Great American Short Stories (Dover Thrift Editions)

by Paul Negri

  Warren fidgeted. Then with a sudden charitable impulse he decided to try part of his line on her. He turned and looked at her eyes.

  “You’ve got an awfully kissable mouth,” he began quietly.

  This was a remark that he sometimes made to girls at college proms when they were talking in just such half-dark as this. Bernice distinctly jumped. She turned an ungraceful red and became clumsy with her fan. No one had ever made such a remark to her before.

  “Fresh!”—the word had slipped out before she realized it, and she bit her lip. Too late she decided to be amused, and offered him a flustered smile.

  Warren was annoyed. Though not accustomed to have that remark taken seriously, still it usually provoked a laugh or a paragraph of sentimental banter. And he hated to be called fresh, except in a joking way. His charitable impulse died and he switched the topic.

  “Jim Strain and Ethel Demorest sitting out as usual,” he commented.

  This was more in Bernice’s line, but a faint regret mingled with her relief as the subject changed. Men did not talk to her about kissable mouths, but she knew that they talked in some such way to other girls.

  “Oh, yes,” she said, and laughed. “I hear they’ve been mooning round for years without a red penny. Isn’t it silly?”

  Warren’s disgust increased. Jim Strain was a close friend of his brother’s, and anyway he considered it bad form to sneer at people for not having money. But Bernice had had no intention of sneering. She was merely nervous.

  II

  When Marjorie and Bernice reached home at half after midnight they said good night at the top of the stairs. Though cousins, they were not intimates. As a matter of fact Marjorie had no female intimates—she considered girls stupid. Bernice on the contrary all through this parent-arranged visit had rather longed to exchange those confidences flavored with giggles and tears that she considered an indispensable factor in all feminine intercourse. But in this respect she found Marjorie rather cold; felt somehow the same difficulty in talking to her that she had in talking to men. Marjorie never giggled, was never frightened, seldom embarrassed, and in fact had very few of the qualities which Bernice considered appropriately and blessedly feminine.

  As Bernice busied herself with toothbrush and paste this night she wondered for the hundredth time why she never had any attention when she was away from home. That her family were the wealthiest in Eau Claire, that her mother entertained tremendously, gave little dinners for her daughter before all dances and bought her a car of her own to drive round in, never occurred to her as factors in her home-town social success. Like most girls she had been brought up on the warm milk prepared by Annie Fellows Johnston and on novels in which the female was beloved because of certain mysterious womanly qualities, always mentioned but never displayed.

  Bernice felt a vague pain that she was not at present engaged in being popular. She did not know that had it not been for Marjorie’s campaigning she would have danced the entire evening with one man; but she knew that even in Eau Claire other girls with less position and less pulchritude were given a much bigger rush. She attributed this to something subtly unscrupulous in those girls. It had never worried her, and if it had her mother would have assured her that the other girls cheapened themselves and that men really respected girls like Bernice.

  She turned out the light in her bathroom, and on an impulse decided to go in and chat for a moment with her aunt Josephine, whose light was still on. Her soft slippers bore her noiselessly down the carpeted hall, but hearing voices inside she stopped near the partly opened door. Then she caught her own name, and without any definite intention of eavesdropping lingered—and the thread of the conversation going on inside pierced her consciousness sharply as if it had been drawn through with a needle.

  “She’s absolutely hopeless!” It was Marjorie’s voice. “Oh, I know what you’re going to say! So many people have told you how pretty and sweet she is, and how she can cook! What of it? She has a bum time. Men don’t like her.”

  “What’s a little cheap popularity?”

  Mrs. Harvey sounded annoyed.

  “It’s everything when you’re eighteen,” said Marjorie emphatically. “I’ve done my best. I’ve been polite and I’ve made men dance with her, but they just won’t stand being bored. When I think of that gorgeous coloring wasted on such a ninny, and think what Martha Carey could do with it—oh!”

  “There’s no courtesy these days.”

  Mrs. Harvey’s voice implied that modern situations were too much for her. When she was a girl all young ladies who belonged to nice families had glorious times.

  “Well,” said Marjorie, “no girl can permanently bolster up a lame-duck visitor, because these days it’s every girl for herself. I’ve even tried to drop her hints about clothes and things, and she’s been furious—given me the funniest looks. She’s sensitive enough to know she’s not getting away with much, but I’ll bet she consoles herself by thinking that she’s very virtuous and that I’m too gay and fickle and will come to a bad end. All unpopular girls think that way. Sour grapes! Sarah Hopkins refers to Genevieve and Roberta and me as gardenia girls! I’ll bet she’d give ten years of her life and her European education to be a gardenia girl and have three or four men in love with her and be cut in on every few feet at dances.”

  “It seems to me,” interrupted Mrs. Harvey rather wearily, “that you ought to be able to do something for Bernice. I know she’s not very vivacious.”

  Marjorie groaned.

  “Vivacious! Good grief! I’ve never heard her say anything to a boy except that it’s hot or the floor’s crowded or that she’s going to school in New York next year. Sometimes she asks them what kind of car they have and tells them the kind she has. Thrilling!”

  There was a short silence, and then Mrs. Harvey took up her refrain: “All I know is that other girls not half so sweet and attractive get partners. Martha Carey, for instance, is stout and loud, and her mother is distinctly common. Roberta Dillon is so thin this year that she looks as though Arizona were the place for her. She’s dancing herself to death.”

  “But, mother,” objected Marjorie impatiently, “Martha is cheerful and awfully witty and an awfully slick girl, and Roberta’s a marvellous dancer. She’s been popular for ages!”

  Mrs. Harvey yawned.

  “I think it’s that crazy Indian blood in Bernice,” continued Marjorie. “Maybe she’s a reversion to type. Indian women all just sat round and never said anything.”

  “Go to bed, you silly child,” laughed Mrs. Harvey. “I wouldn’t have told you that if I’d thought you were going to remember it. And I think most of your ideas are perfectly idiotic,” she finished sleepily.

  There was another silence, while Marjorie considered whether or not convincing her mother was worth the trouble. People over forty can seldom be permanently convinced of anything. At eighteen our convictions are hills from which we look; at forty-five they are caves in which we hide.

  Having decided this, Marjorie said good night. When she came out into the hall it was quite empty.

  III

  While Marjorie was breakfasting late next day Bernice came into the room with a rather formal good morning, sat down opposite, stared intently over and slightly moistened her lips.

  “What’s on your mind?” inquired Marjorie, rather puzzled.

  Bernice paused before she threw her hand-grenade.

  “I heard what you said about me to your mother last night.”

  Marjorie was startled, but she showed only a faintly heightened color and her voice was quite even when she spoke.

  “Where were you?”

  “In the hall. I didn’t mean to listen—at first.”

  After an involuntary look of contempt Marjorie dropped her eyes and became very interested in balancing a stray corn-flake on her finger.

  “I guess I’d better go back to Eau Claire—if I’m such a nuisance.” Bernice’s lower lip was trembling violently and she continued on a wa
vering note: “I’ve tried to be nice, and—and I’ve been first neglected and then insulted. No one ever visited me and got such treatment.”

  Marjorie was silent.

  “But I’m in the way, I see. I’m a drag on you. Your friends don’t like me.” She paused, and then remembered another one of her grievances. “Of course I was furious last week when you tried to hint to me that that dress was unbecoming. Don’t you think I know how to dress myself?”

  “No,” murmured Marjorie less than half-aloud.

  “What?”

  “I didn’t hint anything,” said Marjorie succinctly. “I said, as I remember, that it was better to wear a becoming dress three times straight than to alternate it with two frights.”

  “Do you think that was a very nice thing to say?”

  “I wasn’t trying to be nice.” Then after a pause: “When do you want to go?”

  Bernice drew in her breath sharply.

  “Oh!” It was a little half-cry.

  Marjorie looked up in surprise.

  “Didn’t you say you were going?”

  “Yes, but——”

  “Oh, you were only bluffing!”

  They stared at each other across the breakfast-table for a moment. Misty waves were passing before Bernice’s eyes, while Marjorie’s face wore that rather hard expression that she used when slightly intoxicated undergraduates were making love to her.

  “So you were bluffing,” she repeated as if it were what she might have expected.

  Bernice admitted it by bursting into tears. Marjorie’s eyes showed boredom.

  “You’re my cousin,” sobbed Bernice. “I’m v-v-visiting you. I was to stay a month, and if I go home my mother will know and she’ll wah-wonder——”

  Marjorie waited until the shower of broken words collapsed into little sniffles.

  “I’ll give you my month’s allowance,” she said coldly, “and you can spend this last week anywhere you want. There’s a very nice hotel——”

  Bernice’s sobs rose to a flute note, and rising of a sudden she fled from the room.

  An hour later, while Marjorie was in the library absorbed in composing one of those non-committal, marvellously elusive letters that only a young girl can write, Bernice reappeared, very red-eyed and consciously calm. She cast no glance at Marjorie but took a book at random from the shelf and sat down as if to read. Marjorie seemed absorbed in her letter and continued writing. When the clock showed noon Bernice closed her book with a snap.

  “I suppose I’d better get my railroad ticket.”

  This was not the beginning of the speech she had rehearsed upstairs, but as Marjorie was not getting her cues—wasn’t urging her to be reasonable; it’s all a mistake—it was the best opening she could muster.

  “Just wait till I finish this letter,” said Marjorie without looking round. “I want to get it off in the next mail.”

  After another minute, during which her pen scratched busily, she turned round and relaxed with an air of “at your service.” Again Bernice had to speak.

  “Do you want me to go home?”

  “Well,” said Marjorie, considering, “I suppose if you’re not having a good time you’d better go. No use being miserable.”

  “Don’t you think common kindness——”

  “Oh, please don’t quote ‘Little Women’!” cried Marjorie impatiently. “That’s out of style.”

  “You think so?”

  “Heavens, yes! What modern girl could live like those inane females?”

  “They were the models for our mothers.”

  Marjorie laughed.

  “Yes, they were—not! Besides, our mothers were all very well in their way, but they know very little about their daughters’ problems.”

  Bernice drew herself up.

  “Please don’t talk about my mother.”

  Marjorie laughed.

  “I don’t think I mentioned her.”

  Bernice felt that she was being led away from her subject.

  “Do you think you’ve treated me very well?”

  “I’ve done my best. You’re rather hard material to work with.”

  The lids of Bernice’s eyes reddened.

  “I think you’re hard and selfish, and you haven’t a feminine quality in you.”

  “Oh, my Lord!” cried Marjorie in desperation. “You little nut! Girls like you are responsible for all the tiresome colorless marriages; all those ghastly inefficiencies that pass as feminine qualities. What a blow it must be when a man with imagination marries the beautiful bundle of clothes that he’s been building ideals round, and finds that she’s just a weak, whining, cowardly mass of affectations!”

  Bernice’s mouth had slipped half open.

  “The womanly woman!” continued Marjorie. “Her whole early life is occupied in whining criticisms of girls like me who really do have a good time.”

  Bernice’s jaw descended farther as Marjorie’s voice rose.

  “There’s some excuse for an ugly girl whining. If I’d been irretrievably ugly I’d never have forgiven my parents for bringing me into the world. But you’re starting life without any handicap—” Marjorie’s little fist clenched. “If you expect me to weep with you you’ll be disappointed. Go or stay, just as you like.” And picking up her letters she left the room.

  Bernice claimed a headache and failed to appear at luncheon. They had a matinée date for the afternoon, but the headache persisting, Marjorie made explanation to a not very downcast boy. But when she returned late in the afternoon she found Bernice with a strangely set face waiting for her in her bedroom.

  “I’ve decided,” began Bernice without preliminaries, “that maybe you’re right about things—possibly not. But if you’ll tell me why your friends aren’t—aren’t interested in me I’ll see if I can do what you want me to.”

  Marjorie was at the mirror shaking down her hair.

  “Do you mean it?”

  “Yes.”

  “Without reservations? Will you do exactly what I say?”

  “Well, I——”

  “Well nothing! Will you do exactly as I say?”

  “If they’re sensible things.”

  “They’re not! You’re no case for sensible things.”

  “ Are you going to make—to recommend——”

  “Yes, everything. If I tell you to take boxing-lessons you’ll have to do it. Write home and tell your mother you’re going to stay another two weeks.”

  “If you’ll tell me——”

  “All right—I’ll just give you a few examples now. First, you have no ease of manner. Why? Because you’re never sure about your personal appearance. When a girl feels that she’s perfectly groomed and dressed she can forget that part of her. That’s charm. The more parts of yourself you can afford to forget the more charm you have.”

  “Don’t I look all right?”

  “No; for instance, you never take care of your eyebrows. They’re black and lustrous, but by leaving them straggly they’re a blemish. They’d be beautiful if you’d take care of them in one-tenth the time you take doing nothing. You’re going to brush them so that they’ll grow straight.”

  Bernice raised the brows in question.

  “Do you mean to say that men notice eyebrows?”

  “Yes—subconsciously. And when you go home you ought to have your teeth straightened a little. It’s almost imperceptible, still——”

  “But I thought,” interrupted Bernice in bewilderment, “that you despised little dainty feminine things like that.”

  “I hate dainty minds,” answered Marjorie. “But a girl has to be dainty in person. If she looks like a million dollars she can talk about Russia, ping-pong, or the League of Nations and get away with it.”

  “What else?”

  “Oh, I’m just beginning! There’s your dancing.”

  “Don’t I dance all right?”

  “No, you don’t—you lean on a man; yes, you do—ever so slightly. I noticed it when we were dancin
g together yesterday. And you dance standing up straight instead of bending over a little. Probably some old lady on the side-line once told you that you looked so dignified that way. But except with a very small girl it’s much harder on the man, and he’s the one that counts.”

  “Go on.” Bernice’s brain was reeling.

  “Well, you’ve got to learn to be nice to men who are sad birds. You look as if you’d been insulted whenever you’re thrown with any except the most popular boys. Why, Bernice, I’m cut in on every few feet—and who does most of it? Why, those very sad birds. No girl can afford to neglect them. They’re the big part of any crowd. Young boys too shy to talk are the very best conversational practice. Clumsy boys are the best dancing practice. If you can follow them and yet look graceful you can follow a baby tank across a barb-wire sky-scraper.”

  Bernice sighed profoundly, but Marjorie was not through.

  “If you go to a dance and really amuse, say, three sad birds that dance with you; if you talk so well to them that they forget they’re stuck with you, you’ve done something. They’ll come back next time, and gradually so many sad birds will dance with you that the attractive boys will see there’s no danger of being stuck—then they’ll dance with you.”

  “Yes,” agreed Bernice faintly. “I think I begin to see.”

  “And finally,” concluded Marjorie, “poise and charm will just come. You’ll wake up some morning knowing you’ve attained it, and men will know it too.”

  Bernice rose.

  “It’s been awfully kind of you—but nobody’s ever talked to me like this before, and I feel sort of startled.”

  Marjorie made no answer but gazed pensively at her own image in the mirror.

  “You’re a peach to help me,” continued Bernice.

  Still Marjorie did not answer, and Bernice thought she had seemed too grateful.

  “I know you don’t like sentiment,” she said timidly.

  Marjorie turned to her quickly.

  “Oh, I wasn’t thinking about that. I was considering whether we hadn’t better bob your hair.”

  Bernice collapsed backward upon the bed.

  IV