Our American climate is notoriously capricious. Even as Janet trudged
homeward on that Memorial Day afternoon from her Cinderella-like
adventure in Silliston the sun grew hot, the air lost its tonic,
becoming moist and tepid, white clouds with dark edges were piled up
in the western sky. The automobiles of the holiday makers swarmed
ceaselessly over the tarvia. Valiantly as she strove to cling to her
dream, remorseless reality was at work dragging her back, reclaiming
her; excitement and physical exercise drained her vitality, her feet
were sore, sadness invaded her as she came in view of the ragged outline
of the city she had left so joyfully in the morning. Summer, that
most depressing of seasons in an environment of drab houses and grey
pavements, was at hand, listless householders and their families were
already, seeking refuge on front steps she passed on her way to Fillmore
Street.
It was about half past five when she arrived. Lise, her waist removed,
was seated in a rocking chair at the window overlooking the littered
yards and the backs of the tenements on Rutger Street. And Lise, despite
the heaviness of the air, was dreaming. Of such delicate texture was the
fabric of Janet's dreams that not only sordid reality, but contact with
other dreams of a different nature, such as her sister's, often sufficed
to dissolve them. She resented, for instance, the presence in the
plush oval of Mr. Eustace Arlington; the movie star whose likeness had
replaced Mr. Wiley's, and who had played the part of the western hero in
“Leila of Hawtrey's.” With his burning eyes and sensual face betraying
the puffiness that comes from over-indulgence, he was not Janet's ideal
of a hero, western or otherwise. And now Lise was holding a newspaper:
not the Banner, whose provinciality she scorned, but a popular Boston
sheet to be had for a cent, printed at ten in the morning and labelled
“Three O'clock Edition,” with huge red headlines stretched across the
top of the page:--
“JURY FINDS IN MISS NEALY'S FAVOR.”
As Janet entered Lise looked up and exclaimed:--“Say, that Nealy girl's
won out!”
“Who is she?” Janet inquired listlessly.
“You are from the country, all right,” was her sister's rejoinder. “I
would have bet there wasn't a Reub in the state that wasn't wise to the
Ferris breach of promise case, and here you blow in after the show's
over and want to know who Nelly Nealy is. If that doesn't beat the
band!”
“This woman sued a man named Ferris--is that it?”
“A man named Ferris!” Lise repeated, with the air of being appalled by
her sister's ignorance. “I guess you never heard of Ferris, either--the
biggest copper man in Boston. He could buy Hampton, and never feel it,
and they say his house in Brighton cost half a million dollars. Nelly
Nealy put her damages at one hundred and fifty thousand and stung him
for seventy five. I wish I'd been in court when that jury came back!
There's her picture.”
To Janet, especially in the mood of reaction in which she found herself
that evening, Lise's intense excitement, passionate partisanship and
approval of Miss Nealy were incomprehensible, repellent. However, she
took the sheet, gazing at the image of the lady who, recently an obscure
stenographer, had suddenly leaped into fame and become a “headliner,”
the envied of thousands of working girls all over New England. Miss
Nealy, in spite of the “glare of publicity” she deplored, had borne up
admirably under the strain, and evidently had been able to consume three
meals a day and give some thought to her costumes. Her smile under the
picture hat was coquettish, if not bold. The special article, signed by
a lady reporter whose sympathies were by no means concealed and whose
talents were given free rein, related how the white-haired mother had
wept tears of joy; how Miss Nealy herself had been awhile too overcome
to speak, and then had recovered sufficiently to express her gratitude
to the twelve gentlemen who had vindicated the honour of American
womanhood. Mr. Ferris, she reiterated, was a brute; never as long as she
lived would she be able to forget how she had loved and believed in him,
and how, when at length she unwillingly became convinces of his perfidy,
she had been “prostrated,” unable to support her old mother. She had
not, naturally, yet decided how she would invest her fortune; as for
going on the stage, that had been suggested, but she had made no
plans. “Scores of women sympathizers” had escorted her to a waiting
automobile....
Janet, impelled by the fascination akin to disgust, read thus far, and
flinging the newspaper on the floor, began to tidy herself for supper.
But presently, when she heard Lise sigh, she could contain herself no
longer.
“I don't see how you can read such stuff as that,” she exclaimed.
“It's--it's horrible.”
“Horrible?” Lise repeated.
Janet swung round from the washbasin, her hands dripping.
“Instead of getting seventy five thousand dollars she ought to be tarred
and feathered. She's nothing but a blackmailer.”
Lise, aroused from her visions, demanded vehemently “Ain't he a
millionaire?”
“What difference does that make?” Janet retorted. “And you can't tell me
she didn't know what she was up to all along--with that face.”
“I'd have sued him, all right,” declared Lise, defiantly.
“Then you'd be a blackmailer, too. I'd sooner scrub floors, I'd sooner
starve than do such a thing--take money for my affections. In the first
place, I'd have more pride, and in the second place, if I really loved a
man, seventy five thousand or seventy five million dollars wouldn't help
me any. Where do you get such ideas? Decent people don't have them.”
Janet turned to the basin again and began rubbing her face
vigorously--ceasing for an instance to make sure of the identity of
a sound reaching her ears despite the splashing of water. Lise was
sobbing. Janet dried her face and hands, arranged her hair, and sat down
on the windowsill; the scorn and anger, which had been so intense as
completely to possess her, melting into a pity and contempt not
unmixed with bewilderment. Ordinarily Lise was hard, impervious to such
reproaches, holding her own in the passionate quarrels that occasionally
took place between them yet there were times, such as this, when her
resistance broke down unexpectedly, and she lost all self control. She
rocked to and fro in the chair, her shoulders bowed, her face hidden in
her hands. Janet reached out and touched her.
“Don't be silly,” she began, rather sharply, “just because I said it was
a disgrace to have such ideas. Well, it is.”
“I'm not silly,” said Lise. “I'm sick of that job at the
Bagatelle”--sob--“there's nothing in it--I'm going to quit--I wish to
God I was dead! Standing on your feet all day till you're wore out for
six dollars a week--what's there in it?”--sob--“With that guy Walters
who walks the floor never lettin' up on you. He come up to me yesterday
and says, 'I didn't know you was near sighted, Miss Bumpus' just because
there was a customer Annie Hatch was too lazy to wait on”--sob--“That's
his line of dope--thinks he's sarcastic--and he's sweet on Annie.
Tomorrow I'm going to tell him to go to hell. I'm through I'm sick of
it, I tell you”--sob--“I'd rather be dead than slave like that for six
dollars.”
“Where are you going?” asked Janet.
“I don't know--I don't care. What's the difference? any place'd be
better than this.” For awhile she continued to cry on a ridiculously
high, though subdued, whining note, her breath catching at intervals. A
feeling of helplessness, of utter desolation crept over Janet; powerless
to comfort herself, how could she comfort her sister? She glanced around
the familiar, sordid room, at the magazine pages against the faded
wall-paper, at the littered bureau and the littered bed, over which
Lise's clothes were flung. It was hot and close even now, in summer
it would be stifling. Suddenly a flash of sympathy revealed to her a
glimpse of the truth that Lise, too, after her own nature, sought beauty
and freedom! Never did she come as near comprehending Lise as in such
moments as this, and when, on dark winter mornings, her sister clung to
her, terrified by the siren. Lise was a child, and the thought that she,
Janet, was powerless to change her was a part of the tragic tenderness.
What would become of Lise? And what would become of her, Janet?... So
she clung, desperately, to her sister's hand until at last Lise roused
herself, her hair awry, her face puckered and wet with tears and
perspiration.
“I can't stand it any more--I've just got to go away anywhere,” she
said, and the cry found an echo in Janet's heart....
But the next morning Lise went back to the Bagatelle, and Janet to the
mill....
The fact that Lise's love affairs had not been prospering undoubtedly
had something to do with the fit of depression into which she had fallen
that evening. A month or so before she had acquired another beau. It
was understood by Lise's friends and Lise's family, though not by the
gentleman himself, that his position was only temporary or at most
probationary; he had not even succeeded to the rights, title, and
privileges of the late Mr. Wiley, though occupying a higher position
in the social scale--being the agent of a patent lawn sprinkler with an
office in Faber Street.
“Stick to him and you'll wear diamonds--that's what he tries to put
across,” was Lise's comment on Mr. Frear's method, and thus Janet gained
the impression that her sister's feelings were not deeply involved. “If
I thought he'd make good with the sprinkler I might talk business. But
say, he's one of those ginks that's always tryin' to beat the bank. He's
never done a day's work in his life. Last year he was passing around
Foley's magazine, and before that he was with the race track that went
out of business because the ministers got nutty over it. Well, he may
win out,” she added reflectively, “those guys sometimes do put the game
on the blink. He sure is a good spender when the orders come in, with a
line of talk to make you holler for mercy.”
Mr. Frear's “line of talk” came wholly, astonishingly, from one side of
his mouth--the left side. As a muscular feat it was a triumph. A deaf
person on his right side would not have known he was speaking. The
effect was secretive, extraordinarily confidential; enabling him to
sell sprinklers, it ought to have helped him to make love, so distinctly
personal was it, implying as it did that the individual addressed was
alone of all the world worthy of consideration. Among his friends it was
regarded as an accomplishment, but Lise was critical, especially since
he did not look into one's eyes, but gazed off into space, as though he
weren't talking at all.
She had once inquired if the right side of his face was paralyzed.
She permitted him to take her, however, to Gruber's Cafe, to the movies,
and one or two select dance halls, and to Slattery's Riverside Park,
where one evening she had encountered the rejected Mr. Wiley.
“Say, he was sore!” she told Janet the next morning, relating the
incident with relish, “for two cents he would have knocked Charlie over
the ropes. I guess he could do it, too, all right.”
Janet found it curious that Lise should display such vindictiveness
toward Mr. Wiley, who was more sinned against than sinning. She was
moved to inquire after his welfare.
“He's got one of them red motorcycles,” said Lise. “He was gay with it
too--when we was waiting for the boulevard trolley he opened her up and
went right between Charlie and me. I had to laugh. He's got a job over
in Haverhill you can't hold that guy under water long.”
Apparently Lise had no regrets. But her premonitions concerning Mr.
Frear proved to be justified. He did not “make good.” One morning the
little office on Faber Street where the sprinklers were displayed was
closed, Hampton knew him no more, and the police alone were sincerely
regretful. It seemed that of late he had been keeping all the money for
the sprinklers, and spending a good deal of it on Lise. At the time she
accepted the affair with stoical pessimism, as one who has learned
what to expect of the world, though her moral sense was not profoundly
disturbed by the reflection that she had indulged in the delights of
Slattery's and Gruber's and a Sunday at “the Beach” at the expense
of the Cascade Sprinkler Company of Boston. Mr. Frear inconsiderately
neglected to prepare her for his departure, the news of which was
conveyed to her in a singular manner, and by none other than Mr. Johnny
Tiernan of the tin shop,--their conversation throwing some light,
not only on Lise's sophistication, but on the admirable and intricate
operation of Hampton's city government. About five o'clock Lise was
coming home along Fillmore Street after an uneventful, tedious and
manless holiday spent in the company of Miss Schuler and other friends
when she perceived Mr. Tiernan seated on his steps, grinning and waving
a tattered palm-leaf fan.
“The mercury is sure on the jump,” he observed. “You'd think it was
July.”
And Lise agreed.
“I suppose you'll be going to Tim Slattery's place tonight,” he went on.
“It's the coolest spot this side of the Atlantic Ocean.”
There was, apparently, nothing cryptic in this remark, yet it is worth
noting that Lise instantly became suspicious.
“Why would I be going out there?” she inquired innocently, darting at
him a dark, coquettish glance.
Mr. Tiernan regarded her guilelessly, but there was admiration in his
soul; not because of her unquestioned feminine attractions,--he being
somewhat amazingly proof against such things,--but because it was
conveyed to him in some unaccountable way that her suspicions were
aroused. The brain beneath that corkscrew hair was worthy of a
Richelieu. Mr. Tiernan's estimate of Miss Lise Bumpus, if he could have
been induced to reveal it, would have been worth listening to.
“And why wouldn't you?” he replied heartily. “Don't I see all the pretty
young ladies out there, including yourself, and you dancing with the
Cascade man. Why is it you'll never give me a dance?”
“Why is it you never ask me?” demanded Lise.
“What chance have I got, against him?”
“He don't own me,” said Lise.
Mr. Tiernan threw back his head, and laughed.
“Well, if you're there to-night, tangoin' with him and I come up and
says, 'Miss Bumpus, the pleasure is mine,' I'm wondering what would
happen.”
“I'm not going to Slattery's to-night,” she declared having that instant
arrived at this conclusion.
“And where then? I'll come along, if there's a chance for me.”
“Quit your kidding,” Lise reproved him.
Mr. Tiernan suddenly looked very solemn:
“Kidding, is it? Me kiddin' you? Give me a chance, that's all I'm
asking. Where will you be, now?”
“Is Frear wanted?” she demanded.
Mr. Tiernan's expression changed. His nose seemed to become more
pointed, his eyes to twinkle more merrily than ever. He didn't take the
trouble, now, to conceal his admiration.
“Sure, Miss Bumpus,” he said, “if you was a man, we'd have you on the
force to-morrow.”
“What's he wanted for?”
“Well,” said Johnny, “a little matter of sprinklin'. He's been
sprinklin' his company's water without a license.”
She was silent a moment before she exclaimed:--“I ought to have been
wise that he was a crook!”
“Well,” said Johnny consolingly, “there's others that ought to have
been wise, too. The Cascade people had no business takin' on a man that
couldn't use but half of his mouth.”
This seemed to Lise a reflection on her judgment. She proceeded to clear
herself.
“He was nothing to me. He never gave me no rest. He used to come 'round
and pester me to go out with him--”
“Sure!” interrupted Mr. Tiernan. “Don't I know how it is with the likes
of him! A good time's a good time, and no harm in it. But the point is”
and here he cocked his nose--“the point is, where is he? Where will he
be tonight?”
All at once Lise grew vehement, almost tearful.
“I don't know--honest to God, I don't. If I did I'd tell you. Last night
he said he might be out of town. He didn't say where he was going.”
She fumbled in her bag, drawing out an imitation lace handkerchief and
pressing it to her eyes.
“There now!” exclaimed Mr. Tiernan, soothingly. “How would you know? And
he deceivin' you like he did the company--”
“He didn't deceive me,” cried Lise.
“Listen,” said Mr. Tiernan, who had risen and laid his hand on her arm.
“It's not young ladies like you that works and are self-respecting that
any one would be troublin', and you the daughter of such a fine man as
your father. Run along, now, I won't be detaining you, Miss Bumpus,
and you'll accept my apology. I guess we'll never see him in Hampton
again....”
Some twenty minutes later he sauntered down the street, saluting
acquaintances, and threading his way across the Common entered a grimy
brick building where a huge policeman with an insignia on his arm was
seated behind a desk. Mr. Tiernan leaned on the desk, and reflectively
lighted a Thomas-Jefferson-Five-Cent Cigar, Union Label, the
excellencies of which were set forth on large signs above the “ten foot”
buildings on Faber Street.
“She don't know nothing, Mike,” he remarked. “I guess he got wise this
morning.”
The sergeant nodded....