The Folly of Others/A Provident Woman/Part 1/Chapter 1

ISS 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?"

"Well" 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."