Books: Roast Beef, Medium
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Edna Ferber >> Roast Beef, Medium
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"Send 'em right up, Mrs. McChesney," the clerk assured her. "Jo'll
attend to those tables. Too bad about old Buck. How's the skirt
business?"
"Skirts? There is no such thing," corrected Emma McChesney gently."
Sausage-casing business, you mean."
"Guess you're right, at that. By the way, how's that handsome
youngster of yours? He's not traveling with you this trip?"
There came a wonderful glow into Emma McChesney's tired face.
"Jock's at college. Coming home for the holidays. We're going to have
a dizzy week in New York. I'm wild to see if those three months of
college have done anything to him, bless his heart! Oh, kind sir,
forgive a mother's fond ravings! Where'd that youngster go with my
bag?"
Up at last in the stuffy, unfriendly, steam-smelling hotel bedroom
Emma McChesney prepared to make herself comfortable. A cocky bell-boy
switched on the lights, adjusted a shade, straightened a curtain. Mrs.
McChesney reached for her pocket-book.
"Just open that window, will you?"
"Pretty cold," remonstrated the bell-boy. "Beginning to snow, too."
"Can't help it. I'll shut it in a minute. The last man that had this
room left a dead cigar around somewhere. Send up a waiter, please. I'm
going to treat myself to dinner in my room."
The boy gone, she unfastened her collar, loosened a shoe that had
pressed a bit too tightly over the instep, took a kimono and toilette
articles out of her bag.
"I'll run through my mail," she told herself. "Then I'll get into
something loose, see to my trunks, have dinner, and turn in early.
Wish Jock were here. We'd have a steak, and some French fried, and a
salad, and I'd let the kid make the dressing, even if he does always
get in too much vinegar--"
She was glancing through her mail. Two from the firm--one from Mary
Cutting--one from the Sure-White Laundry at Dayton (hope they found
that corset-cover)--one from--why, from Jock! From Jock! And he'd
written only two days before. Well!
Sitting there on the edge of the bed she regarded the dear scrawl
lovingly, savoring it, as is the way of a woman. Then she took a
hairpin from the knot of bright hair (also as is the way of woman) and
slit the envelope with a quick, sure rip. M-m-m--it wasn't much as to
length. Just a scrawled page. Emma McChesney's eye plunged into it
hungrily, a smile of anticipation dimpling her lips, lighting up her
face.
"_Dearest Blonde_," it began.
("The nerve of the young imp!")
He hoped the letter would reach her in time. Knew how this weather
mussed up her schedule. He wanted her honest opinion about something--
straight, now! One of the frat fellows was giving a Christmas house-
party. Awful swells, by the way. He was lucky even to be asked. He'd
never remembered a real Christmas--in a home, you know, with a tree,
and skating, and regular high jinks, and a dinner that left you
feeling like a stuffed gooseberry. Old Wells says his grandmother
wears lace caps with lavender ribbons. Can you beat it! Of course he
felt like a hog, even thinking of wanting to stay away from her at
Christmas. Still, Christmas in a New York hotel--! But the fellows had
nagged him to write. Said they'd do it if he didn't. Of course he
hated to think of her spending Christmas alone--felt like a bloody
villain--
Little by little the smile that had wreathed her lips faded and was
gone. The lips still were parted, but by one of those miracles with
which the face expresses what is within the heart their expression had
changed from pleasure to bitter pain.
She sat there, at the edge of the bed, staring dully until the black
scrawls danced on the white page. With the letter before her she
raised her hand slowly and wiped away a hot, blinding mist of tears
with her open palm. Then she read it again, dully, as though every
selfish word of it had not already stamped itself on her brain and
heart.
[Illustration: "She read it again, dully, as though every selfish word
had not already stamped itself on her brain and heart"]
After the second reading she still sat there, her eyes staring down at
her lap. Once she brushed an imaginary fleck of lint from the lap of
her blue serge skirt--brushed, and brushed and brushed, with a
mechanical, pathetic little gesture that showed how completely absent
her mind was from the room in which she sat. Then her hand fell idle,
and she became very still, a crumpled, tragic, hopeless look rounding
the shoulders that were wont to hold themselves so erect and
confident.
A tentative knock at the door. The figure on the bed did not stir.
Another knock, louder this time. Emma McChesney sat up with a start.
She shivered as she became conscious of the icy December air pouring
into the little room. She rose, walked to the window, closed it with a
bang, and opened the door in time to intercept the third knock.
A waiter proffered her a long card. "Dinner, Madame?"
"Oh!" She shook her head. "Sorry I've changed my mind. I--I shan't
want any dinner."
She shut the door again and stood with her back against it, eying the
bed. In her mind's eye she had already thrown herself upon it, buried
her face in the nest of pillows, and given vent to the flood of tears
that was beating at her throat. She took a quick step toward the bed,
stopped, turned abruptly, and walked toward the mirror.
"Emma McChesney," she said aloud to the woman in the glass, "buck up,
old girl! Bad luck comes in bunches of threes. It's like breaking the
first cup in a new Haviland set. You can always count on smashing two
more. This is your third. So pick up the pieces and throw 'em in the
ash-can."
Then she fastened her collar, buttoned her shoe, pulled down her
shirtwaist all around, smeared her face with cold cream, wiped it with
a towel, smoothed her hair, donned her hat. The next instant the
little room was dark, and Emma McChesney was marching down the long,
red-carpeted hallway to the elevator, her head high, her face set.
Down-stairs in the lobby--"How about my trunks?" she inquired of a
porter.
That blue-shirted individual rubbed a hard brown hand over his cheek
worriedly.
"They ain't come."
"Ain't come!"--surprise disregarded grammar.
Nope. No signs of 'em. I'll tell you what: I think prob'ly they was
overlooked in the rush, the train being late from Dayton when you
started. Likely they'll be in on the ten-thirteen. I'll send 'em up
the minute they get in."
"I wish you would. I've got to get my stuff out early. I can't keep
customers waiting for me. Late, as it is."
She approached the clerk once more. "Anything at the theaters?"
"Well, nothing much, Mrs. McChesney. Christmas coming on kind of puts
a crimp in the show business. Nice little bill on at the Majestic, if
you like vaudeville."
"Crazy about it. Always get so excited watching to see if the next act
is going to be as rotten as the last one. It always is."
From eight-fifteen until ten-thirty Mrs. McChesney sat absolutely
expressionless while a shrill blonde lady and a nasal dark gentleman
went through what the program ironically called a "comedy sketch,"
followed by a chummy person who came out in evening dress to sing a
sentimental ditty, shed the evening dress to reappear in an ankle-
length fluffy pink affair; shucked the fluffy pink affair for a
child's pinafore, sash, and bare knees; discarded the kiddie frock,
disclosing a bathing-suit; left the bathing-suit behind the wings in
favor of satin knee-breeches and tight jacket--and very discreetly
stopped there, probably for no reason except to give way to the next
act, consisting of two miraculously thin young men in lavender dress
suits and white silk hats, who sang and clogged in unison, like two
things hung on a single wire.
The night air was grateful to her hot forehead as she walked from the
theater to the hotel.
"Trunks in?" to the porter.
"No sign of 'em, lady. They didn't come in on the ten. Think they'd
better wire back to Dayton."
But the next morning Mrs. McChesney was in the depot baggage-room when
Dayton wired back:
_"Trunks not here. Try Columbus, Nebraska."_
"Crash!" said Emma McChesney to the surprised baggage-master. "There
goes my Haviland vegetable-dish."
"Were you selling china?" he inquired.
"No, I wasn't," replied Emma McChesney viciously. "And if you don't
let me stand here and give my frank, unbiased opinion of this road,
its president, board of directors, stockholders, baggage-men, Pullman
porters, and other things thereto appertaining, I'll probably have
hysterics."
"Give it," said the baggage-master." You'll feel better. And we're
used to it."
She gave it. When she had finished:
"Did you say you was selling goods on the road? Say, that's a hell of
a job for a woman! Excuse me, lady. I didn't mean--"
"I think perhaps you're right," said Emma McChesney slowly. "It is
just that."
"Well, anyway, we'll do our best to trace it. Guess you're in for a
wait."
Emma McChesney waited. She made the rounds of her customers, and
waited. She wired her firm, and waited. She wrote Jock to run along
and enjoy himself, and waited. She cut and fitted a shirt-waist, took
her hat apart and retrimmed it, made the rounds of her impatient
customers again, threatened to sue the road, visited the baggage-room
daily--and waited.
Four weary, nerve-racking days passed. It was late afternoon of the
fourth day when Mrs. McChesney entered the elevator to go to her room.
She had come from another fruitless visit to the baggage-room. She
sank into a leather-cushioned seat in a corner of the lift. Two men
entered briskly, followed by a bellboy. Mrs. McChesney did not look
up.
"Well, I'll be dinged!" boomed a throaty voice. "Mrs. McChesney, by
the Great Horn Spoon! H'are you? Talking about you this minute to my
friend here."
Emma McChesney, with the knowledge of her lost sample-trunks striking
her afresh, looked up and smiled bravely into the plump pink face of
Fat Ed Meyers, traveling representative for her firm's bitterest
rival, the Strauss Sans-silk Skirt Company.
"Talking about me, Mr. Meyers? Sufficient grounds for libel, right
there."
The little sallow, dark man just at Meyers' elbow was gazing at her
unguardedly. She felt that he had appraised her from hat to heels. Ed
Meyers placed a plump hand on the little man's shoulder.
"Abe, you tell the lady what I was saying. This is Mr. Abel Fromkin,
maker of the Fromkin Form-Fit Skirt. Abe, this is the wonderful Mrs.
McChesney."
"Sorry I can't wait to hear what you've said of me. This is my floor."
Mrs. McChesney was already leaving the elevator.
"Here! Wait a minute!" Fat Ed Meyers was out and standing beside her,
his movements unbelievably nimble. "Will you have dinner with us, Mrs.
McChesney?"
"Thanks. Not to-night."
Meyers turned to the waiting elevator. "Fromkin, you go on up with the
boy; I'll talk to the lady a minute."
A little displeased frown appeared on Emma McChesney's face.
"You'll have to excuse me, Mr. Meyers, I--"
"Heigh-ho for that haughty stuff, Mrs. McChesney," grinned Ed Meyers.
"Don't turn up your nose at that little Kike friend of mine till
you've heard what I have to say. Now just let me talk a minute.
Fromkin's heard all about you. He's got a proposition to make. And it
isn't one to sniff at."
He lowered his voice mysteriously in the silence of the dim hotel
corridor.
"Fromkin started in a little one-room hole-in-the-wall over on the
East Side. Lived on a herring and a hunk of rye bread. Wife used to
help him sew. That was seven years ago. In three years, or less,
she'll have the regulation uniform--full length seal coat, bunch of
paradise, five-drop diamond La Valliere set in platinum, electric
brougham. Abe has got a business head, take it from me. But he's wise
enough to know that business isn't the rough-and-tumble game it used
to be. He realizes that he'll do for the workrooms, but not for the
front shop. He knows that if he wants to keep on growing he's got to
have what they call a steerer. Somebody smooth, and polished, and
politic, and what the highbrows call suave. Do you pronounce that with
a long _a_, or two dots over? Anyway, you get me. You're all those
things and considerable few besides. He's wise to the fact that a
business man's got to have poise these days, and balance. And when it
comes to poise and balance, Mrs. McChesney, you make a Fairbanks scale
look like a raft at sea."
"While I don't want to seem to hurry you," drawled Mrs. McChesney,
"might I suggest that you shorten the overture and begin on the first
act?"
"Well, you know how I feel about your business genius."
"Yes, I know," enigmatically.
Ed Meyers grinned. "Can't forget those two little business
misunderstandings we had, can you?"
"Business understandings," corrected Emma McChesney.
"Call 'em anything your little heart dictates, but listen. Fromkin
knows all about you. Knows you've got a million friends in the trade,
that you know skirts from the belt to the hem. I don't know just what
his proposition is, but I'll bet he'll give you half interest in the
livest, come-upest little skirt factory in the country, just for a few
thousands capital, maybe, and your business head at the executive end.
Now just let that sink in before you speak."
"And why," inquired Emma McChesney, "don't you grab this matchless
business opportunity yourself?"
"Because, fair lady, Fromkin wouldn't let me get in with a crowbar.
He'll never be able to pronounce his t's right, and when he's dressed
up he looks like a 'bus-boy at Mouquin's, but he can see a bluff
farther than I can throw one--and that's somewhere beyond the horizon,
as you'll admit. Talk it over with us after dinner then?"
Emma McChesney was regarding the plump, pink, eager face before her
with keen, level, searching eyes.
"Yes," she said slowly, "I will."
"Cafe? We'll have a bottle--"
"No."
"Oh! Er--parlor?"
Mrs. McChesney smiled. "I won't ask you to make yourself that
miserable. You can't smoke in the parlor. We'll find a quiet corner in
the writing-room, where you men can light up. I don't want to take
advantage of you."
[Illustration: "'Not that you look your age--not by ten years!'"]
Down in the writing-room at eight they formed a strange little group.
Ed Meyers, flushed and eager, his pink face glowing like a peony,
talking, arguing, smoking, reasoning, coaxing, with the spur of a fat
commission to urge him on; Abel Fromkin, with his peculiarly pallid
skin made paler in contrast to the purplish-black line where the razor
had passed, showing no hint of excitement except in the restless
little black eyes and in the work-scarred hands that rolled cigarette
after cigarette, each glowing for one brief instant, only to die down
to a blackened ash the next; Emma McChesney, half fascinated, half
distrustful, listening in spite of herself, and trying to still a
small inner voice--a voice that had never advised her ill.
"You know the ups and downs to this game," Ed Meyers was saying. "When
I met you there in the elevator you looked like you'd lost your last
customer. You get pretty disgusted with it all, at times, like the
rest of us."
"At that minute," replied Emma McChesney, "I was so disgusted that if
some one had called me up on the 'phone and said, 'Hullo, Mrs.
McChesney! Will you marry me?' I'd have said: 'Yes. Who is this?'"
"There! That's just it. I don't want to be impolite, or anything like
that, Mrs. McChesney, but you're no kid. Not that you look your age--
not by ten years! But I happen to know you're teetering somewhere
between thirty-six and the next top. Ain't that right?"
"Is that a argument to put to a lady?" remonstrated Abel Fromkin.
Fat Ed Meyers waved the interruption away with a gesture of his
strangely slim hands. "This ain't an argument. It's facts. Another ten
years on the road, and where'll you be? In the discard. A man of
forty-six can keep step with the youngsters, even if it does make him
puff a bit. But a woman of forty-six--the road isn't the place for
her. She's tired. Tired in the morning; tired at night. She wants her
kimono and her afternoon snooze. You've seen some of those old girls
on the road. They've come down step by step until you spot 'em,
bleached hair, crow's-feet around the eyes, mussy shirt-waist, yellow
and red complexion, demonstrating green and lavender gelatine messes
in the grocery of some department store. I don't say that a brainy
corker of a saleswoman like you would come down like that. But you've
got to consider sickness and a lot of other things. Those six weeks
last summer with the fever at Glen Rock put a crimp in you, didn't it?
You've never been yourself since then. Haven't had a decent chance to
rest up."
"No," said Emma McChesney wearily.
"Furthermore, now that old T. A.'s cashed in, how do you know what
young Buck's going to do? He don't know shucks about the skirt
business. They've got to take in a third party to keep it a close
corporation. It was all between old Buck, Buck junior, and old lady
Buck. How can you tell whether the new member will want a woman on the
road, or not?"
A little steely light hardened the blue of Mrs. McChesney's eyes.
"We'll leave the firm of T. A. Buck out of this discussion, please."
"Oh, very well!" Ed Meyers was unabashed. "Let's talk about Fromkin.
He don't object, do you, Abe? It's just like this. He needs your smart
head. You need his money. It'll mean a sure thing for you--a share in
a growing and substantial business. When you get your road men trained
it'll mean that you won't need to go out on the road yourself, except
for a little missionary trip now and then, maybe. No more infernal
early trains, no more bum hotel grub, no more stuffy, hot hotel rooms,
no more haughty lady buyers--gosh, I wish I had the chance!"
Emma McChesney sat very still. Two scarlet spots glowed in her cheeks.
"No one appreciates your gift of oratory more than I do, Mr. Meyers.
Your flow of language, coupled with your peculiar persuasive powers,
make a combination a statue couldn't resist. But I think it would sort
of rest me if Mr. Fromkin were to say a word, seeing that it's really
his funeral."
Abel Fromkin started nervously, and put his dead cigarette to his
lips. "I ain't much of a talker," he said, almost sheepishly. "Meyers,
he's got it down fine. I tell you what. I'll be in New York the
twenty-first. We can go over the books and papers and the whole
business. And I like you should know my wife. And I got a little girl
--Would you believe it, that child ain't more as a year old, and says
Papa and Mama like a actress!"
"Sure," put in Ed Meyers, disregarding the more intimate family
details. "You two get together and fix things up in shape; then you
can sign up and have it off your mind so you can enjoy the festive
Christmas season."
Emma McChesney had been gazing out of the window to where the street-
lamps were reflected in the ice-covered pavements. Now she spoke,
still staring out upon the wintry street.
Christmas isn't a season. It's a feeling. And I haven't got it."
"Oh, come now, Mrs. McChesney!" objected Ed Meyers.
With a sudden, quick movement Emma McChesney turned from the window to
the little dark man who was watching her so intently. She faced him
squarely, as though utterly disregarding Ed Meyers' flattery and
banter and cajolery. The little man before her seemed to recognize the
earnestness of the moment. He leaned forward a bit attentively.
"If what has been said is true," she began, this ought to be a good
thing for me. If I go into it, I'll go in heart, soul, brain, and
pocket-book. I do know the skirt business from thread to tape and back
again. I've managed to save a few thousand dollars. Only a woman could
understand how I've done it. I've scrimped on little things. I've
denied myself necessities. I've worn silk blouses instead of linen
ones to save laundry-bills and taken a street-car or 'bus to save a
quarter or fifty cents. I've always tried to look well dressed and
immaculate--"
"You!" exclaimed Ed Meyers. "Why, say, you're what I call a swell
dresser. Nothing flashy, understand, or loud, but the quiet, good
stuff that spells ready money."
"M-m-m--yes. But it wasn't always so ready. Anyway, I always managed
somehow. The boy's at college. Sometimes I wonder--well, that's
another story. I've saved, and contrived, and planned ahead for a
rainy day. There have been two or three times when I thought it had
come. Sprinkled pretty heavily, once or twice. But I've just turned up
my coat-collar, tucked my hat under my skirt, and scooted for a tree.
And each time it has turned out to be just a summer shower, with the
sun coming out bright and warm."
Her frank, clear, honest, blue eyes were plumbing the depths of the
black ones. "Those few thousand dollars that you hold so lightly will
mean everything to me. They've been my cyclone-cellar. If--"
Through the writing-room sounded a high-pitched, monotonous voice with
a note of inquiry in it.
"Mrs. McChesney! Mr. Fraser! Mr. Ludwig! Please! Mrs. McChesney! Mr.
Fraser! Mr. Lud--"
"Here, boy!" Mrs. McChesney took the little yellow envelope from the
salver that the boy held out to her. Her quick glance rested on the
written words. She rose, her face colorless.
"Not bad news?" The two men spoke simultaneously.
"I don't know," said Emma McChesney. "What would you say?"
She handed the slip of paper to Fat Ed Meyers. He read it in silence.
Then once more, aloud:
"'Take first train back to New York. Spalding will finish your trip.'"
"Why--say--" began Meyers.
"Well?"
"Why--say--this--this looks as if you were fired!"
"Does, doesn't it?" She smiled.
"Then our little agreement goes?" The two men were on their feet,
eager, alert. "That means you'll take Fromkin's offer?"
"It means that our little agreement is off. I'm sorry to disappoint
you. I want to thank you both for your trouble. I must have been crazy
to listen to you for a minute. I wouldn't have if I'd been myself."
"But that telegram--"
"It's signed, 'T. A. Buck.' I'll take a chance."
The two men stared after her, disappointment and bewilderment chasing
across each face.
"Well, I thought I knew women, but--" began Ed Meyers fluently.
Passing the desk, Mrs. McChesney heard her name. She glanced toward
the clerk. He was just hanging up the telephone-receiver.
"Baggage-room says the depot just notified 'em your trunks were traced
to Columbia City. They're on their way here now."
"Columbia City!" repeated Emma McChesney. "Do you know, I believe I've
learned to hate the name of the discoverer of this fair land."
Up in her room she opened the crumpled telegram again, and regarded it
thoughtfully before she began to pack her bag.
The thoughtful look was still there when she entered the big bright
office of the T. A. Buck Featherloom Petticoat Company. And with it
was another expression that resembled contrition.
"Mr. Buck's waiting for you," a stenographer told her.
Mrs. McChesney opened the door of the office marked "Private."
Two men rose. One she recognized as the firm's lawyer. The other, who
came swiftly toward her, was T. A. Buck--no longer junior. There was a
new look about him--a look of responsibility, of efficiency, of clear-
headed knowledge.
The two clasped hands--a firm, sincere, understanding grip.
Buck spoke first. "It's good to see you. We were talking of you as you
came in. You know Mr. Beggs, of course. He has some things to tell
you--and so have I. His will be business things, mine will be
personal. I got there before father passed away--thank God! But he
couldn't speak. He'd anticipated that with his clear-headedness, and
he'd written what he wanted to say. A great deal of it was about you.
I want you to read that letter later."
"I shall consider it a privilege," said Emma McChesney.
Mr. Beggs waved her toward a chair. She took it in silence. She heard
him in silence, his sonorous voice beating upon her brain.
"There are a great many papers and much business detail, but that will
be attended to later," began Beggs ponderously. "You are to be
congratulated on the position of esteem and trust which you held in
the mind of your late employer. By the terms of his will--I'll put it
briefly, for the moment--you are offered the secretaryship of the firm
of T. A. Buck, Incorporated. Also you are bequeathed thirty shares in
the firm. Of course, the company will have to be reorganized. The late
Mr. Buck had great trust in your capabilities."
Emma McChesney rose to her feet, her breath coming quickly. She turned
to T. A. Buck. "I want you to know--I want you to know--that just
before your telegram came I was half tempted to leave the firm. To--"
"Can't blame you," smiled T. A. Buck. "You've had a rotten six months
of it, beginning with that illness and ending with those infernal
trunks. The road's no place for a woman."
[Illustration: "'Christmas isn't a season...it's a feeling, and, thank
God, I've got it!'"]
"Nonsense!" flashed Emma McChesney. "I've loved it. I've gloried in
it. And I've earned my living by it. Giving it up--don't now think me
ungrateful--won't be so easy, I can tell you."
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