The Gorgeous Girl. Nalbro Bartley
a calling card.
To her lot would fall the task of always being there to welcome the strong man with tender joy when he has succeeded or to comfort him with equal tenderness when he has failed, and at all times spurring him to live up to the ideal his wife has set for him. To stay aloof from his work inasmuch as it would annoy him, yet to be adviser emeritus, whether the matter involved hiring a new sweeper-out or moving the whole plant to the end of the world. Someone who ministered to the needs of the strong man’s very soul in unsuspected, often unconscious and unthanked fashion; such a trifle as a rose-shaded lamp for tired eyes; a funny bundle of domestic happenings told cleverly to offset the jarring problems of commerce; a song played by sympathetic fingers; a little poem tucked in the blotter of the strong man’s desk, an artful praising of the strong man’s self!
Mary realized this latter fork was not probable––nor was she unhappy because of it. She sometimes retired to her study to vow eternal wrath upon Trudy Burrows for having attached herself to the household; or to pray that her mother be enlightened to the extent of moving; but beyond an occasional “mad on,” as Luke said, Mary viewed life from the angle of the doughnut and not that of the hole.
“I wish someone else would try baking these greasy things,” she said, coming in with another plateful.
“Why don’t you slip on a kimono instead of a 28 starched house dress, Mary? Whoever is spick-and-span on Sunday morning?”
“Don’t get Mary to lecturing,” Mrs. Faithful warned between bites. “She’ll make us all go to church if we’re not careful. Are you going out with Gay to-day, Trudy?”
“Yes. And I’m awfully mad at him, too. It’s fierce the way he gambles.”
“Don’t be too harsh; it’s a mistake to nag too much beforehand. He’s a lovely young man and I wish Luke could have one of those green paddock coats. I always like a gentleman’s coat with a sealskin collar, don’t you?”
“If it’s paid for.” Trudy’s eyes darkened. “Just because Gay comes of a wonderful family he thinks he has the keys to the city.”
“He’s a lovely young man,” Mrs. Faithful reiterated. “Oh, what did Beatrice Constantine wear when she came down to the office?”
“Clothes.” Mary was deep in the Sunday paper art section.
“She looked like a Christmas tree on fire,” Luke supplemented. “Lovely butter-coloured hair she has!”
“That will do. She is very nice, but different from our sort.” Mary glanced up from her paper.
Trudy bridled. “She’s no different; she has money. My things have as much style. Gaylord knows her intimately, and he says she is a wretched dancer and pouts if things don’t please her. The best tailors and modistes in the country make her things. Who wouldn’t look well? If I had one tenth of her income I’d be a more Gorgeous Girl than she is––and don’t I wish I had it! Oh, boy! Why, 29 that girl has her maid, the most wonderful jewellery you ever saw, two automobiles of her own and a saddle horse, and her father owns the best apartment house in town, and Beatrice is going to have the best apartment in it when she marries Steve. And you can just bet she knew she was going to marry him a long time ago––because she knew he’d rob the Bank of England to get a fortune. She’s flirted with everyone from an English nobleman to the Prince of Siam, and now she’s marrying the handsomest, brightest, most devoted cave man in the world.” Trudy glanced at Mary. “Yet she doesn’t really care for him, she just wants to be married before she is considered passée.” Trudy was very proud of her occasional French. “She’ll be twenty-six her next birthday!”
“Dear me, girls take their time these days; I was eighteen the day Mr. Faithful led me to the altar.”
“When are you going to get married?” Luke asked Trudy with malice aforethought.
“Oh, I’ll give Mary a chance. She don’t want to dance in the pig trough.”
Mary laid down the paper. “I wish you people would finish eating. Luke, are you going fishing with me out at the old mill? Then you better get the walks swept. We’ll be home in time for dinner, mother. I’ll leave the things as nearly ready as I can. How about you, Trudy?”
“Gay wants me to go to the Boulevard Café––they dance on Sunday just the same as weekdays––and then we’ll do a movie afterward. I suppose Steve and his Beatrice are now revelling in the Constantine conservatory, with Steve walking on all fours to prove his devotion. Why is it some girls have everything? Look at me––no one cares if I live or 30 die. First I had a stepmother, and then I tried living with a great-aunt, and then I went to work. Here I am still working, and a lot of thanks I get for it. I’d like to see the Gorgeous Girl have to work––well, I would!”
Mary brushed by with some dishes. Whereupon Trudy settled herself in an easy-chair and ran through the supplement sections, discussing the latest New York scandal with Mrs. Faithful. The next thing on Trudy’s Sunday program was washing out “just a few little things, Mary dear; and have you a bit of soap I could borrow and may I use the electric iron for half a jiffy?”
Presently there were hung on the line some dabs of chiffon and lace, and Trudy, taking advantage of her softened cuticle, sat down and did her nails, Mrs. Faithful admiring the high polish she achieved and reading Advice to the Anxious aloud for general edification.
After ironing the few little things Trudy shampooed her hair with scented soap and by the time its reddish loveliness was dry it was high noon and she repaired to her bedroom to mend and write letters. At one o’clock, in the process of dressing, she rapped at Mary’s door and asked to borrow a quarter.
“I’m terribly poor this week and if I should have a quarrel with Gay I want to have enough carfare to come home alone––you know how we scrap,” she explained.
About two o’clock there emerged from the front bedroom an excellent imitation of the Gorgeous Girl. Trudy had not exaggerated when she boasted of her own style. Though patronizing credit houses exclusively and possessing not a single woollen garment nor 31 a penny of savings, she tripped down the stairs in answer to Luke’s summons, a fearful, wonderful little person in a gown of fog-coloured chiffon with a violet sash and a great many trimmings of blue crystal beads. She boasted of a large black hat which seemed a combination of a Spanish scarf and a South Sea pirate’s pet headgear, since it had red coral earrings hanging at either side of it. Over her shoulders was a luxurious feline pelt masquerading comfortably under the title of spotted fox. White kid boots, white kid gloves, a silver vanity case, and a red satin rose at her waist completed the costume.
Standing in the offing, about to decamp with Mary, Luke gave a low whistle to tip her off to look out the window and not miss it. Mrs. Faithful was peeking from behind the starched window curtains as there glided before her eyes the most elegant young woman and impressive young man ever earning fifteen dollars and no dollars a week respectively.
“How do they do it?” Mary sighed. “Come, Luke, let’s get on the trail of something green and real.”
A few moments later there hurried along the same pathway a tall young woman in an old tailored suit which impressed one with the wearer’s plainness. Instead of a silver vanity case she was laden with a basket of newspapers, string, and a garden trowel, indicating that fern roots would be the vogue shortly. Shouldering fishing tackle Luke turned his freckled face toward Mary as they began a conversation, and his perpetual grin was momentarily replaced by an expression of respect. At least his sister was not like the average woman, who depends solely on her clothes to make her interesting.
Meantime, Trudy and Gaylord Vondeplosshe were 32 beginning their Sunday outing by walking to the corner in silence––the usual preliminary to a dispute. Gaylord was quite Trudy’s equal as to clothes, not only in style but in forgetfulness to pay for them. Still, he was not unusual after one fully comprehended the type, for they flourished like mushrooms. His had been a rich and powerful family––only-the-father-drank-you-see variety––the sort