Part 6

He looked at her—her lovely profile, her fair complexion. She turned—smiled at him, rather a sad little smile—and went on packing chocolates, an adorable colour surging over her face. She had to pack chocolates—his girl! He loved her—and couldn’t even walk down the street with her. He made a purchase and went out, hating himself the rest of the day.

He took the candy out to the Reddings that evening. Ten or twelve of the crowd were there. They turned on the Victrola and danced, then had lemonade. Every one was in high spirits. Some one suggested a short drive to cool off after dancing, so they all piled into the cars that stood waiting for them along Maple Road. Embury drove his car and Sophie sat next to him.

“Propose to her,” something told him. “Go on, get definitely attached, have it over with. Then you’ll be settled, nothing to worry about. No use thinking about Mamie—you can’t marry her.”

But he couldn’t propose, then nor later, when he was alone with her. Sophie chattered. The soft, pleasant night seemed marred. He thought of Mamie, their one ride together. He was sick of Sophie, of her tricks, her silliness, his parents’ praise of her. He wanted Mamie.

He thought of Mamie before he fell asleep that night. He did love her. He knew that. But he couldn’t marry her. Of course not. If he did, though, his father would be horribly disappointed. But he’d get over it—and his mother, too. It wasn’t that. Mamie was far prettier and sweeter than any girl in the crowd. But she didn’t belong—it was just that she lived in Gillen Row. The crowd would laugh at him.

What if they did laugh? Oh, well, it was something. He didn’t want to hurt his future. Mamie was in another set—another world—that was all. He couldn’t marry her. Still—he could see her. There were other things beside marriage. He had to have his fling. He hadn’t had any affairs. He was still young. Here was an affair, that was all. After that—you can settle such things with money—there was time enough for marriage, then—with Sophie, of course.

He woke up feeling quite the conquering hero, as if he had already taken definite steps in his approach on Mamie. She was a dear, a little innocent. He was a college man, a man of the world. Of course she was no match for him. Still—he’d be a fool not to follow the thing up—she was too pretty to leave—if not him, some one else then. Why not him?

At noon, when he left the office in his car, he drove up Gillen Row. What a street! There had been no rain for days—everything was covered with grey dust. There was a horrible sense of rust and decay and dirtiness. He didn’t know which house was Mamie’s, but they all looked alike in the sunshine, a squalid, ramshackle row,—how different from his own home—from the Redding home, with their terraced lawns, their pleasant green bushes and flowers. This was a different life from the life he led, from the pleasant, comfortable ways of his people. And yet—Mamie—

VIII

At half-past five he went into the Busy Bee. Mamie was not busy. She was standing near a glass counter, listlessly leaning one elbow against it. She looked pale, he thought, and yet dainty—dainty and sweet, and she’d come out of Gillen Row. It had been a hot summer. He was glad September was here.

She smiled as she saw him. How little she was! Hadn’t she missed him at all? She had cared a little for him—he felt that. He could make her care again, if she’d give him a chance.

“I must see you,” he told her.

She looked around, rather frightened. He had forgotten that she had to be careful about her position—that she actually was forced to sell candy in the Busy Bee.

“Don’t you want to see me?” he added.

“Of course.”

“You won’t meet me in Elm Street?”

“I don’t dare. I told you. You don’t understand—I—can’t meet you.”

“May I come to see you?”

“I—I told you—”

“But I _must_ see you. Let me call.”

“I don’t—well, all right then, if you want to come. I shouldn’t let you. My father—still, if you want to. I live way down in Gillen Row. We are—are very poor, you know. If you want—”

“Of course I do. Why didn’t you let me come, before? May I come right away, to-night?”

She nodded.

“Where do you live?”

“The third house after Birch Street, Number 530. It’s a little cottage.”

“Go driving with me?”

“I—I told you I couldn’t—at night—and I never have time, other times.”

“To-night then, about eight. How’s that?”

Mamie nodded again, smiled. Embury bought a box of candy to cover his embarrassment.

Going into a candy shop to make an engagement with a shopgirl—trembling when she spoke to him, grinning and ogling over the counter! He had never thought himself capable of that.

As he ate his dinner the engagement became something vastly important, a bit different, a bit devilish. He’d take her out in his car. Of course. It would be a moonlight night. He understood girls. A simple girl like that—

IX

A few minutes before eight he drove up to the cottage where Mamie lived. It was even more terrible than he had imagined it, a crooked little cottage with a funny, sagging porch, the paint peeled off, the lumber turned grey. There had been no attempt to beautify the small grey yard.

As he stepped out of the car Mamie came out on the porch, walked hurriedly toward him. She had on pink, a thin, delicate pink, made very plain. Her complexion looked quite pale, her hair softer and brighter than ever.

She came up to him, put her hand on his arm, drew it back again. The gesture that had been affectation with Sophie became genuine embarrassment here.

“You—can’t—call,” she said nervously. “I told father at dinner. He’s just stepped out. He’d get furious—if he found you here. He—he keeps on harping on what that man told him—about my being seen with you—he says—I’m not in your class—that you don’t mean—aren’t—that I shouldn’t go with you.”

He saw that she was trembling. How soft she was and little. He wouldn’t be cheated out of a ride with her—this evening—hadn’t seen her for a long, long time. How he’d missed her!

“Jump in the car,” he said. “Hurry up, before your father gets back. He’ll never know.”

“I can’t. You don’t know how angry he’d be. Girls don’t ride at night, in Millersville, this way. It will make things worse.”

She drew back.

“You don’t want to go?”

“Oh, I do, I do! You don’t know how much.”

“Then jump in.”

“It wouldn’t be right. You wouldn’t respect me. Other girls—”

“My dear child, you don’t know the world. Other girls go driving at night—and do worse things than that. Only night before last I took a girl out driving—Sophie Redding—Miss Redding and I—”

“I know, but she’s—you know—I told you what I heard.”

“There’s no truth in that. I told you so. Now come on, be a nice girl, jump in. It’s too perfect an evening to waste. We’ll drive down Rock Road. No one will see us.”

“I don’t know—I—”

“Please come. You’ll please me, won’t you?”

He felt bold, masterful, put his hand on her arm. He saw that he had done the wrong thing, been too hasty. She drew away, frightened.

“I—maybe—I’d better not see you any more, ever. That’s what I’d planned—”

“Please come on, won’t you, dear? Don’t talk like that. Come on.”

He let his voice grow tender—he was surprised to find how much he meant the tenderness. What if she wouldn’t go?

She hesitated a moment, then:

“All right,” she nodded, and jumped into the car.

She had ordered her parents to keep away from the front of the house, but she knew them. She was eager to get away before they peered out of the window or slouched out on the porch.

They left Gillen Row and were soon out in the country.

Mamie sighed, a pleasant sigh of happiness.

“I suppose I oughtn’t to be here,” she said. “It’s wrong, I know, but it seems right when I’m with you. I’ve been so lonely lately. It seems wonderful.”

“You’ve missed me a little, then?”

“Missed you—of course.”

The moon came out. They drove along the Sulpulpa River, and the moon rippled a path on the water. Embury stopped the car.

“This is great, isn’t it?” he asked.

“Wonderful. I almost lose my breath at it. I’m that way about scenery—I can’t say much. And to be here, now—”

He looked at her. She seemed almost ethereal in the moonlight, the pale pink of her dress, the soft gleam of her hair.

He put his arm around her, very gently, drew her close to him, held up her chin, looked at her. She was lovely, her fragrant, soft complexion, her big eyes. He kissed her.

She gave a little gasp. But there was no pulling away, none of the “how-dare-yous” which he had feared. As simply as a child she put her arms around his neck, kissed him, gave little whispers of contentment.

“You dear, you dear!” Embury whispered over and over again.

Then she drew away from him, turned her back, broke into a paroxysm of sobbing.

“What’s the matter?” Embury asked, genuinely perplexed.

He hadn’t quite understood her kissing him, though the kisses had been very pleasant. He understood her now least of all.

“I—I shouldn’t have come with you,” she sobbed. “Don’t you see—I—I—let you kiss me—I kissed you—I wanted to kiss you—I’m as much to blame as you—more. It’s wrong. I shouldn’t have come with you—now, you can’t respect me any more. After this you’ll think—”

“Now, now,” he soothed, “don’t carry on this way. Honest, it’s all right. It really is. Of course I respect you, honey. You’re the dearest girl I know. Why—I—love you!”

He stumbled over the word—he had never told a girl that he loved her, before. He was quite sincere, now. Marriage—of course that was different. He knew that. But this little girl—she was a dear—lovely, as she lay in his arms, soft and yielding, her lips against his. Still, now he wanted her to stop crying—he had made her cry—

“Why, dear, kisses aren’t anything, really. Lots of girls—You don’t know the ways of the world, that’s all. Now, cheer up—I didn’t mean to frighten you.”

“It—it was all my fault. I shouldn’t have come. Of course, when I came, you thought—and I—I _wanted_ to kiss you. That’s the worst of it. Only—I did want to come—I never have anything. I’m—only nothing at all—and live in Gillen Row and you’re Marlin Embury—and now—I’ve kissed you.”

He drove her home. All the way home she sobbed softly. There was a light in the little cottage.

“Don’t drive me to the house,” she said. “Father’s home—it’s late—if he saw you—I don’t know what he’d do. I’ll be all right—if I go in alone. My mother will be waiting, too. She’ll keep him from being too angry—if I explain to her. I—I think she’ll understand.”

He let her out at the corner, pressing her hand as he told her good-bye.

“Now don’t you worry,” he said. “I’ll see you to-morrow, dear. A kiss is nothing to worry over, really it isn’t.”

She watched his car as he drove away, sent a tiny little wave of farewell to him as he looked back.

Her mother had gone to bed. Her father was playing cards with three cronies in the dining-room.

“That’s right, come trailing in at all hours—running around with some one else—got some one new?” he growled, as she passed them.

“That’s my business,” she answered curtly.

Her father might have detected a new tone in her voice if he hadn’t been too busy seeing that he got the best of his friends before they took advantage of him.

X

Embury worried about the kisses pretty much that night after he got home.

After all, Mamie was such a little thing and awfully young, not more than eighteen, probably, and not worldly, sophisticated, like the girls he went with. He oughtn’t to have—well, taken advantage of her. She had said she would never see him again—and then, after he had said he’d see her to-morrow, he had seen her wave farewell. If he didn’t see her—perhaps that would be best, after all. Still,—her kisses were sweet—she was a dear—he remembered the touch of her soft lips.

In the morning Embury still thought only of Mamie’s arms around his neck, her kisses. Of course he’d see her again. Why, he loved her. She was smarter, prettier, than Sophie. Sophie wouldn’t have cried had he kissed her—she would have thought he had proposed and put their engagement in the papers. She probably thought they were even now. Wouldn’t it be a joke on Sophie if he didn’t marry her, after all? His parents—why should they rule his life?

Of course, marrying Mamie was out of the question—still, with pretty clothes, she’d beat any girl in Millersville on looks and brains. Why, she had them beat already. Hadn’t she gone to High School until she had to stop to help out at home? Working every day, selling candy, luxuries—to others. Dear little thing—and now she was probably worrying because he had kissed her. Of course he’d see her—keep on seeing her....

At ten o’clock he peered into the windows of the Busy Bee. Mamie was not there. At eleven he looked in again. He went to the office and attempted to work. He looked into the shop windows both going to and coming from luncheon. He couldn’t keep his mind on what he was trying to do in the afternoon. Before three, he left for the day and went to the Busy Bee, looked in, went inside. It was almost a relief not to see Mamie—a relief, and yet it worried him.

A brown-haired girl he had never seen asked for his order. Embarrassed, he told her he wanted to speak to Miss Carpenter. What a fool he was. What else could he do?

Miss Carpenter hadn’t been down all day—no, she didn’t know what was the matter. Something she could do for him? Mechanically he ordered a box of candy.

He was glad he hadn’t found Mamie there. After last night he didn’t like to think of her clerking—waiting on people. He’d take her away—some place. Where? That was it—take her away. Still, he had to stay in Millersville—a town like Millersville! And she—why she cried when he kissed her—she was such a fragile, dainty little thing—like a lily—that was it—a lily, who had grown up in the muck of Gillen Row. Even too dainty for him. She wasn’t at the store. What was the matter? What if—

He drove to Gillen Row as rapidly as he could, stopped his car in front of the forlorn cottage. What if her father was at home? Well, he could manage him—must manage him.

He ran up the front walk, up the broken steps, knocked at the door—the bell seemed out of order. He waited. No answer. He couldn’t believe that the house was empty. He would wait. He stood on the porch, hesitating, wondering what to do. Then the door opened. It was Mamie.

She had on a blue suit, a plain little suit, with a white collar and a little black hat, turned up all around. He had never seen her except in summer things. How well she looked, with her bright hair showing below the hat-brim.

“You shouldn’t have come here,” she said. “You mustn’t come. Go away—I never—was going to see you again.”

“What’s the matter? You aren’t ill? You weren’t at the Busy Bee?”

“I’m not going back again, ever. I—I can’t stand it.”

“What are you going to do, Mamie?”

She looked so little and tragic.

“Last night father was waiting for me when I got home. You don’t know my father. He’s cruel, brutal, sometimes. He seemed to know, before I told him—that I’d been driving with you. So—I’m going away—I can’t stand—this—any more.”

“Going—where?”

He came inside, closed the door. What a mean little house it was.

“I don’t know. Away from this—any place. I’ve enough money to get to—to Giffordsville. I can find something to do there. I’ve got to have peace and contentment—something. And you must hate me—after I kissed you last night. You can’t care for me—respect me—and your respect was all I had.”

“My dear, my dear little girl. Why, I—I—”

His arms were around her again. But this time she did not meet his lips with hers. She dropped her head, struggled a little, then sighed.

“You see,” she said, “I can’t struggle against you. I must go away. I can’t stand it—any longer. This house, everything—and now—”

“Mamie.”

“Yes?”

“Look at me.”

“I can’t.”

He forced her face upward.

“Do you love me?”

“Don’t ask me to say it. You—know. Please don’t be cruel to me. Let me go while I can.”

“Cruel to you? Mamie, I love you. You know that. You mustn’t go away from Millersville.”

“I _must_ go. After the quarrel with father, I can’t stay here. That’s settled.”

“You _mustn’t_ go.”

He repeated it over and over. He couldn’t let her go. Without her, Millersville would be worse than oil-soaked Oklahoma. He dared not imagine it, even.

“I’m going now—I’m all ready for travelling. How can anything stop me?” She pointed to a little packed bag.

In his arms she was fragrant, sweet. How could she get along—what could she do, alone in the world? Why—she was his girl—he could take care of her. She understood him—his family—he wouldn’t let his parents ruin his life.

Marry her, of course. Wasn’t she better, nobler than the rest of the girls—a cruel father who misunderstood her—alone in the world, really—little and sweet and dear. Going away? Why, if he married her he could keep her here. Of course.

“I’m glad you’re ready,” he said, “because you’re going with me.”

“What—what do you mean?”

She drew away.

“What could I mean? We—we love each other. We can drive right down to the court-house this minute. You—you won’t mind—marrying me, will you?”

She snuggled close to him and hid her head. From the sounds she made, he couldn’t tell whether she was sobbing or giggling. But it didn’t matter. Surely a girl could have her own method of accepting a proposal of marriage.

XI

The marriage has really turned out very well. Even Millersville admits it. After all, Mamie Embury proved herself an exceptional woman, and was quite able in every way to take her rightful place in society as Marlin Embury’s wife. If her parents seemed below the Millersville social level, no one dared dwell upon it. For young Mrs. Embury, under her soft and blonde exterior, has rather a sharp manner at times and, when necessary, can refer, in the pleasantest way, to things that have taken place in the past—and even the best Millersville families have their skeletons, forged cheques, little unnamed graves, jail sentences, things like that. So, after all, a worthless father can’t be held against a person, these days, all things considered.

Mamie is getting to be a bit of a snob, though, even her best friends think, because she objects to Millersville’s newest rich belonging to the “society” set and speaks about drawing more conservative lines. Her father was the black sheep of the family, it appears. The Carpenters are really an old Kentucky family and she often tells that her mother was one of the Virginia Prichards. Millersville knows that there is a great deal in heredity—that blood will tell—so her friends can understand her seeming snobbishness.

Mamie is a charming hostess, and prettier than ever, even if she has grown a bit rounder, and her husband is devoted to her. A poor girl who married the richest man in town—it’s beautiful—and it’s such a relief, with so many sordid things going on every day, to see real romance, a genuine love match, once in a while.

A CYCLE OF MANHATTAN

I

The Rosenheimers arrived in New York on a day in April. New York, flushed with the first touch of Spring, moved on inscrutably, almost suavely unawares. It was the greatest thing that had ever happened to the Rosenheimers, and even in the light of the profound experiences that were to follow it kept its vast grandeur and separateness, its mysterious and benumbing superiority. Viewed later, in half-tearful retrospect, it took on the character of something unearthly, unmatchable and never quite clear—a violent gallimaufry of strange tongues, humiliating questionings, freezing uncertainties, sudden and paralyzing activities.

The Rosenheimers came by way of the Atlantic Ocean, and if anything remained unclouded in their minds it was a sense of that dour and implacable highway’s unfriendliness. They thought of it ever after as an intolerable motion, a penetrating and suffocating smell. They saw it through drenched skylights—now and then as a glimpse of blinding blue on brisk, heaving mornings. They remembered the harsh, unintelligible exactions of officials in curious little blue coats. They dreamed for years of endless nights in damp, smothering bunks. They carried off the taste of strange foods, barbarously served. The Rosenheimers came in the steerage.

There were, at that time, seven of them, if you count Mrs. Feinberg. As Mrs. Feinberg had, for a period of eight years—the age of the oldest Rosenheimer child—been called nothing but Grandma by the family and occasionally Grandma Rosenheimer by outsiders, she was practically a Rosenheimer, too. Grandma was Mrs. Rosenheimer’s mother, a decent, simple, round-shouldered “sheiteled,” little old woman, to whom life was a ceaseless washing of dishes, making of beds, caring for children and cooking of meals. She ruled them all, unknowing.

The head of the house of Rosenheimer was, fittingly, named Abraham. This had abbreviated itself, even in Lithuania, to a more intimate Abe. Abe Rosenheimer was thirty-three, sallow, thin-cheeked and bearded, with a slightly aquiline nose. He was already growing bald. He was not tall and he stooped. He was a clothing cutter by trade. Since his marriage, nine years before, he had been saving to bring his family over. Only the rapid increase of its numbers had prevented him coming sooner.

Abraham Rosenheimer was rather a silent man and he looked stern. Although he recognized his inferiority in a superior world, he was not without his ambitions. These looked toward a comfortable home, his own chair with a lamp by it, no scrimping about meat at meals and a little money put by. He had heard stories about fortunes that could be made in America and in his youth they had stirred him. Now he was not much swayed by them. He was fond of his family and he wanted them “well taken care of,” but in the world that he knew the rich and the poor were separated by an unscalable barrier. Unless incited temporarily to revolution by fiery acquaintances he was content to hope for a simple living, work not too hard or too long, a little leisure, tranquillity.

He had a comfortable faith which included the belief that, if a man does his best, he’ll usually be able to make a living for his family. “Health is the big thing,” he would say, and “The Lord will provide.” Outside of his prayer-book, he did little reading. It never occurred to him that he might be interested in the outside world. He knew of the existence of none of the arts. His home and his work were all he had ever thought about.

Mrs. Rosenheimer, whose first name was Minnie, was thirty-one. She was a younger and prettier reproduction of her mother, plump and placid, with a mouth inclined to petulancy.

There were four Rosenheimer children. Yetta was eight, Isaac six, Carrie three and little Emanuel had just had his first birthday. Yetta and Carrie were called by their own first names, but Isaac, in America, almost immediately gave way to Ike and little Emanuel became Mannie. They were much alike, dark-haired, dark-eyed, restless, shy, wondering.

The Rosenheimers had several acquaintances in New York, people from the little village near Grodno who had preceded them to America. Most of these now lived in the Ghetto that was arising on the East Side of New York, and Rosenheimer had thought that his family would go there, too, so as to be near familiar faces. He had written several months before, to one Abramson, a sort of a distant cousin, who had been in America for twelve years. As Abramson had promised to meet them, he decided to rely on Abramson’s judgment in finding a home in the city.

Abramson was at Ellis Island and greeted the family with vehement embraces. He seemed amazingly well-dressed and at home. He wore a large watchchain and no less than four rings. He introduced his wife, whom he had married since coming to America, though she, too, had come from the old country. She wore silk and carried a parasol.