Friday she was a few minutes late. She had appointed the corner of Elm
and East streets as the meeting place. From a distance she saw Embury’s
car waiting at the curb near the corner. He sprang out when he saw her.
“This is jolly,” he said.
She looked charming and she knew it. She had on a thin little dress of
white, flecked with little rosebuds. It was plain and not new, but very
fresh. A floppy leghorn hat was tied under her chin with a pale pink
and yellow ribbon. She had trimmed the hat, herself, after a picture
she had seen in a copy of Vogue that some one had left in the Busy Bee.
She knew it suited her. The night before she had had a quarrel with her
father because she had not “turned in” enough money. She had purchased
a tiny bottle of her favourite perfume, rather an expensive brand.
It was a perfect day, not too warm nor too sunny. Mamie did not snuggle
close, as she felt Sophie would have done. She did not talk too much.
But she took off her hat and let the wind blow her hair back—she had
washed it the night before and it blew in soft waves. She sat near
enough for Embury to smell the perfume of it.
They drove to a small near-by town where Embury attended to some
business his father had asked him to look after the week before. At
noon he suggested eating in the town’s one hotel. Mamie shuddered
prettily, then had an idea.
“Can’t we have a picnic—a real out-of-doors picnic?” she begged. “I’m
shut away from the sunshine so much of the time.”
Embury thought the idea delightful. With much laughter, they bought
things at the little stores, bread and pickles and olives, tinned meats
and cakes and a piece of ice in a bucket and lemons and sugar for
lemonade. They rode, then, until a bit of woods attracted them. They
soon had the improvised luncheon spread out under a tree.
Embury was surprised at his enjoyment. He watched Mamie’s little white
hands arranging the things to eat. He tramped to a near-by farm for
water and returned with an extra pail containing fresh, cool milk. It
all seemed decidedly pure and rural to him. The food tasted remarkably
good and, when they had finished, he leaned against a tree and smoked,
smiled as he looked at Mamie, still cool in the sprigged lawn.
“Having a good time?” he asked.
“Wonderful,” she told him, “this is the best time I’ve ever had, I
think. It’s different. You’re not like the other men I’ve known. I
can—talk with you, tell you things. This seems sort of—of a magic day.”
Embury thought so, too. He told her so. He told her other things, about
his business, his thoughts, what he was going to do. Finally, he was
telling her about his two years in Oklahoma.
“That was prison,” he said. “It was smoky and oily—you could feel the
oil, taste it in your food. It hung over you, all day, like a cloud.
Still, it was worth going through—for this.”
“You are—nice,” said Mamie, very softly.
“Let’s keep this day for a secret,” she said. “Just the two of us will
know about it. Let’s keep all of our times together as secrets—if we
ever see each other again.”
Embury agreed that secrets were very nice things to have.
They were silent for a while.
Finally, he got up, walked over to her. Mamie got to her feet, too. He
came close and put his hand on her shoulder, started to put his arms
around her.
“You’re a dear little girl,” he said.
Mamie lifted big eyes to him.
“Please don’t,” she moved away, ever so slightly. “Please let me keep
to-day perfect—as a memory. We—may never see each other again. I want
to remember to-day as it is now. I—”
She broke off, embarrassed. Embury felt suddenly bad, ashamed. How
innocent she was! If he were going to be a man of the world, he’d have
to think of another way. He couldn’t break the silken wings of her
innocence by spoiling her day—her perfect day—she worked so hard and
was so good. It had been a pleasant day for him, too. Later—he could
see her other times, of course.
“I wanted to make the day more beautiful,” he said, but he did not try
to touch her again.
They rode home almost in silence. When she told him good-bye, in Elm
Street, she let her hand lie in his a moment. How small it seemed. Why,
actually, it trembled.
“When am I going to see you again?” he asked.
“I don’t know,” said Mamie. Then, “I walk up Elm Street every day, you
know. I—I had a wonderful time.” She smiled a bit sadly, and was gone.
That night there was a party at the Country Club and Embury took Sophie
Redding.
For the first time since he knew her he noticed how fat her hands were,
a trifle red, too—and how she took possession of him, as if they were
already married—and he’d never proposed to her. She giggled too much.
It made him nervous. He knew a dainty, pretty girl, a simple little
girl, who didn’t go to Country Club dances nor roll her eyes nor put
her hands on fellows’ shoulders. Of course, Sophie was the sort of girl
that a fellow married—position and all that—his mother kept hinting
things—what a fine family the Reddings were, what a nice wife Sophie
would make....
Still, he was young yet. Too young to settle down. He’d have his fling
first, anyhow.
For five days Embury walked home on Elm Street. He did not see Mamie.
On the sixth day he went into the Busy Bee. There she was, the blonde
hair more golden and beautiful than ever. She smiled a quick greeting
at him. He had been afraid to go in, ashamed almost. What if it would
embarrass her—what if she didn’t want to see him? Of course, he wasn’t
going in to see her—he really had a purchase to make, still....
Should he let her wait on him or get some one else? He saw her speak to
another girl. Then she walked back of the counter to meet him.
“Hello,” she said, very low, but gaily.
“How have you been?” he asked. “I haven’t seen you for days.”
She laughed.
“It’s good of you to bother. My mother has been ill again. I wasn’t
down at all yesterday. You wanted to buy some candy? May—I wait on you?”
She was so modest, didn’t think he had come in especially to see her.
He bought a box of chocolates and took it away under his arm.
That evening he met her in Elm Street.
“The candy is for you,” he told her.
She accepted it, with as seeming a gratitude as if she didn’t get all
the candy she could eat all day long.
“You bought my favourite chocolates,” she told him. “I wondered—”
She broke off, blushing.
“Whom they were for?”
“I—I mean I didn’t think they were for me. You know how girls in—in
stores gossip. I heard—some one said that you were attentive to—I mean
that you liked—some one here in Millersville.”
“I do,” said Embury boldly, and caught her eye.
She blushed again, prettily.
“It was Miss Redding they meant,” she said.
So—people were saying things about him and Sophie Redding. Embury
didn’t like it. He was too young to get married. He felt that. That’s
the trouble with a small town, no sooner you start going with a girl
than the town has you engaged and married. Mrs. Redding, too—she was
being too nice to him—too affectionate.
“Miss Redding is an awfully nice girl,” he told her. “We’ve been to a
few parties together, but that’s all. You know how Millersville is.”
“I know. I went to High School with the Redding girls. They’re just
a few years older than I am. I’m sorry I said anything. I guess I
just listened to gossip. You know how you hear things. Just to show
how wrong people can be—why, what I heard was that—that Miss Redding
herself had said that you were—were going together. Millersville is
awfully gossipy, isn’t it?”
So, Sophie had been talking about his going with her. But it was just
the thing she would do. A few weeks ago he had felt that if he could
win Sophie it would be a very desirable thing. But lately he’d been
annoyed at her. She’d shown him too many attentions—or too many pointed
slights to pique him. He felt himself falling into a sort of net she
was spreading. Why, even this little girl, so far away from the set in
which Sophie moved, had heard things. He’d be careful—he wasn’t engaged
to Sophie, yet.
He admitted that Millersville was gossipy but that there was “nothing
to” the gossip about him. He and Mamie had a pleasant walk up Elm
Street.
After that, for several weeks, he met Mamie every day. He tried to make
other engagements, but she wouldn’t go for picnics or drives, even on
her days off. She told Embury that she had to help her mother, who
wasn’t strong and needed her. But she consented to the evening walks
home.
How sweet and simple she was, Embury felt. Other girls would have
playfully avoided him, teased him, tried to make him more eager by
their indifference. Mamie was always admittedly glad to be with him.
Excepting when she had to hurry home a shorter way, she was always
walking up the street when he overtook her. He began to look forward
to these little walks, down the quiet, tree-shaded way. Mamie, on the
warmest days seemed to remain cool and fresh-looking, her blonde hair
soft and fluffy. In the shade she would take off her hat and turn her
face up to catch any stray breeze. She’d have jolly little stories to
tell him and be interested in everything that he was doing.
Walking next to her he could watch the soft curve of her body, smell
the pleasant fragrance of the perfume she used. Later, when he was
alone, he contrasted her; gentle of voice, sweet, simple, sensible;
with Sophie and Esther, the other girls of the crowd, their giggles and
affectations, their attempts at intimacies, pressing close to him while
they danced, overheated after dancing, their hair moist, their voices
loud, their behaviour foolish. This little girl had more refinement
than any of them—knew how to keep her self-respect, too. These walks
were the pleasantest part of his day.
Then, one evening Mamie was standing at the corner of Elm and East
Street waiting for him, her eyes wide and frightened. From a distance
he had seen her dainty figure, the plain straw hat, the simple frock.
“What’s the matter?” he asked.
“It’s really nothing,” she said, but her eyes held tears.
“Tell me. Is it serious?”
“It’s nothing. That is, you’ll think it’s nothing at all. I—I can’t
tell you. It—spoils things—our little walks, our pleasant friendship.”
“What do you mean?”
“It’s awful—Millersville. I hate it—People misunderstand. I’m poor,
you know—and work. It’s so easy for people to talk about a girl in
my position. And some one told my—my father that I meet you every
evening. He—he grew awfully angry. You don’t know my father—he has a
terrible temper. I—I can’t ever meet you any more. That’s all.”
She wiped her eyes carefully, with her small handkerchief. “Of
course—it’s nothing to you, but it’s meant so much—I’m silly, I guess,
but it’s been the pleasant part of—of my life.” She sniffled, very
gently.
“My dear, my dear,” Embury was moved. He wanted to take her into his
arms. Such a little girl—talked about—because she went walking with
him! He danced with other girls, put his arms around them on porches,
kissed them, even. And this little girl, walked with him—and even that
was denied her.
Suddenly, it came to him how much the walks meant—how much Mamie
meant to him. Each day he told her everything he had done, talked
over his small business difficulties with her. She was always asking
such sensible, thoughtful questions about things. None of the other
girls cared—all they cared was that he was old man Embury’s son—good
as an escort—or to bring candy or flowers. He had never taken Mamie
any place, nor spent money on her. She seemed apart from things—their
little walks up the quiet street seemed to belong to another world.
“It’s nonsense,” he said. “I won’t stand it. It’s ridiculous. Of course
we can keep on seeing each other.”
“I’m afraid not,” her voice was unsteady.
“But we must. Don’t you care?”
“I—I—told you—I don’t dare think how lonely I’ll be. Thinking about our
talks has helped me all day long.”
Mamie wouldn’t let Embury call on her, either. Not just yet—maybe
later, when her father was no longer angry. She didn’t dare disobey
him, he was rather cross, almost cruel to her.
They walked the rest of the way in silence. At her street Mamie held
out her hand and Embury took it and held it. It seemed a very solemn
occasion.
Mamie’s expression was not so sad as she turned down the side street.
It was decidedly pleasant and smiling. It might have puzzled Embury if
he had seen it, but not more than the conversation would have puzzled
Joe Carpenter. For, not since Mamie was ten had her father tried to
give her advice concerning her associates. No one ever came to him with
tales of Mamie and he had never even heard that the rich Mr. Embury had
a son.