Part 14

“Say, Mattie, guess what happened this afternoon! You know Ferguson, the fellow who used to be in our office, whose brother is in the show business? Well, he came in and gave me a couple of seats to see ‘Squaring the Triangle’ for Friday night. They say it’s a good show and in for a long run, but they want to keep the house filled while the show is new, till it gets a start.”

“Did he, honestly? Say, that’s great, isn’t it? Where are they, downstairs?”

“Sure. You don’t think he’d give away balcony seats, or at least offer them to me, do you? Remember, he gave us some last Spring. That makes three times this year we’ve been to shows on passes. Pretty good, eh, Mattie?”

“Well, I guess yes. We’re some people, knowing relatives of managers. I tell you, I think—”

A pause, then.

Mattie’s face lost its sudden smile and resumed its sadness of the earlier part of the meal.

“What’s the matter?” asked Joe.

“Nothing the matter with me.”

“Something else happened, too,” Joe went on, enthusiastically, “at noon, I’d just left Childs’—and guess who I passed on the street?”

“Some one we know?”

“We don’t know him exactly.”

“Oh, I can’t guess. Tell me.”

“I know you can’t—well, it was—William Gibbs McAdoo! Honest to goodness—McAdoo. It sure seemed funny. There he was, walking down the street, just like I’ve seen him in the movies half a dozen times. It sure gives you a thrill, seeing people like that.”

Why the mention of William G. McAdoo should bring tears to the eyes of a woman who had never met him may be inexplicable to some. But tears came into the eyes of Mattie Harper. She wiped her eyes on the corner of her bungalow apron, sniffed a little, came over to Joe, put her arms around him.

“I just—just can’t stand it,” she sobbed. “I’ve been worrying and worrying. Your seeing McAdoo seems the strangest thing, after what happened to me.”

“What was it, Mattie?”

Quite kindly and understandingly, Joe pushed his chair back from the table, gathered his wife on his knee.

“What was it, honey? Come tell Joe.”

“It wasn’t anything—anything to cry about. I—don’t know what’s the matter with me. It—it was in Lord & Taylor’s, this afternoon. I was looking at gloves—and I looked up—and there, right beside me, not two feet away, stood Billie Burke. Honestly! I know it was her. She looked exactly like her pictures—and I saw her in ‘The Runaway’ years ago, and not long ago in the movies. Yes, sir, Billie Burke. Joe, she’s simply beautiful.”

“Well, well, think of seeing Billie Burke!”

“And Joe, when I saw her, the awfulest feeling came over me. I tried not to tell you about it—after the letter this morning. I’d been thinking about Burton Center—but seeing Billie Burke just knocked it all out. Joe, you know I love you and want to do what you want—but, I—I just can’t move to Burton Center—unless you’ve got your heart set on it. I’d go then, of course—any place. But I don’t want to be—buried alive in that little town. Imagine those people—never seeing or doing anything—no new shows or famous people—nor any kind of life. And here I went down-town and saw Billie Burke and you—”

Joe’s pats became even fonder. He smoothed her hair with his too-pale hand.

“There, there, don’t cry. It’s all right. Nobody’s asking or expecting you to go to Burton Center. Funny thing, that. I had the same feeling. First, passing McAdoo—and then those theatre tickets. I guess there’s something about New York that gets you. They’ve got to forget that stuff about Burton Center, I can tell you that.”

Mattie jumped off Joe’s lap, took the used dishes from the table, put on the pastry and sat down in her own place, across from Joe.

“This is good,” said Joe, taking a bite; “where’d you get it?”

“At that little new French pastry shop we passed the night the black dog tried to bite Floppit.”

“Oh, yes, looked nice and clean in there.”

They ate their pastry slowly. Mattie dried her eyes. Joe spoke to her:

“Say, Mattie, don’t worry for a minute more about that Burton Center stuff. After eight years of living in the city, seeing famous people, living right in the center of things—didn’t we see all the warships and airplanes nearly every day? They can’t expect us to live in a rube place like Burton Center. We’re used to more, that’s all there is to it.”

“I know,” said Mattie, “I’d just die if I couldn’t walk down Fifth Avenue and see what people wore. It’s just weighed on me, terribly. I just saw us on the train going out there, and living in an awful little house without hot water or steam heat—and seeing Billie Burke just—”

The ’phone burred into the conversation.

Mattie answered it, as usual, assuming a nonchalant, society air.

“Yes, this is the Harpers’ apartment. Yes, this is Mrs. Harper speaking. Who? Oh, Mrs. Taylor. How do you do. I haven’t heard your voice in ages. We’re fine, thank you.... No, I don’t know much news. A friend of Mr. Harper’s, a brother of Ferguson, the theatrical producer, invited us to see ‘Squaring the Triangle’ as his guests on Friday. They say it’s a wonderful show. We saw ‘The Tattle-tale’ last Saturday. Yes, we liked it a great deal.... Saturday afternoon? Wait and I’ll ask Mr. Harper if he has an engagement.”

Hand over telephone mouthpiece, then:

“Want to go riding with the Taylors in their new car Saturday afternoon and stop at some road house for supper?”

Resuming the polite conversational tone of the telephone:

“Yes, thank you, Mr. Harper and I will be delighted to go. Awfully nice of you. At four? Fine. By the way, did I tell you I saw Billie Burke to-day? I did. She looked simply beautiful, not a day older than she looked last year. Wonderful hair, hasn’t she? And Mr. Harper passed William G. McAdoo on the street. Yes, New York is a wonderful city. You did? Isn’t that nice! All right, we’ll be ready on Saturday—don’t bother coming up, just honk for us, that’s what all our friends do. Thanks so much, good-bye.”

Mattie sat down at the table again.

“Well,” she said, “it’s time they asked us—they’ll take us now and be through for a year. Still, we may have a nice time. But—what we were talking about—you sure you are in earnest about Burton Center?”

“You bet I am. The folks at home had the wrong dope, that’s all. Why, I’ve got my position here, too important to give up at any one’s beck and call. Didn’t the boss congratulate me to-day on the way I wrote those Detroit letters? I bet I get a raise in another three months.”

They folded their napkins into their silver-plated napkin-rings, rose from the table, walked together into the living-room, stood looking out into the drab bleakness of One Hundred and Thirty-second Street, across to the factory-like, monotonous row of apartment houses opposite, where innumerable lights twinkled from other little caves, where other little families lived, humdrum, unmarked, inconsequential, grey. And from the minds of Mattie and Joe faded the visions of little white houses and cool, green lanes.

They remembered, instead, the city, their city—Mattie had seen a moving picture taken, once, from a Fifth Avenue bus—three years ago Joe had been introduced to—actually taken the hand of—William Jennings Bryan—they had both seen James Montgomery Flagg draw a picture for the Liberty Loan on the Public Library steps—a woman in a store had pointed out Lady Duff Gordon to Mattie—they had seen, on the street, a man who looked exactly like Charles M. Schwab—it might easily have been....

“I’ll write that letter right away and have it over with,” said Joe, “I won’t hurt ma’s feelings—she and Dad mean all right. Living in Burton Center all their lives we can’t expect them to understand things. It’s ridiculous, of course. I don’t know what came over us for a minute this morning. Of course we’ve got the crowded subways, here, and it costs a lot to live and—and all that. You can’t expect a place to be perfect. But—New Yorkers like us couldn’t stand that dead Burton Center stuff for five minutes. Why, we’re, we’re—city folks!”

INDIAN SUMMER

I

Evelyn Barron dressed rather mechanically for the evening at the Durlands’, quite as she always dressed to go to places. She chatted pleasantly with her husband as she arranged her hair. Martin Barron, as usual a little ahead of her, paused to smoke a cigarette before putting on his collar. Evelyn looked at him. She congratulated herself because he was good-looking, awfully nice, in fact. Nothing extraordinary, of course, but she had been married ten years and he was pleasant and she was used to him. He seemed nearly everything that a husband should be, and quite satisfactory when compared with most other husbands she knew.

Evelyn was thirty-five. Even as she looked at herself in the glass, and was pleased, she sighingly admitted that they were both—well—getting rather settled. She was not wrinkled or anything like that, of course, but she had gained ten pounds in the past year. She pulled viciously at a grey hair. She was glad that she was not really turning wholly grey, the way some women did.

Well, it wasn’t as if she were getting on alone. Martin was aging, too. His rather sandy hair was receding from his forehead. His skin, always slightly pink, was a bit redder now after meals. He had taken to wearing low collars, and with his newest lowest ones his flesh formed two rolls over the top. But Martin was awfully good. Evelyn knew that. He preferred a man as a private secretary and even at parties he never paid much attention to other women. A few years before Evelyn had rather hoped that he would look at other women. It would have added spice to things. Still, it was of no use to borrow trouble. Good old Martin! She liked him the way he was. He gave her everything he could afford.

Theirs had been practically a love match—that is, what usually passes for a love match. Martin had fallen in love with Evelyn, brown-haired, brown eyed and jolly and vivacious, at twenty-four. Evelyn, with no other love affair in the immediate foreground, had recognized his sterling qualities and his good business position and had fastened her rather nebulous affection upon him. She hadn’t made a mistake. She knew that. There hadn’t been any one else she had cared for since. She had settled down into comfortable domesticity, one-half of a “little married couple” in an upper-middle-class New York set. It was not especially exciting. Sometimes she longed for thrills, but she had longed for them more years before than she did now. She was pretty well satisfied with things, now, most of the time. Especially with Martin. They had quarrelled a bit, of course. About trifles. But, usually, Martin was awfully good.

To-night, even. Here he was, going to the Durlands’ without a word, and he hated that sort of thing. Yet he went because Evelyn liked to go. Of course he would spend most of his time smoking with the men. But he went, anyhow. Evelyn couldn’t go alone. In her set, though they were awfully modern about a lot of things—all of the women smoked and you could go to teas with men if you liked—it wasn’t quite the thing to go to formal parties without your husband. In any case, Evelyn couldn’t have gone without _some_ escort, and no other man had ever asked her to go any place with him.

She wondered, just for a minute, why she wanted to go to the Durlands. Whenever she and Martin were invited she always made quite a point of pretending to like it. She wondered if she really did. She always felt a bit out of things. But it was different from the affairs she usually went to. Maud Durland was a writer, the only writer Evelyn knew well. She was one of those serious writers of little things who occasionally get into some of the newer literary reviews with half a column, or write a two-inch filler for a second-rate all-fiction magazine. These, when Maud Durland wrote them, seemed to have a special significance. She talked them over with her friends and her friends spoke of them when she was not with them.

She wrote exclusively about people she knew. You could pick out whom she meant if you knew her crowd. She made no money by her writing, of course, but she felt that she was in the midst of a career. Fred Durland had some sort of a remunerative, though inartistic, position connected with the coal industry, and Maud Durland spoke of it slightingly and with a patronizing sneer, though she never encouraged Fred to neglect coal for a more artistic employment.

One or two Sundays a month Maud Durland entertained with teas in her studio. Why the Durlands had chosen a duplex studio, instead of an ordinary apartment, except that it was a better setting for tea parties, no one ever knew. But all of Maud’s artistic friends liked it. At these Sunday affairs, Maud gathered together as many kindred souls as she could find. Usually they were mostly married couples, one-half of each couple being a mild devotee of some one of the arts. Sometimes, though, couples like the Barrons were asked to fill in and appreciate. There were always a few single people, too, yearning young women in wrong colours, effeminate young men trying to remember their poses, young business men attempting, once a week, anyhow, to dip into a higher culture than their routine office work afforded them.

The Durland apartment was removed from the stigma of mere pretence by being uptown, a couple of blocks from the park. Sometimes Maud managed to get real celebrities, a man or a woman who had had things in the big magazines or who had written—and sold—a book, or verse writers who filled out the pages when fiction stories ran too short and who turned an honest penny by working part time for the advertising agencies.

Evelyn had been to a number of these parties. She liked the atmosphere, the being with people who counted. Always, on the way home or the next day, she reflected on Martin’s stolidity and wished he “did things” instead of being in the wholesale leather business. It always took several days to make her feel kindly toward him again.

Evelyn and Maud Durland had known each other about four years. While they were not chummy and found little to talk about when they were alone, they did manage to have long telephone talks. Like most women, they found more to say over the telephone than when they were face to face. Occasionally they met at luncheon or tea. Evelyn was always awfully pleased to be included in Maud Durland’s parties.

Now, her hair arranged and her face made up—Evelyn used rouge and powder, but not with any degree of cleverness—she slipped into her dress. It was rather a simple frock of dark blue Georgette crêpe, a ready-made, with conventional “smart” lines, the sort of dress hundreds of women between twenty-five and fifty were wearing. It was not an inexpensive dress, but it lacked personality and effectiveness.

Evelyn pulled Martin’s coat a bit, straightened his tie, kissed him carelessly on the cheek. She felt she was really very fond of him.

“All ready, old dear,” she said cheerfully. “And please don’t make Jeffry crawl along so. It’s late now. Other people drive faster than a mile every two hours without being arrested or having accidents.”

When they arrived at the Durlands’, the guests had assembled—were, in fact, already eating and drinking. Guests usually started on the refreshments immediately on arriving or as soon afterward as things were ready. Evelyn removed her coat in Maud Durland’s room, an exotic room, like all of Maud’s things. It was done in peacock blue and lavender enamel and was heavy with odd perfume.

Martin was waiting at the studio door, and they went into the studio together, nodding to people they knew. In fifteen minutes Martin was with a group of business husbands of artistic wives who were smoking in one corner. Soon Evelyn was listening to the usual conversation. This night there was so much talk of the punch, which was pronounced extraordinarily good, that Evelyn drank several glasses of it. She joined a group who were discussing the newer lighting for the theatre.

“You see, with this new lighting the foots are merely incidental. Get a few thousand watts and a few baby spots for a real moonlight effect—”

Then,

“Here’s the man who knows about things like that—all about the theatre—writes for the stage—wrote the lyrics for ‘Here Sat Miss Muffet’ and ‘Why Didn’t You Phone Me?’ Hey, Northrup—”

A man turned, smiled, came toward them. Evelyn gasped. He was the sort of man she liked—the sort she had fallen in love with, vaguely, whenever she fell in love, years ago, before she met Martin. She had almost forgotten that there were men of that type. It made her feel different, alert, to realize that men still looked that way. Of course, he wouldn’t notice her—men didn’t notice her any more—hadn’t ever noticed her a great deal.

His name was Franklin Northrup, she learned. She felt, in some way, as if she knew quite a lot about him. She was a bit confused as to whether lyrics meant the words or the music to songs, but she knew it was one of them. But that didn’t matter. Franklin Northrup! He was the sort that had liked her, when she was younger. Younger? Well, she wasn’t old—Northrup wasn’t so young himself—her age or older. Why, she had been asleep, had forgotten what men were! It had been years since she had really looked at a man—really noticed—

He was good-looking. He was the type she admired, always. Blonde. Martin was blonde, of course, but Martin was blonde in a heavy, red, sandy sort of way. Northrup was slender, almost thin. His hair was shining and smooth. She wanted rather to put her hand on it, to see if it felt as smooth and soft as it looked. What a foolish notion to have when you are married and thirty-five! His skin was pale, too pale, really, and he had lines around his mouth and rather deep shadows under his eyes. Those eyes were dark and sleepy-looking, not bright blue and stupid, like Martin’s. She knew that type, cynical and yet sentimental and intense. How silly to think of such things! She liked his mouth, the upper lip rather thin, the under lip quite full. His nose was a bit aquiline. She liked him awfully well.

She wished, then, that she had not worn dark blue. You can’t bring yourself out—show who you are—in dark blue. Evelyn felt suddenly that it hid her personality. A decent dark blue dress is a sort of a cloak of invisibility. Unconsciously she ran her hand through her brown hair, loosened it a trifle, pulled it a little farther over her face. She was glad she had shampooed it that morning. She was glad, too, that her eyes were brown and didn’t need any make-up. She bit her lips, moistened them, leaned forward.

The others, chatting on about stage lighting, became suddenly unimportant. Every one else became unimportant. Northrup lounged on the arm of a chair.

“This new lighting is all right, in a way,” he said; “that is, they’re making an effort. But, except in night scenes and things like that, I believe in enough light. These new birds really haven’t anything on Belasco, though they kid his realism. Half of these new artists don’t know what they’re trying to do. Take that show they put on last year—”

His voice, quite deep, drawled pleasantly. Evelyn shivered with enjoyment. He was nice. She would force him to notice her. What should she do? He knew so much about things. She leaned a trifle closer to him.

Another man came up. Evelyn barely glanced at him. He talked. Evelyn lost interest. She caught Northrup’s eye.

“Warm, isn’t it?” he asked. He rose, came up to her chair. “An awful crowd here, too.”

“You mean?”

“Oh, these groups amuse me. They talk so much of things they don’t know anything about. The theatre, for instance. You interested in stage lighting?”

“I’m one of those who don’t know anything about it,” Evelyn laughed.

“I know a little and it bores me a lot,” said Northrup. “What about a sandwich and some punch? The old girl put a big stick in it—quite like the old days, eh? Maybe she knows that is the only way she can get a crowd.”

Evelyn rose. They walked off together. Evelyn felt Northrup’s hand on her elbow. She moved a trifle closer to him. His fingers tightened around her arm.

They drank several glasses of punch, nibbled at sandwiches. Evelyn was not used to drinking.

“Wouldn’t you like to get out of this mob?” Northrup asked. “This chatter and near-music—I don’t know why I came to this place. I live on the floor below—in one of the little un-studio apartments. Maud Durland’s been worrying me for weeks to come to one of her tea fights. I didn’t know they could be as mad as this. I usually don’t go in for this sort of thing.”

Then,

“Let’s go down to my rooms and get a real drink. What say?”

“Wouldn’t it seem a bit—unusual?”

“Unusual, nothing. There’s been so many women in those rooms that the hallboy thinks it’s a girls boarding school. Honest, though, it’s better than this racket. And a real drink. We’ll just stay a minute. Oh, come on—”

“I’d love to,” said Evelyn.

II

They left the studio without any one noticing them. In the hall Northrup took Evelyn’s hand and they ran down the one flight of stairs. Evelyn felt young and buoyant and carefree.

On the floor below Northrup inserted a key in the door, opened it, turned on a light.

It was the usual bachelor apartment, but Evelyn had seen few bachelor apartments. Once, when a friend of Martin’s had been ill, she and Martin had visited him. Once, with an aunt, she had visited the aunt’s brother-in-law’s quarters. This, now, seemed wicked and pleasant and mysterious.

There was a little hall, a living-room, and beyond it the dim outlines of bedroom things. And she and Northrup were here, all alone! How much alone they seemed! There was a divan near the fireplace, Turkish rugs in rather bright colours, tables and smoking things on them, lamps with red-orange shades. These were lit now. The place was not especially artistic. The furniture was modern mahogany of rather uncertain Colonial design. But Evelyn thought it delightful.

“This is more like things, isn’t it?” asked Northrup. “The air up there, cheap perfumes and vile cigarettes—how do they stand it? You go to that sort of thing much?”

“No, I’ve just been there a few times. Maud Durland is an old friend of mine and she insisted that I come. It’s rather fun, though, watching people.”

“Fun enough. I like this.”

“This—oh, yes.”

Northrup went into the little kitchenette. He made a great clatter with shakers and glasses and returned in a minute or so with two rather warm cocktails. Evelyn had to make a face over hers. Then they each had another. Evelyn declined a third, but Northrup finished them.

“It’s a good thing,” he said, “that drinking never affects me. I’ve been pouring things down all evening. Some miserable high balls Ed Benchley had at dinner, then a lot of that awful punch upstairs and now these. If I couldn’t stand a lot, now that prohibition is here, I don’t know how I’d ever get along—”

Northrup sat near Evelyn on the couch. He touched her hand, caught her fingers and smiled.

“We’re going to be friends, aren’t we?” he asked.

Evelyn felt, suddenly, as if all of her youth had come back to her. She felt the way she had felt, years before—before she had met Martin. A funny little choking feeling, far down in her throat—she had nearly forgotten that—not in years—. She felt a sudden lightness, almost an ache of happiness. So—she could still care—could thrill—Northrup—how handsome he was!

Northrup got up lazily, punched at some logs already laid in the fireplace and touched a match to the paper under them. It flared up. The logs blazed a moment later. He turned out the orange lights.

“This is what I like,” he said, “just you and I. Somehow, from the minute I saw you, you seemed different—the sort of woman who gets things—not like most women ... as if I’d known you a long while.”