Part 5

He thought, then, that he did remember her, and said so. Little girls change—he knew that. It was pleasant for him to think that, after all these years, she remembered him. He had worn a red sweater—still, wasn’t the school colour red; hadn’t all the other boys worn them, too? Well, anyhow, he had played football. No one else had said anything about those days. How pretty she was—a wonderful complexion! Why, in comparison, it made Sophie’s seem almost pasty. Of course, Sophie was a Redding—that was different—a serious thing, a bully girl, too. Mamie—he liked the name—it was like her, simple, plain, pretty. She might be great fun. To think of her remembering him all these years! What a plain little dress she wore! Poor people, evidently. Oh, well—

Two weeks later, in Elm Street—it was a quiet street, tree-lined—he met Mamie again. She was walking ahead of him, as he turned up from Hill. He caught up with her.

“You live near here?” he asked.

She told him, very seriously, that she lived in Gillen Row and that her parents were awfully poor.

“I—I work, you know—in the Busy Bee, the candy store. It makes things a little easier for mother—and my father. I stopped school before my junior year—to—to help them. Of course I’ve kept up with reading—but—I didn’t mind stopping—my father had an accident and they needed me. It isn’t bad—it’s rather pleasant at the Busy Bee—interesting to watch people.”

“I’m sure you’re the sweetest thing there,” said Embury, and was surprised at his own boldness and a bit ashamed when he saw how Mamie blushed and dropped her eyes. What a dear little thing she was, leaving school to help her folks and not even complaining about it—and not ashamed, either, didn’t try to conceal it. It never occurred to him that he probably would have seen her in the Busy Bee any day and so discovered her position for himself.

“You always walk home in Elm Street?” he asked, to cover her confusion—she was still blushing.

“Yes, it’s so quiet and peaceful, the trees and all.”

“That’s funny. That’s why _I_ go this way, when I don’t take the car to the office.”

“You do?” Mamie showed great surprise. “Isn’t it funny, our tastes in streets?”

Perhaps even more remarkable, if she had mentioned it, would have been the fact that Mamie had never honoured Elm Street with her presence until—investigating by little scurries after leaving the shop in the evening—she had found that Embury usually chose it when walking home.

V

Two days later, Embury walked up Elm Street with Mamie again. He had looked for her the day before, and had been disappointed when he did not see her. Hadn’t she said she walked there every day?

“I didn’t see you yesterday,” he said with a smile, as he joined her.

Mamie explained—not the real fact, that she had taken her old route home so as not to appear too eager for his acquaintance—but that she had gone a shorter way so that she could hurry home to cook dinner—her mother wasn’t well.

“Poor little girl,” thought Embury, “working all day and then cooking dinner at night, too.”

“I missed you,” he said.

Mamie blushed again. She was rather good at it. Many people are.

“Are you going to stay here in Millersville?” Mamie asked.

No use getting excited, working hard over him, if he wasn’t. Embury was the first real opportunity she had had—if she could only get him before the others poisoned his mind against her or before the Reddings made his escape impossible—if he were going to leave Millersville, there wouldn’t be any use bothering about him.

Embury told her that he was to stay in town, and she showed pleasure and blushed again. She asked him about his work and his plans.

To his surprise, Embury found himself telling her about himself. Here was a girl, intelligent, interesting. The other girls didn’t know anything about business. But, of course, thrown on her own resources as she had been, she’d learned to take a real interest in the business world.

They walked together until a block before the street down which Embury usually turned.

“I go this way,” said Mamie.

She could have continued on Elm Street, but she thought it best to be the first to break their walk together.

“Wait a minute; don’t go away so quickly,” said Embury.

He felt as if he were on a delightful adventure.

Quietly, Mamie waited.

“When am I going to see you again?” he asked.

She started to say something, blushed then; “Why, I don’t know—I mean, any evening, walking home this way. I’m at the Busy Bee all day, you know.”

“At night. Can’t I call? Can’t you go for a drive?”

Mamie knew how her home would look to Embury, the porch with its sagging floor, the living-room with its clutter of ugly chairs, her parents quarrelling, more than likely. She couldn’t receive him at home. It didn’t seem fair—she had to fight against so many odds—and Sophie Redding had the whole Redding home, with its great porches, its big living rooms for entertaining. How she hated Sophie Redding with her giggles, her light stringy hair. Still, if she were smart enough—there might be ways....

“I’m afraid I can’t let you call at all,” she said, modestly. “You see, I’m not one of the society girls. It—it wouldn’t look right, I’m afraid. You know how—how careful a girl has got to be.”

What a dear little thing she was! Modest and shy and good. Each second Embury felt himself more and more a man of the world. This little thing, so fragile and dainty—and awfully pretty. Of course she was right. People would talk—and yet....

He didn’t know that Millersville would not talk about Mamie, no matter how many men called on her, that they had talked when she was a little girl and dismissed her, carelessly, as “Joe Carpenter’s daughter, a bad egg.” Mamie knew. It didn’t make her feel any happier. Still, this was no time to worry about it.

“Couldn’t we go for a ride some evening?” he asked. “No one would see us, honestly they wouldn’t.”

“I really couldn’t. Really. You know how it is. I’d love to—but—it wouldn’t be right. I can’t go.”

She appeared to want to yield to him. She knew how society in Millersville regarded girls who went automobiling with young men, alone. Embury would find out, if he didn’t know already, and his opinions would be moulded by the others.

“You’re the funniest girl I ever saw,” he smiled at her.

She was just small enough so that he looked down into her face when he stood close to her. Embury liked little girls. He was glad Mamie was small.

“Other girls would go with me, honestly they would.”

“You’d better take them, then,” she pouted, prettily.

“I don’t mean that. I don’t want to sound conceited. Only I would like to take you, honestly I would. I know a little road house, ‘Under Two Flags,’ where they make awfully good things to eat, French cooking. We could ride out there some night, if you’ll go.”

Mamie knew the road house. She used to think it great fun. She had slapped the faces of six commercial travellers driving home from it and finally had given it up as a dangerous place. It was, nevertheless, a fairly decent resort, with only a slightly sporty reputation, but, after all, the ride there and the supper weren’t worth the trouble of keeping her escort in his place all the way back. Why did men expect such big rewards for a ride and a bite to eat?

Mamie smiled wistfully.

“I’m afraid not,” she said. “I wish you wouldn’t—tempt me so. You see, I never go driving—I—I don’t have many good times.”

Embury’s conscience hurt him. She was such a dear. Of course she shouldn’t go. He felt more wicked than ever.

“But look here,” he said, “can’t I see you at all?”

Mamie was thoughtful.

“I don’t know,” she said; then, “next Friday I have a holiday—I work every second Sunday, the Busy Bee is open on Sundays too.”

Embury was supposed to be at the office every day but he knew he was not indispensable.

“Fine,” he told her, “that’s awfully good. Can we go in my car and make a picnic of it?”

Mamie thought that would be a lot of fun. They made plans for the meeting. That was Wednesday. On Thursday, Mamie avoided Elm Street.

VI

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.

VII

For weeks, then, Embury didn’t see Mamie. At first he dismissed the whole thing with a careless, “Well, that little affair is over,” a slight disappointment that Mamie hadn’t been a better sport. It was just as well—Some one had told his parents, too, and they had questioned him, rather teasingly, about the companion of his evening walks. But they had been serious, at that. They didn’t want him to get “mixed up” with any one.

Then he began to miss Mamie, miss the chance to talk about himself, miss her soft femininity. To put her out of his mind he devoted himself more thoroughly to Sophie.

After all, she was the girl for him, one of the Redding girls, one of his own class. But when he talked to her he couldn’t help comparing her to Mamie, whom he felt he knew very well. Mamie was fresh and wholesome and innocent. She never went to parties or dances, things like that. Sophie was full of little tricks, liked to say things with double meanings—and giggle. If the girls had been changed around—Sophie in Mamie’s place—he couldn’t quite understand it.

Sophie became too affectionate when he was with her, begged to light his cigarettes, always putting her hands on his shoulders, pinching his arm when anything exciting happened—and then pretending she hadn’t meant to do it. She was an awfully nice girl, of course. But she so definitely pursued him. He got tired of hearing her praises sung at home, too. Her tricks of breaking engagements, pretending indifference—they were worse than her affectionate moods. Her hair was colourless, her eyes too light. Compared with Mamie....

As the days passed he missed Mamie more and more. He hated himself for his stupidity—he found himself passing the Busy Bee on all possible occasions, looking into the windows, over the display of assorted candy, into the store. Sometimes, above the counters, he’d see her, in her crisp white apron, her blonde, radiant hair framing her lovely little face. She was always busy, always cheerful. Other girls wasted their lives having good times. Mamie worked on, day after day—gentle, good. Sometimes Embury thought her face looked serious, a bit sad. Did she miss him?

Finally he couldn’t stand it any longer. He cursed himself for his silliness—he went into the Busy Bee, bought some candy. He had promised himself he wouldn’t annoy her—she was right—it was better that they shouldn’t see each other any more. Yet he was shedding the dignity of an Embury, acting the mere oaf, hanging around a candy store hoping for a smile from a salesgirl. He should have known better, scorned such behaviour. But there he was.

Mamie was busy. He waited—some one called to her and she went into the back of the shop. He felt like a fool—didn’t dare ask for her. He bought his candy and went out. Next day he passed the shop three times. The day after he went inside again. He watched Mamie’s slim fingers flying among the candy trays, putting chocolates into a box for a customer. How he loved her hands. They were too fine for such work. Why—he did love her—of course—that was it—he loved her—no use denying it.