anonymously.
"The firm gave me the wonderful desk set; you saw it before it was
sent to be monogrammed."
"Yes, but I mean Mr. O'Valley himself." Luke was quite manly and
threatening as he strode along. "Something for a keepsake because
you've worked so hard for him."
They paused at a corner to wait for the traffic to abate. Mary felt
faint and queer, as if she had lost her good right hand and was trying
to tell herself it wasn't such a bad thing after all because she would
only have to buy one glove from now on. Never to go into Steve's
office, never to talk with him, listen to him, advise and influence
him! She wanted to forget the sudden burst of affection, the protests
of love, for she could not believe them true. What she wanted was to
return to the old days of guarded control.
Beatrice's cab whirled by just then and Mary caught a glimpse of the
Gorgeous Girl in a gray cloak with a wonderful jewelled collar, and
Steve beside her. As the cab passed and Mary and Luke struck out
across the street Mary experienced a sense of defeat. As she talked to
Luke of this and that to turn his mind from the too-fascinating
question of who sent the flowers, she began to wonder if she, too,
would not wish to be a Gorgeous Girl should the opportunity present
itself? What would her brave platitudes count if she could wear bright
gold tulle with slim shoulder straps of jet supporting it? Away with
sport attire and untrimmed hats! To have absurdly frivolous little
shoes of blue brocade; to wear the brown hair in puffs and curls and
adorned with jade and pearls; to have a lace scarf thrown over her
shoulders and a greatcoat of white fur covering the tulle frock; to go
riding, riding, riding, at dusk through the crowded streets filled
with envying shop-girls and clerks, hard-working men and women. To
ride in an elegant little car with fresh flowers in a gold-banded
vase, a tiny clock saying it was nearly half after six, outside a gray
fog and a rain creeping up to make the crowds jostle wearily that they
might reach shelter before the storm broke. To have Steve, handsome
and adoring, beside her, laughing at her indulgently, excusing her
frivolous little self, adoring the fragile, foolish soul of her. At
least it would be worth while trying.
"I can get a construction set for six dollars," Luke was saying. "That
will make the bridge models I told you about last week. I'm going to
get one."
"Yes, dear, I would," she punctuated the conversation recklessly, and
then another crowd swept about them and more elegant little cabs with
more Gorgeous Girls and their cavaliers whirled by. Mary hated her
stupid sophistry about commercial nuns, novitiates and all, her plain
gray-eyed spinster self doomed to a Persian cat and a bonus at sixty.
Empty, colourless--damnable!
She realized that she had merely given herself an anaesthetic, just as
Steve had done, one of unreality and indifference, and that no one
stays dormant under its power for all time. That all so-called
commercial nuns try hard to convince themselves that watching the
procession pass by is quite the best way of all. Yet there is scant
truth or satisfaction in the statement. At some time or other the
hunger for being loved crashes through the spinster's brave little
platform, the hunger for becoming necessary to someone in other ways
than writing letters or adding figures--to be home, beside the hearth,
keeping the fires burning, with woes and cares and monotonous
incidents of such a narrowed horizon. It was for this we were created,
Mary Faithful told herself--to be the dreamers and the ballast and the
inspiration of the race. And if commercial nuns have managed to tell
themselves otherwise--well, who shall be brutal enough to cry "I spy"
on their little secret? She understood now the abnormal restlessness
that she had seen in others of her friends--the marriages with men
beneath them in class who earned but half what they did; unwise
flirtations, even the sordid things that occasionally creep into the
horizon. And she blamed none of them for any of it.
She knew now that should the chance come she would want to be a
Gorgeous Girl. Gorgeous Girls have the faculty of being loved, even if
they do not merit the emotion. Tailor-made nuns only love, and finally
set their consciences to work to convince themselves that a new firm
and more severe collars will be the best way to forget.
Luke was still talking about the construction set and the new
invention and patent rights and heavy wool sweater with a bean cap for
the summer vacation. Mary was saying: "Yes, of course," and "How
interesting!" at intervals; and so they reached home, where Mary could
plead a headache and go to her room to battle it out alone.
She felt, too, that the town crier could truthfully announce that
milady was returning to tea gowns for an indefinite period. And she
felt a passionate hunger to be one of them. That women were going to
rejoice, the majority of them, to take off their lady-major uniforms,
stop driving tractors and wearing overalls, and with the precious
knowledge of the experience they would evolve quite a new-old
standard, as charming as lavender and lace and as old as Time--the
gentlewoman! They would no longer accentuate their ugliness with that
unlovely honesty of the feminist which has been quite as distressing
as the impossible Victorian lack of honesty and everlasting
concealment of vital things. They would no longer be feminists or
ladies, but gentlewomen who sew their own seam, who neither struggle
unseen nor flaunt their emotions in the face of sex psychologists.
And that both commercial nuns and Gorgeous Girls must be on the wane.
Yet it was too late for Mary Faithful.
* * * * *
For many reasons Steve stayed away from Mary. At intervals he sent her
flowers without a card, such a schoolboyish trick to do and yet so
harmless that Mary sent him no word of thanks or blame. She merely
dreamed her gentlewoman's dreams and did her work in the new office
with the same systematic ability as she had employed for Steve's
benefit, causing the new firm to beam with delight. She had an even
more imposing office than formerly, spread generously with fur rugs,
traps for the weak ankles of innocent callers. She was treated with
great respect. One time Steve came to see about some civic banquet in
which the head of Mary's new firm was concerned, and Mary made herself
close her door and begin dictating so as to appear to be occupied. The
next day he slipped a love letter into the bouquet of old-fashioned
flowers he selected for her benefit, and Mary forced herself to write
a card and forbid his continuing the attentions.
In March Gaylord Vondeplosshe telephoned Mary, about nine o'clock one
evening, that Trudy was quite ill and wanted to see her. Would Mary
mind coming over if he called in the roadster? There was a fearsome
tone in his voice which made Mary consent despite Luke's protests.
Gay was even more pale and weaker eyed than ever when he came into the
apartment, his motor coat seeming to hang on his knock-kneed,
narrow-chested self.
It seemed Trudy had not been really well for some time. She was such
an ambitious little girl, he explained, excusing himself in the matter
at the outset. He had begged her to rest, to go away, even commanding
it, but she was so ambitious, and there was so much work on hand that
she stayed. It all began with a cold. Those low-cut waists and pumps
in zero weather. She would not take care of herself and she dragged
round, and refused medicine, and he, Gay, had done everything possible
under the circumstances; he wanted Mary to be quite clear as to this
point.
They finally reached the apartment house, where Gay clambered out and
offered Mary his left little finger as a means of support on the icy
walk. When she came into the front bedroom of the apartment--a shabby
room when one looked at it closely--and looked at Trudy she saw death
written in the thin white face bereft of rouge, the red curls lying in
limp confusion on the silly little head.
"Oh, Mary," Trudy began, coughing and trying to sit up, "I thought
you'd never come. Why, I'm not so sick----Gay, go outside and wait for
the doctor and the nurse. Just think, I'm going to afford a nurse. Oh,
the pain in the chest is something fierce." She had lapsed into her
old-time vernacular. "Every bone of me aches and my heart thumps as if
it was awful mad at me. I guess it ought to be, Mary. How good it is
to have you. Take off your things. Gee, that pain is some pain! Um--I
wonder if the doctor can help."
"Do you want me to stay all night?"
Mary was doing some trifle to make her more comfortable. Trudy seemed
too weak to answer but she smiled like a delighted child. She pointed
a finger, the one wearing the diamond ring, to a chair beside the
bed. Mary drew it up closer and sat down.
"Now, my dear, you must put on a warm dressing gown and something to
pad your chest--this nightgown is a farce," she said, sternly, rising.
"Where shall I find something? Oh, Trudy--don't!"
Trudy had halfway lifted herself in bed with sudden pain, moaning and
laughing in terrible fashion. Mary caught her in her arms. Trudy lay
back, quite contented.
"My, but I've been a bluff," she said, tears on the white, shiny
cheeks. "Gee, but that doctor takes his time, too. I had to beg
something great before husband would go for you. He's awful mean, but
I always told you he was, and he would have a fine time if I should
die, wouldn't he?" More terrible little laughs as Trudy still nestled
in the warm curve of Mary's arm.
"You mustn't talk," Mary said. "That's an order."
Gay tiptoed in to say that the doctor had returned but no nurse was
available. They might get one in a few days.
"I'll stay," Mary offered.
Trudy smiled again. "Rather--have--Mary," she managed to gasp.
The doctor was a preoccupied man who did not fancy late calls on
foolish little creatures wearing silk nightgowns when they were
nearing death. He gave some drastic orders and Gay was dispatched with
a list of articles to be bought while Mary hunted high and low in the
disorderly apartment, finally wrapping Trudy in thick draperies, the
only sensible things she could discover.
Trudy lay very still for a few minutes. Mary thought she was dozing
until she said in an animated voice: "Did you see the ring? It's a
wonderful stone." Wilfully she thrust her skeleton-like fingers out
from the bed covers.
Mary nodded. But Trudy was not to be discouraged.
"Gee, but that ring made a lot of trouble. Mary, come here, deary.
Will you forgive me? They say you forgive the dead anything. Listen, I
was awfully discouraged and Gay was so mean and I was all wrong,
anyway--you know--foolish--see? Beatrice was mean, too.... I want you
to marry Steve because he loves you, and a divorce won't break her
heart--you just see if it does. I always knew he was the one you
liked--and he does care now. Sure, he does. You can tell. Even I can
tell, Mary.... I just told her so--and my, she is wild but won't admit
it. She never asked me to her house after that if she could get out of
it. And now I'm sorry--and I want you to have the ring. That will help
some, won't it? You tell Gay what I said. You must have it. Your
fingers are thin and long and can carry it off well. And so you do
forgive me, don't you? I shouldn't have told her, but I couldn't help
it, she was so mean. And now he cares--and you can be happy----"
"You told Mrs. O'Valley?"
Trudy was panting. Perspiration stood on the white forehead as she
managed to finish: "I said you always loved her husband and now he
loves you--and I am sorry. But I was mad at them all; you can't
understand because you're not my sort.... But you can be happy now.
Marry him and make him happy."
She dozed into a contented sleep. A little later it was all over.