The Folly of Others

Front matter

By NEITH BOYCE Author of "The Forerunner"

HORACE T. CARPENTER

NEW YORK FOX, DUFFIELD & COMPANY 1904

A Provident Woman

A PROVIDENT WOMAN

A Provident Woman: I: Chapter 1

A PROVIDENT WOMAN

I.

MISS CLAYBEE resolutely strangled a yawn as she adjusted her ic pen and opened her note-book on the shelf made and provided therefor at the side of Mr. Hawley's desk. Mr. Hawley handed her an open letter and she copied the name and address. Then he dictated briskly, "Your letter of the 28th instant with regard to the showing made by your department during the past six months is at hand, and in reply I shall state frankly the position of the firm on the whole subject of the manufacturing department."

There was so long a pause here that Miss Clayber looked up, and found Mr. Hawley's deep-set gray eyes fixed upon her with a look of concern. She could not escape the harsh trial of the north light from a line of enormous unshaded windows, which now showed a brownish-gray, thunderous sky, and though half-open, admitted not a breath of the sickly air. No face less fresh than Miss Clayber's at its best could safely front that glare, and to-day she was so conscious of blue lines under the eyes and a general loss of color that Mr. Hawley's grave gaze disconcerted her.

"You look all bleached out," said her employer abruptly. "What's the matter?"

"Oh, nothing. I'm a little tired," and Miss Clayber smiled apologetically. "I didn't get much sleep last night."

"Oh, another party, eh?"

"Yes, sir. Then I get up at six o'clock now."

"What's that for?"

"I'm learning to ride the bicycle."

"Oh, you are! Like it?"

"Well, I can hardly tell yet. I've only had three lessons, and I've been tumbling off most of the time."

"Rather rough work, eh?"

"Yes, it bruises you up a good deal. But Mr. Jackson—that's our boarder—thinks I'll learn in about a month. I'd learn quicker if I wasn't so heavy, but he can't hold me up very well."

"Oh!"

Mr. Hawley replaced his eye-glasses, took up the letter to which he had begun a reply, laid it down, glanced at his watch, and said: "Well, you may as well go to lunch now. You must be tired if you've been up since six."

"Shan't I finish taking this letter first?"

"No, I'm going out myself."

The twelve o'clock whistles were screaming as Miss Clayber put her note-book and pen into a drawer of her own desk and pinned on her sailor hat; and all over the big room, divided by low wirework partitions into a number of cages, the hum and rattle of talk and typewriters lulled a little. Still Miss Clayber was the first of the girls to go out, down the elevator, through the lower floor, where a tremendous activity was going on in the midst of boxes, barrels, crates, and out into the narrow street, blocked by a line of great trucks which were being loaded and unloaded, through gangways and sliding doors, by sweaty, swearing men.

As Miss Clayber turned into another street which the elevated railroad converted into a tunnel Mr. Hawley overtook her. The roar of a train passing overhead made speech impracticable until they had reached the corner, walking side by side; then he asked,—

"Where do you lunch?"

Miss Clayber pointed across the street. "Generally in the 'Dairy Kitchen'."

"Can you get anything to eat there?"

"Oh, plenty. Biscuits and milk or coffee, and chocolate éclairs and pie—pork and beans too if you want it."

"Well, there's a little restaurant in the next block where I generally go—a rather more solid bill of fare. Won't you take lunch with me?"

Miss Clayber blushed furiously with surprise; and then with vexation at her detested trick of blushing, and, with agitation, turned a brighter pink, from her blond pompadour to her mannish linen collar.

Mr. Hawley smiled. "Come on. I want to see you eat a beefsteak," he said.

In the noise of the trains and of trucks over the cobblestones Miss Clayber's answer was lost, but she plainly hesitated.

"Now, do come. I want to talk to you, Miss Clayber."

Mr. Hawley's deep voice and his look were resolute, authoritative. He carried his point without more ado. They went on into the restaurant, a little chophouse, with a dozen tables or so, empty now except for a woman who sat at one of the windows eating a chop and scribbling in a note-book. Mr. Hawley took the table at the other window, where entered a reflection of the sulphurous sky. The windows were open, the air stifling. There came a roll of thunder and in a moment more a dash of rain. Then the windows had to be closed and the gas lit.

"Now we can hear ourselves think," observed Mr. Hawley, when he had given his order. "Doesn't this perpetual racket bother you?"

"I don't notice it any more. I've got used to it." Miss Clayber had regained her self-possession so far as to look perfectly composed, and even to smile.

"But the noise in the office,—the machines and so on,—don't you find it bad for your nerves?"

"No, I don't believe I've got any nerves."

"Delightful," said Mr. Hawley suddenly. "But," he went on, leaning over the little table, "you must need a rest, just the same. You've been working—let's see—eight months steadily, eight or nine hours a day, and hard work too."

"Oh, that's nothing, I'm strong," said Miss Clayber with a faint uneasiness. "And, besides, I have to do it, you know."

"I think you are," said Mr. Hawley admiringly. "You look it. There are mighty few women that can work as you do and keep their looks. But you mustn't overdo it. This heat is enough to play even me out. To be sure, though, I'm twice as old as you,"—he looked at her almost appealingly,—"and there's something the matter with my heart."

"With your heart?"

"Yes, but we were talking about you. You must take a vacation if you want to learn the bicycle. I can't have you losing sleep over it. You'll break down. And tell me, what do you do when you get home at night? Do you do any housework?"

"Oh, no. I have two sisters in school, and they help my mother. And we have only two boarders—they're men and don't make much trouble."

"One of them is teaching you to ride, did you say?"

"Yes, Mr. Jackson."

"Who is Mr. Jackson?"

"He's a clerk in a clothing house on Broadway."

"A young man?"

"Oh, yes, quite young," said Miss Clayber with great indifference, but a fast-beating heart sending the blood into her face again.

Mr. Hawley was looking straight into her eyes—a long, direct, significant look. Miss Clayber's eyes were blue and clear, but not expressive. It could not be told whether they concealed perception or the lack of it. The calmness of her face showed a certain amount of experience and a definite point of view. Her charm was due neither to intellect nor to feeling, but to her physical vigor, the equable good-humor born of good condition and steady nerves. Without delicacy in the modelling, she was well-built. The lines of her face were commonplace, but full of energy, and her reddish-blond hair, green-blue eyes, and transparent skin gave a dazzling effect of color.

Cecilia Clayber had always had a quiet, sustaining sense of her own attractions—something like the feeling of security that a bank-account would have given her. Now she was very suddenly facing the suggestion of an overwhelmingly profitable investment. There was, however, not the shadow of an afterthought in the green-blue eyes. If anything, they were a trifle quieter and more neutral than usual as she ate her steak and salad with appetite.

"Now that's more sensible than pie and chocolate nonsense, eh?" said Mr. Hawley.

"Well, not to work on," Cecilia said gravely. "Meat in the middle of the day makes me sleepy."

"Nonsense! it isn't the meat you eat, it's the hours you keep. You oughtn't to go out at night."

"Oh, I must!" cried Cecilia with conviction.

"Must? Why?"

"Well2" She stopped. It was quite impossible to tell Mr. Hawley why, and she was by no means fluent in small-talk.

"Well, I suppose you want to amuse yourself. What sort of things do you go to?"

"Oh, nothing very amusing. Mostly church affairs,—sociables or bazaars or lectures. Then there's a euchre club that meets once a week, and a dancing-class."

Mr. Hawley reflected.

"If you would allow me, I should like to call on you some evening this week and make your mother's acquaintance."

"We should be very much pleased," said Cecilia mechanically.

There seemed not much else to say after that.

The other tables were now filled with business men lunching sedately, and Cecilia was the only woman in the room, yet she was not embarrassed by glances. There was a look of authority and of solid sufficiency about her escort which disarmed criticism. Cecilia having finished luncheon and the storm still continuing, he said to her: "I must get back. I'll send a boy with your coat and an umbrella. Thank you for coming."

He took her hand for the first time before he went out. In a momentary lull of the rain she saw him go past the window, and observed with keen liking his well-set-up figure and the cut of his clothes and shoes. She sat looking out after he had gone by, a fair image of maiden meditation, cool-eyed and firm-lipped. With the roomful of men about her she was not in the least concerned, but she studied the dingy street, hardly more than a lane, paved with rough cobblestones in the interstices of which dust had become slime. The pillars of the elevated blocked the view of the small shops opposite and shut out what daylight there might be, and the trains lumbering by overhead at intervals of a few minutes slid into the station a block away with the horrible grinding of braked wheels on the rails. It may have been Mr. Hawley's suggestion as to nerves, or a more general mental quickening, but from some cause Cecilia was dimly conscious of the grimness of this outlook; she heard too the grinding of iron upon steel, the rush of steam, the clang of bells, the shrill, rattling jolt of iron wheels upon stones in the streets; she was going back to hear these street-noises, and, in addition, the thump and roll and crash of heavy boxes and casks, the shouts of the porters, the rattle of steel keys under the fingers of twenty girls, the hum of work from one o'clock until five. The heat too oppressed her more than ever. The edges of her collar were beginning to weaken, and she tucked her hand kerchief under her chin and closed her eyes languidly. She had hoped that Mr. Hawley would offer her a glass of beer, but had not dared to suggest it. She did not know whether he ever drank anything him self; indeed, she had not known until to-day whether or no he was married. Now she took it for granted he was not. The boy appearing with the umbrella, Cecilia went out, catching up her linen skirt over her well-worn shoes, and walked back to the office. The shower was increasing again in violence, the lightning flashes were almost continuous, and the thunder made sudden angry crescendos on the solid background of noise. But Cecilia resumed her work, calm and self-possessed as ever, and after writing a dozen letters took up some contracts which kept her busy the rest of the afternoon. The thunder-shower had not relieved the tension of the air, which was still so humid as to make breathing a perceptible effort. About four it grew suddenly dark, and the electric bulbs flashed out in spots of light over the desks in all the cages. A little before five Mr. Hawley shut down his desk and put on his straw hat.

"Now you'd better leave that for to-night," he said. "Go home now, Miss Clayber. And I wouldn't go to any parties to-night, if I were you. Good-night."

A Provident Woman: I: Chapter 2

II.

The intonation of the last word startled Cecilia, and, though he had already gone, she blushed deeply again as she put away her work and put on her hat and jacket. It was not the man's presence that moved her, but the mental images he had created. So much did these absorb her, now that the effort of concentrating her mind on her work was relaxed, that she found herself twenty minutes later on the ferry boat without the least recollection of getting there. In fact, this journey was now such a matter of routine, the walk from the office to the dingy little horse-car, the jolting ride to the ferry, the short sail standing in a crowded cabin or on a crowded deck, then a trolley-car to the corner of the side street in which she lived—Cecilia had gone through this daily six days out of the week, until she was capable of performing it automatically, with all her simple mind bent on something else. To-night she had forgotten to buy an evening paper and did not miss it, nor even notice the admiring glances which always followed her, and which heretofore had softened the discomforts of the trip. She stood by the rail of the forward deck, the crowd pressing upon her with every motion of the boat. The slight coolness of the air was grateful to her; but she had seen the water-spectacle so often that even its beauty on a blue and white morning no longer attracted her eyes; and now sky and water made a mass of yeasty gray, with hideous flat, brown ferryboats crawling to and fro, loaded to the water's edge, and little tugs darting about like water-spiders. The Jersey City sky-line presented no relieving beauty, nor would Cecilia, even if her senses had been awake, have perceived anything in the approaches to the ferry or the streets through which the trolley took her except places to be got through as quickly as possible. Cecilia's surroundings all her life had been of this sort—disagreeable matters of course, to which by force of habit you got so used that you no longer saw them.

In much the same way she regarded her home, a narrow, two-story wooden house, cramped in a small yard with thin grass and wooden palings, in a street of similar houses and small shops. There was a weather-beaten shingle on one of the posts of the porch which promised "Rooms and Board." A honeysuckle-vine shaded a hammock at one end of the porch. As the gate clicked behind Cecilia a young girl jumped up from the hammock and met her at the steps. Bertha Clayber was just seventeen, and promised to be more beautiful, in a subtler way, than her sister. She looked now rather draggled, in a light print gown much soiled and collarless, her dark hair strained up from the nape of her slender neck into a tight topknot, a palm-leaf fan in her hand.

"Hello, Cis. Isn't this awful—aren't you nearly melted?" she demanded.

"I'm tired," said Cecilia languidly, dumping her parasol and hat into a chair. "Lemonade? That's good."

"Yes, I just made it. It's a wonder Ma and Mabel haven't been after it."

"Don't say 'Ma,' Bertha," said Cecilia mechanically.

"Well, 'Mother,' then. I don't see how you can stand those stiff chokers this weather. Why, it would melt on me in five minutes. But you're always as cool as a cucumber. Say, I want to ask you, Cis, are you going to wear your blue satin belt and bow to-night, and if not, can I borrow 'em? My pink ones are so dirty2"

"Yes, you can have them. I'm not going."

"Not going? Why, it's the church ice-cream social2"

"Yes, I know. But I don't want to go. I'm too tired."

"Oh Cecilia! Now, that spoils everything! If you don't go, Mr. Jackson won't, and I'll have to go with Ma and Mabel2"

"Well, don't bother me now, Bertha. I'm going to lie down a little before dinner. Hadn't you better go and set the table?"

"Oh, I suppose so. I wish we could have something good to eat for a change—or some new dishes or something—or a girl. I hate housework—I'd a hundred times rather work in an office the way you do, and I will too when I get through school. I'm going to have three plates of ice-cream to-night anyway. Do you know, Cis, I've got a new fellow?"

Cecilia frowned, but she only said as she went into the entry and up the narrow stairs that started almost at the screened doors: "Hurry, Bertha, or you won't have time to dress before dinner. Mr. Jackson will be here in twenty minutes."

Bertha whisked into the dining-room at this and shut the door, and Cecilia went up to the room the two occupied together. It was one of the two front bedrooms, the other being rented to Mr. Jackson. It was not large, had ugly green paper on the walls, and mismated furniture of the black-walnut period. Cecilia took off her skirt and shirt-waist, bathed her face, arms and neck, and was brushing out her thick blond hair when her mother came in. Mrs. Clayber was a slender, dark woman, who had kept her figure and some traces of the beauty which had endowed her daughters. But there were the lines of a perpetual frown between her eyebrows, and the corners of her mouth had a bitter turn. She had an unpleasant voice, both flat and harsh. She sat down in a rocker by the window, unfastening her dark-blue lawn wrapper. Her face was flushed and moist.

"I declare I wish people didn't have to eat in hot weather," she said wearily. "I'm dead-beat, standing in that hot kitchen. Bertha says you don't mean to go to-night."

"No," said Cecilia. "As long as you're going, you can look after Bertha."

"Yes, but what's happened? You're always so set on going to everything there is."

"Well, mother, you know why. Bertha has got to be looked after. And I couldn't afford to miss any chances for myself. But—I'm tired to-night. I've got some news for you."

"Yes? What is it?" Mrs. Clayber's face in its sudden flash of curiosity looked much like Bertha's.

"I took lunch with Mr. Hawley to-day."

"Mr. Hawley? Not2"

"Yes, the Mr. Hawley."

"Why, Cecilia, how on earth did that happen?"

"He asked me. It was so I couldn't very well refuse. I was taken by surprise—but I guess I'd have done it anyway."

"Well! What did he say to you—how did he behave?"

"Oh, he behaved like a gentleman, of course. He asked a lot about me, and he said he'd like to come over and call, and meet you."

"Cecilia!"

"Yes, mother. Now, don't get excited about it. You can never be sure of things, you know, until they've happened. Perhaps he won't come. And anyhow, of course, you won't say a word to anybody until he does. I don't want everybody talking about it."

"No, dear, of course," said Mrs. Clayber quickly. "Dear me, there come the men, I must run! You must tell me the rest after dinner."

She scurried across the hall into her own room, and a moment later Bertha rushed in.

"There he is—he nearly caught me!" she cried. "Heavens! I look like a pig, don't I? I wish I could always look as spick and span as you do. I could, I guess, if I didn't have to do housework. I'm going to put on my white lawn."

The two sisters took turns at the mirror as they did their hair. Now and then it reflected them together—a charming contrast. Cecilia's strong, fair neck and arms, her robust figure, calm, healthy face, and the coils of red hair she was fastening on top of her head accentuated Bertha's opposite characteristics. She was a slip of a creature, on edge with nervous activity. Her profile, seen between two bands of dark hair that hung in long wisps down her thin shoulders, had a striking delicacy and force. Emotional intensity spoke in her quick eyes and in the beautiful curves of her mouth. Her face was never still. She smiled or she scowled. She acted out all she said, and, when silent, all she thought. Now as she brushed her hair vigorously she frowned.

"Beef-stew again! I can smell it up here. I'm so tired of beef-stew, aren't you, Cis? And this weather too. What are you going to do to-night—anybody coming to see you?"

"No, not to-night," said Cecilia absently, lifting a pink lawn skirt over her head.

"Well, what then? Why are you staying at home—on account of Mr. Jackson?"

"Nonsense. I told you, I'm tired. Do you suppose I never get tired?"

As a matter of fact there was an impression to this effect in Cecilia's household; and when she went down to dinner, five minutes after the ringing of the bell, she had to repeat to the two boarders and to her other sister, Mabel, her reason for staying at home and to support glances of concern from Mr. Jackson and of surprise from the other two. Bertha in her white lawn and borrowed blue ribbons was the last one down, although she had to help serve the dinner. Her first look as she entered the dining-room was for Mr. Jackson, who sat opposite Cecilia and devoted his entire attention to her. And Cecilia, looking calm as a statue as she ate a hearty dinner, was conscious not only of these appealing glances, but also of the look on Bertha's face as she performed the duties she so disliked: the disdain with which she supplied butter to Mr. Higgins, the other boarder, a young man with no chin and with a propensity to joke, who clerked in a Jersey City dry-goods store; the nervousness which prevented her from eating her own dinner when the chance came; her effort to attract the attention of Mr. Jackson to herself in the general buzz of talk. Mabel, two years older than Bertha, and by some misfortune combining her sallow tints with Cecilia's features and so missing the charm of either, was not above chaffing Mr. Higgins, though unkindly. Mrs. Clayber, with her worried look, smiled perfunctorily at the boarder's jokes, checked Mabel, reminded Bertha that she had forgotten to put the spoon-holder on the table, and now and then studied Cecilia, who, in the midst of all these nervous, expressive people, looked calm, strong, and significant as fate.

A Provident Woman: I: Chapter 3

III.

"If you're not going to the social, we shall be able to get in another bicycle lesson," suggested Mr. Jackson, who when he had been another month in the house would in the natural order of things be called Tom by everybody. He was a young fellow of twenty-three, lightly made, with a delicate face, a dark dust on his upper lip, and remarkably beautiful, large gray eyes, so dark that they passed for black. Cecilia looked into these eyes and shook her head.

"No, I want to rest to-night."

"I'm afraid you went at it too hard this morning," he said anxiously. "Next time we must go slow."

Cecilia agreed, inwardly reflecting, however, that probably there would not be any next time. She felt that it had suddenly become impossible to appear in the open street, even in summer dusk, mounted on a wobbling bicycle and supported by Mr. Jackson's manful arm. She blushed at the idea that Mr. Hawley might see her in this undignified situation, and at the recollection of what she had told him about the lessons. Mr. Jackson saw the blush and pondered it with agitation. After dinner Cecilia tried to induce him to go with the rest to the ice-cream social, but the young man very calmly and positively declined, and settled himself on the top step of the porch after Cecilia had taken the hammock. Mrs. Clayber and the two girls in their light dresses, escorted by Mr. Higgins, went away presently, and the house was left dark and empty. Cecilia swayed in the hammock slightly, absorbed in the events of the day; and Mr. Jackson, absorbed in her, at last interrupted her meditations.

"Shan't I fan you?" he suggested, moving to the camp-chair beside the hammock and taking the palm-leaf from her idle hand.

"It's nice to be all alone," he went on with a little tremble in his boyish voice. "I've been looking forward all day to seeing you. You haven't been out of my mind once."

"Now, Tom," said Cecilia languidly, "you mustn't talk nonsense."

"Oh Cecilia, let me talk to you! You can't imagine how much I have to say2"

"Well, all right, talk—but not about that, you know."

"But it's all about that! I haven't thought of anything else. I can't think of anything but you. Oh Cecilia, don't you think —you could ever care for me?"

"It isn't a question of that, you know very well. What good would it do if I did care for you? I couldn't marry you!"

"Perhaps not just now. But if you cared you would be willing to, after a little. Oh Cecilia, I'd work like hell for you!"

"It isn't a question only of me," said Cecilia in cool, hard tones. "The man that marries me marries my family too. How do you think they'd get on without me?"

"How do you think I'd get on without you? With you beside me I could get ahead, I know. I need you, Cecilia—you can't imagine how much!"

Instinctively he took the tone that was most certain to touch Cecilia. As he leaned forward, the tears in his young, eager eyes, she put her hand over them lightly. Tom sank down on his knees at her side.

"What would a boy like you do with a wife?" she asked with half-smiling pity. "Boys are always having fancies. No—I won't care for you, Tom—never."

"Don't say that! If I had money—and position—would you marry me?"

"I don't know—you're such a boy. But I'd rather like to take care of you."

"Oh, you would then2"

"But what difference does that make? You haven't got them, you know, and it will be years—ten, twenty years—before you could get them, even if you ever do."

Tom's head sank. He put his arms about Cecilia and buried his face on her shoulder, and she held him, smoothing his hair gently, as though he were a child.

"It's no use, Tom. If I marry, I must marry someone that can take my place, as far as my family goes, and more. They can't take care of themselves. Mother hasn't an idea about business or getting along, and she can't manage the girls. You see what Bertha is—so pretty, and just as wild as a colt. I can't have her growing up so. You know we've never had a real home. My father—well, he was the sort of a man that never ought to marry. My mother has had a hard life. And I want the girls to have a chance. If I should go and tie myself down so that I could hardly get along myself and couldn't do a thing for them, how would I feel? I can't do that."

"Yes, that's all very well!" cried Tom, clinging to her, "but you must think of yourself—your own life—and—mine, Cecilia. With them it's a question of bread and butter and clothes, but with me—it's almost life or death!"

"No, it isn't, Tom. I don't believe that. Bread and butter and clothes are more important than you seem to think, and—sentiment—isn't as important as you think. I want to live decently, and without this horrible load of debt that we're just getting out of, and to know that the rent is going to be paid, and that Bertha isn't running the streets with a lot of common boys and girls. That's what I care about."

Cecilia put him gently away from her and rose.

"And you don't care—how I suffer," he stammered.

"I do care. But it isn't my fault. I didn't make this world. And if you're going to keep on worrying me, Tom, you'd better go away, I think. I'm sorry. If things were different I think I might love you—but I can't change them."

There were tears in Cecilia's eyes now, but they only came and gleamed and disappeared. She was kind, but Tom, gazing at her with sick, piteous wonder, felt that she was incapable of the merest idea of the storm that shook him. To tell her of his pain, his longing, was like speaking to her in an unknown language; there was no response from brain or heart. If he had lacked food or clothes, she would have had sympathy for him; it was so much easier to touch her heart than her imagination, though she was not an emotional person.

But no such lover, no matter what the coldness of his divinity, ever despaired without some actual, tangible reason. And during the next two weeks Tom hoped and anguished and pleaded whenever he could get a chance at Cecilia alone. Within that time Mr. Hawley made three evening calls, spending an hour each time in the dreary little parlor, with Mrs. Clayber nervously making conversation, and Cecilia sitting by, smiling and calm. On the third occasion Mrs. Clayber left them together, and Mr. Hawley stayed longer than usual. When Cecilia came upstairs her mother was waiting in her room. Cecilia announced gravely, "Mother, I'm going to marry Mr. Hawley."

Mrs. Clayber breathed, "Yes, Cecilia," and fixed her eager eyes on her daughter, afraid to question her. It was impossible to hurry Cecilia. She sat down on the edge of the bed, took off her ribbon collar and belt, and smoothed them out on her knee thoughtfully.