Not an hour later Mrs. Stephen O'Valley's card was taken in to Mary
Faithful as she sat trying to work in the new office--it never ceased
to be new to her. She had heard the swift rumours of Steve's failure.
Understanding that the visitor's card had a deeper significance than
the messenger who delivered it realized, Mary closed the outer doors
of her office and waited for her guest.
It was a very Gorgeous Girl who swept serenely into the room and lost
no time in introducing the nature of her errand.
"I don't know how well informed you are in business reports," she
began in her high-pitched voice, "but perhaps you have heard----"
"The report of the new leather trust--without including your husband's
factory? Yes--but it was bound to come. I always told him so."
Beatrice lost sight of the business introduction she had so carefully
planned while dressing and then driving downtown.
"You have told my husband a great many things, haven't you?" she
insisted. "Don't seem to be surprised. I am quite well informed."
She was scrutinizing Mary as she talked. Within her mind was the
undeniable thought that there was something about this thin, tall
woman with gray eyes which was real and comforting. She even wished
that Steve had fallen in love with someone else, and that she,
Beatrice, might have come to Mary for comfort and advice. If any one
could have set her right with herself it would be just such a
good-looking thing, as Trudy used to say, a commercial nun who had
kept her ideals and was not bereft of ideas. Faith and intellect had
been properly introduced in Mary's mind.
Mary blushed. "I have always wished to speak to you about something
Mrs. Vondeplosshe told you shortly before her death. Won't you sit
down? I am sure we have much to say to each other."
Beatrice found herself obeying like a docile child. As she took a
chair facing Mary's desk she realized that in just such a kind,
practical fashion would Mary proceed to manage Steve, that the years
of experience in the business world as an independent woman would give
Mary quite a new-fashioned charm in his eyes. Whether she was dealing
with gigantic business interests in deft fashion or showing tenderness
for the little girl who puts away her dolls for the last time, Mary
possessed a flexibility of comprehension and power. One could not be
cheap in dealings with her. And as the eternal sex barrier was not
present in Beatrice's behalf she realized that her jargon so
impulsively planned would never be said. Nor could she dismiss Mary
patronizingly and say the halfway melodramatic things she had said to
Steve. It occurred to her as Mary began to talk that Mary had been
brave enough to love, not merely be loved, the truth of this causing
her to wince within.
"In a malicious moment Trudy told you of my--my affection for your
husband. It is true, if that is what you have come to ask me about. I
told myself months ago that if you did come to ask me this thing I
should answer you truthfully, and we must remain at least polite
acquaintances over a hard situation. I think I have played fairly."
Mary's face had a tired look that bore proof to the statement. "I even
left his employ. As I once told you from an impersonal statement, I
have a theory that many business women of to-day are in love with
someone in their office. Propinquity perhaps and the shut-in existence
that they lead account for much of it. Yet no woman is a true woman
who forgets her employer is a married or engaged man.
"You and I know, however, that love does not stop to ask if this is
the case, and I sometimes feel--impersonally, remember--that the
business women earn the love of their employers and associates more
than said employers' and associates' wives. Does it sound strange?
Of course you need not agree--I hardly expect it. Yet the fact remains
that we watch and save that you Gorgeous Girls may spend and play.
In time the man, tense and non-understanding of it all, discovers
that his trust and confidence may be placed in the business woman
while romantic love is not enduring in his home. Not always, of
course; but many times in these days of overnight prosperity and
endless good times. So I have neither shame nor remorse--I have as
much right to love your husband as you have--and because of that I
shall be as fair to you as I would ask any woman to be toward me
in similar circumstances."
"I think I understand," the Gorgeous Girl said, swiftly. "I see
something of the light." She laughed nervously. It was easier to laugh
than to cry, and one or the other was necessary at this moment. "I
wanted to tell you that my husband is going away to take a rather
mediocre position. I shall divorce him."
"He's won out," Mary said, in spite of herself.
"Has he? So you have been the urge behind him and his poverty talk?"
"I'd like to claim the credit," Mary retorted.
"Really?"
Beatrice found herself in another mental box, undecided how to cope
with the situation. She had fancied she could make Mary cry and beg
for silence, be afraid and unpoised. Instead she felt as ornate as a
circus rider in her costume, and as stupid regarding the truth as the
snapping Pom under her arm. Her head began to ache. She wondered why
all these people delighted in accepting sacrifice and seeking
self-denial--and she thought of Gay again and of what a consolation he
was. And through it all ran a curious mental pain which informed her
that she had not the power to hurt or to please either of these
persons, and she was being politely labelled and put in her own groove
by Mary Faithful. This stung her on to action, just as any poorly
prepared enemy loses his head when he sees the tide is turning.
In desperation she said, coldly: "After all, I shall play square with
you because you have played square with him. I'll give you the best
advice a retiring wife can give her advancing rival. Don't copy me--no
matter how Steve may prosper in years to come, do you understand? Oh,
I'm not so terrible or abnormal as you people think. I'd have done
quite well if my father had never earned more than three thousand a
year and I had had to put my shoulder to the wheel. But don't ever
start to be a Gorgeous Girl--stay thrifty and be not too discerning of
handmade lace or lap dogs. You know, there's no need to enumerate.
Stay the woman who won my husband away from me--and you'll keep him.
What is more, I think you will make him a success--in time for your
golden-wedding anniversary! There, that's as fair as I can be."
"Quite," Mary said, softly.
"Once you admit to him there is a craving in your sensible heart to be
as useless as I am--then someone else will come along to play Mary
Faithful to your Gorgeous Girl." There was a catch in the light, gay
voice. "I don't want him," she added, vigorously. "Heavens, no, we
never could patch it up! I shall always think of this last twelve
months as _l'annee terrible!_ My Tawny Adonis was a far more soothing
companion than Steve. Nor do I envy you and your future. I don't
really want Steve--and you deserve him. Besides, we women never feel
so secure as novelists like to paint us as being in their last
chapters! So I'm giving you the best hint concerning our mutual cave
man that a defeated Gorgeous Girl ever gave a Mary Faithful. As far as
I am concerned the thing is painless. I shall have a ripping time out
West, and some day perhaps marry someone nice and mild, someone who
will stand for my moods and not spend too much of my money in ways I
don't know about--a society coward out of a job! The thing that does
hurt," she finished, suddenly, "is the fact that I'd honestly like to
feel broken-hearted--but I don't know how. I've been brought up in
such a gorgeous fashion that it would take a jewel robbery or an
unbecoming hat to wring my soul."
"Thanks," Mary said, lightly. "I may as well tell you I've determined
never to marry Steve, for all your good advice."
"Why?" All the tenseness of her nature rushed to the occasion. This
was decidedly interesting, since it resembled her own whims. She felt
almost friendly toward the other woman.
"Because," Mary answered, handing the psychologists another problem
for a rainy afternoon.
Beatrice nodded, satisfied at the answer and the eternal damnable
woman's notion inspiring it, for it was just what she would have
replied in like circumstances. She felt there was nothing more to be
said about the matter and that Gorgeous Girls and commercial nuns had
much in common. As usual, Steve was appointed the official blackguard
of the inevitable triangle!
Going home that night Mary felt that truly the "day was a bitter
almond." It even began to be dramatically muggy and threatening, in
keeping with her state of mind--the sort of forced weather that issues
offstage in roars of thunder the moment the villain begins his
plotting. She took a street car, having meant to walk and give herself
time to pull together and adopt the fat smile of a professional
optimist.
A tired-faced woman, heavily rouged, was talking to another
tired-faced woman, also rouged. Mary listened because it was a relief
to listen to someone else besides herself, to realize there were other
persons in this world occupied with other problems besides a
commercial nun with a heartache, a tired cave man about to start
again, and a Gorgeous Girl defeated in no uncertain terms. The whole
thing was beyond Mary's comprehension just now; as much as the
graybeards' lack of understanding when they try to Freud the
schoolboy's mind.
"That's me, too, Mame, all over--and when she tried telling me she was
a natural blonde, never using lemon juice in even the last rinse
water--well, when you've been handing out doll dope and baby bluster
over the counter of a beauty department as long as I have you know
there ain't no such animal! Good-bye, Mame. I hope you get home
safe."
"There ain't no such animal," Mary found herself repeating. "No, there
sure ain't!"
There were no real commercial nuns; it was a premeditated affair
entirely, merely a comfortable phrase borrowed by the lonesome ones
unwilling to be called old maids; a big, brave bluff that women have
adopted during these times of commercial necessity and economic
stress. Commercial nuns! As foolish as the tales told children of the
wunks living in the coalbins--as if there ever could be such
creatures! The reason Mary would not marry Steve was because she,
Mary, did not want to disappoint him even as the Gorgeous Girl had
done. She did not want to be all helpmate, practical comrade; she had
fed herself with this delusion during the years of loneliness. She had
adopted the veneer, convinced herself that it was true, but she knew
now that it was false. It had taken a Gorgeous Girl to scratch beneath
the veneer in true feminine fashion. Mary did wish to be dependent,
helpless--to have Gorgeous Girl propensities. The cheap phrases of the
shopwomen kept interrupting her attempts to think of practical detail.
"There ain't no such animal."
She found Luke wild-eyed and excited, brandishing an evening paper.
"Look what's happened--the O'Valley Leather Company has gone
under! Won't Constantine help him out? I always said you were the
mascot----"
"I'd rather not talk about it."
"Why? I always tell you everything."
Mary smiled. Luke was so boyish and square. She felt that particularly
toward Luke must she keep up the delusion of being a commercial nun,
content with her part in things.
"It's such a horrid day. I rode on a car that was as crowded as a
cattle shipment. My head aches. The stenographer has left to be
married."
"You mean you are not interested about Steve O'Valley?" Luke was not
to be trifled with regarding the affair.
Mary sank down into the nearest chair. "Of course I am. But what right
have I to be?" she asked, almost bitterly. "It never pays to be too
keenly interested."
Luke laid the paper aside. "Mary," he began, his voice very basso
profondo, "do you like this man?"
Mary gave a little cry. "Stop--all of you--all of you!" Then she began
sobbing quite as helplessly as the Gorgeous Girl could have done.
Luke stood before her in helpless posture. He might have coped with
her temper but his reliable tailor-made sister in tears?--Never. As
she cried he experienced a new sympathy, a delightful sense of
protectorship. He decided that his wife should cry occasionally--it
became women.
"See here," he began, shyly, "you mustn't cry about him; it won't do
any good. If he has failed it isn't your fault. And if you do like
him--well, you like him. He likes you," he finished with emphasis. "I
know it. I've known it all along."
"Oh, Luke!" Mary said, helplessly. "Luke!"
He put his arm round her, clumsily. "There--now I wouldn't--please
don't, it makes me feel awful bad--there's no sense worrying about
it--you have a lot of good things ahead of you. There, that's the
girl."
At that moment Luke grew up and became far more manly and self-sufficient
than all Mary's practical naggings and deeply laid plans could have
achieved. He felt he must protect his sister; hitherto it had been his
sister who had protected him. And he watched with pride the way she
smiled up through her tears in rainbow fashion and patted his cheek,
calling him a dear. She was a new kind of Mary. Both of them felt the
better for the happening.
But when Steve came unceremoniously to Mary's apartment that same
evening, and Luke, very amusing and pathetic in his dignity, met him,
innocent of the tornado of emotion sweeping about his nice boyish
self--Mary almost wished the happening had not taken place. For a
moment she feared that Luke would try to take command of the
situation. There was something maternal in Mary's wishing Luke to be
ignorant of the hard things until the ripe time should come. And Luke,
quite willing to be released, since it was a trifle beyond his powers
of comprehension, retired to read a magazine and resolve to be ready
for action at the first sound of a sister's sob!
"I had to come," Steve said, simply. "I've been like the man who never
took time to walk because he had always been so busy running. I want
to walk but I don't know how."
Mary shook her head, really shaking it at herself. "Go away, Steve."
"I shall, after a little. But I had to come now. Her aunt said she saw
you and made quite a time of it. I'm sorry."
"I'm not. We are good friends, in a sense; far better than we have
ever been before. We found we were in accord--after all."
He looked at her in the same helpless fashion Luke had adopted.
"She will divorce you and marry someone else and continue to be a
Gorgeous Girl," Mary finished, quietly. "No terrible fate will
overtake her, nothing occur to rouse or develop her abilities. She
will remain young and apparently childish until she suddenly
reaches the stately dowager age overnight. Gorgeous Girls are like
gypsies--they should either be very young and lissom or old,
crinkled, and vested with powers of fortune-telling--the middle
stage is impossible. I realized this morning that I've been fooling
myself, all the heart in me trying to be 100 per cent efficient,
when I really want to be a Gorgeous Girl--fluffy, helpless--a
blooming little idiot. And I'm glad you have come so I can tell you."
"You don't mean that," he corrected.
"Being incurably honest I am bound to tell tales on myself. Yes, I do
mean it. I'd probably be rushing round for freckle lotion and patent
nose pins, to give me a Greek-boy effect. I'd take to swathing myself
in chiffons and have my hair a different tint each season. I think
every business woman would do the same, too--if she had the chance. We
have to fool ourselves to keep on going down the broad highway; or
else we would be sanitarium devotees, neurasthenic muddles. So we
strike our brave pose and call ourselves superwomen, advanced
feminists, and all the rest of the feeble rubbish until the right man
comes along. Sometimes he never comes--so we keep right ahead, growing
dry as dust at heart and even fooling ourselves. I did. But it took
your wife to show me my smug conceit, my fancy that I was a bulwark of
commerce, so proper, so perfect! She showed me that I was just plain
woman making the best of having been born into the twentieth century!
There is a Gorgeous Girl in all of us, Steve. So I can't advise or
comfort or do any of the things I used to--a bag of tricks we women in
business have adopted to make the heart loneliness the less. Go away
and make good! That is just what she told you--isn't it? You will
never believe in any of us again. And I don't know that you should,
after all. For cave men need Gorgeous Girls."
Steve was laughing down at her. "True--but they need the right
Gorgeous Girl. I'm glad you have finally told the truth; I always
suspected it. You have over-emphasized it somewhat--and the woman I
married was unfairly over-emphasized as well. But in the main, what
you have said is the truth. I assure you I am twice as glad to have an
incentive instead of a lady directress. And I want you to be
helpless--if you can; and fluffy--if you will! Don't you see that you
are the right Gorgeous Girl--and she was the wrong one--and I'm the
culprit? Why, Mary, the worst thing you could do would be to descend
upon me in curl papers under a pink net cap. Even that prospect does
not frighten me!"
"Are you going away?" she asked, shyly.
"Not far--nothing spectacular or romantic. I'm done with that.
Beatrice goes West, I believe. She is quite happy. She is going to New
York first to get her divorce wardrobe. It is her father I pity--he
has to face another son-in-law," Steve laughed. "I am merely going to
work for an old and reliable firm--use my nest egg for a house. A
brown-shingled house, I think, with plain yard and a few ambitious
shrubs blooming along the walks. I don't know what they will be; I
leave that to you!"
Luke wondered why he was not called upon for action, but he wondered
still more as Mary came presently to ask that he tell Steve
good-night. Her gray eyes were like captured sunrise.
"Luke, dear," she said in as feminine a manner as Beatrice might have
done, "don't worry about me any more. I'm a queer old sister--but it's
all coming out all right," kissing him before Steve, to his utter
confusion.