To Bernice the next week was a revelation. With the feeling that
people really enjoyed looking at her and listening to her came
the foundation of self-confidence. Of course there were numerous
mistakes at first. She did not know, for instance, that
Draycott Deyo was studying for the ministry; she was unaware that
he had cut in on her because he thought she was a quiet,
reserved girl. Had she known these things she would not have
treated him to the line which began "Hello, Shell Shock!" and
continued with the bathtub story--"It takes a frightful lot of
energy to fix my hair in the summer--there's so much of it--so I
always fix it first and powder my face and put on my hat; then I
get into the bathtub, and dress afterward. Don't you think that's
the best plan?"
Though Draycott Deyo was in the throes of difficulties concerning
baptism by immersion and might possibly have seen a connection,
it must be admitted that he did not. He considered feminine
bathing an immoral subject, and gave her some of his ideas on the
depravity of modern society.
But to offset that unfortunate occurrence Bernice had several
signal successes to her credit. Little Otis Ormonde pleaded off
from a trip East and elected instead to follow her with a
puppylike devotion, to the amusement of his crowd and to the
irritation of G. Reece Stoddard, several of whose afternoon calls
Otis completely ruined by the disgusting tenderness of the
glances he bent on Bernice. He even told her the story of the
two-by-four and the dressing-room to show her how frightfully
mistaken he and every one else had been in their first judgment
of her. Bernice laughed off that incident with a slight sinking
sensation.
Of all Bernice's conversation perhaps the best known and most
universally approved was the line about the bobbing of her hair.
"Oh, Bernice, when you goin' to get the hair bobbed?"
"Day after to-morrow maybe," she would reply, laughing. "Will you
come and see me? Because I'm counting on you, you know."
"Will we? You know! But you better hurry up."
Bernice, whose tonsorial intentions were strictly dishonorable,
would laugh again.
"Pretty soon now. You'd be surprised."
But perhaps the most significant symbol of her success was the
gray car of the hypercritical Warren McIntyre, parked daily in
front of the Harvey house. At first the parlor-maid was
distinctly startled when he asked for Bernice instead of
Marjorie; after a week of it she told the cook that Miss Bernice
had gotta holda Miss Marjorie's best fella.
And Miss Bernice had. Perhaps it began with Warren's desire to
rouse jealousy in Marjorie; perhaps it was the familiar though
unrecognized strain of Marjorie in Bernice's conversation;
perhaps it was both of these and something of sincere attraction
besides. But somehow the collective mind of the younger set knew
within a week that Marjorie's most reliable beau had made an
amazing face-about and was giving an indisputable rush to
Marjorie's guest. The question of the moment was how Marjorie
would take it. Warren called Bernice on the 'phone twice a day,
sent her notes, and they were frequently seen together in his
roadster, obviously engrossed in one of those tense, significant
conversations as to whether or not he was sincere.
Marjorie on being twitted only laughed. She said she was mighty
glad that Warren had at last found some one who appreciated him.
So the younger set laughed, too, and guessed that Marjorie didn't
care and let it go at that.
One afternoon when there were only three days left of her visit
Bernice was waiting in the hall for Warren, with whom she was
going to a bridge party. She was in rather a blissful mood, and
when Marjorie--also bound for the party--appeared beside her and
began casually to adjust her hat in the mirror, Bernice was
utterly unprepared for anything in the nature of a clash.
Marjorie did her work very coldly and succinctly in three
sentences.
"You may as well get Warren out of your head," she said coldly.
"What?" Bernice was utterly astounded.
"You may as well stop making a fool of yourself over Warren
McIntyre. He doesn't care a snap of his fingers about you."
For a tense moment they regarded each other--Marjorie scornful,
aloof; Bernice astounded, half-angry, half-afraid. Then two cars
drove up in front of the house and there was a riotous honking.
Both of them gasped faintly, turned, and side by side hurried
out.
All through the bridge party Bernice strove in vain to master a
rising uneasiness. She had offended Marjorie, the sphinx of
sphinxes. With the most wholesome and innocent intentions in the
world she had stolen Marjorie's property. She felt suddenly and
horribly guilty. After the bridge game, when they sat in an
informal circle and the conversation became general, the storm
gradually broke. Little Otis Ormonde inadvertently precipitated
it.
"When you going back to kindergarten, Otis?" some one had asked.
"Me? Day Bernice gets her hair bobbed."
"Then your education's over," said Marjorie quickly. "That's only
a bluff of hers. I should think you'd have realized."
"That a fact?" demanded Otis, giving Bernice a reproachful
glance.
Bernice's ears burned as she tried to think up an effectual
come-back. In the face of this direct attack her imagination was
paralyzed.
"There's a lot of bluffs in the world," continued Marjorie quite
pleasantly. "I should think you'd be young enough to know that,
Otis."
"Well," said Otis, "maybe so. But gee! With a line like
Bernice's---"
"Really?" yawned Marjorie. "What's her latest bon mot?"
No one seemed to know. In fact, Bernice, having trifled with her
muse's beau, had said nothing memorable of late.
"Was that really all a line?" asked Roberta curiously.
Bernice hesitated. She felt that wit in some form was demanded of
her, but under her cousin's suddenly frigid eyes she was
completely incapacitated.
"I don't know," she stalled.
"Splush!" said Marjorie. "Admit it!"
Bernice saw that Warren's eyes had left a ukulele he had been
tinkering with and were fixed on her questioningly.
"Oh, I don't know!" she repeated steadily. Her cheeks were
glowing.
"Splush!" remarked Marjorie again.
"Come through, Bernice," urged Otis. "Tell her where to get off."
Bernice looked round again--she seemed unable to get away from
Warren's eyes.
"I like bobbed hair," she said hurriedly, as if he had asked her
a question, "and I intend to bob mine."
"When?" demanded Marjorie.
"Any time."
"No time like the present," suggested Roberta.
Otis jumped to his feet.
"Good stuff!" he cried. "We'll have a summer bobbing party.
Sevier Hotel barber-shop, I think you said."
In an instant all were on their feet. Bernice's heart throbbed
violently.
"What?" she gasped.
Out of the group came Marjorie's voice, very clear and
contemptuous.
"Don't worry--she'll back out!"
"Come on, Bernice!" cried Otis, starting toward the door.
Four eyes--Warren's and Marjorie's--stared at her, challenged
her, defied her. For another second she wavered wildly.
"All right," she said swiftly "I don't care if I do."
An eternity of minutes later, riding down-town through the late
afternoon beside Warren, the others following in Roberta's car
close behind, Bernice had all the sensations of Marie Antoinette
bound for the guillotine in a tumbrel. Vaguely she wondered why
she did not cry out that it was all a mistake. It was all she
could do to keep from clutching her hair with both bands to
protect it from the suddenly hostile world. Yet she did neither.
Even the thought of her mother was no deterrent now. This was the
test supreme of her sportsmanship; her right to walk
unchallenged in the starry heaven of popular girls.
Warren was moodily silent, and when they came to the hotel he
drew up at the curb and nodded to Bernice to precede him out.
Roberta's car emptied a laughing crowd into the shop, which
presented two bold plate-glass windows to the street.
Bernice stood on the curb and looked at the sign, Sevier
Barber-Shop. It was a guillotine indeed, and the hangman was the
first barber, who, attired in a white coat and smoking a
cigarette, leaned non-chalantly against the first chair. He must
have heard of her; he must have been waiting all week, smoking
eternal cigarettes beside that portentous, too-often-mentioned
first chair. Would they blind-fold her? No, but they would tie a
white cloth round her neck lest any of her blood--nonsense--hair--should
get on her clothes.
"All right, Bernice," said Warren quickly.
With her chin in the air she crossed the sidewalk, pushed open
the swinging screen-door, and giving not a glance to the
uproarious, riotous row that occupied the waiting bench, went up
to the fat barber.
"I want you to bob my hair."
The first barber's mouth slid somewhat open. His cigarette
dropped to the floor.
"Huh?"
"My hair--bob it!"
Refusing further preliminaries, Bernice took her seat on high. A
man in the chair next to her turned on his side and gave her a
glance, half lather, half amazement. One barber started and
spoiled little Willy Schuneman's monthly haircut. Mr. O'Reilly in
the last chair grunted and swore musically in ancient Gaelic as
a razor bit into his cheek. Two bootblacks became wide-eyed and
rushed for her feet. No, Bernice didn't care for a shine.
Outside a passer-by stopped and stared; a couple joined him; half
a dozen small boys' nose sprang into life, flattened against the
glass; and snatches of conversation borne on the summer breeze
drifted in through the screen-door.
"Lookada long hair on a kid!"
"Where'd yuh get 'at stuff? 'At's a bearded lady he just finished
shavin'."
But Bernice saw nothing, heard nothing. Her only living sense
told her that this man in the white coat had removed one
tortoise-shell comb and then another; that his fingers were
fumbling clumsily with unfamiliar hairpins; that this hair, this
wonderful hair of hers, was going--she would never again feel its
long voluptuous pull as it hung in a dark-brown glory down her
back. For a second she was near breaking down, and then the
picture before her swam mechanically into her vision--Marjorie's
mouth curling in a faint ironic smile as if to say:
"Give up and get down! You tried to buck me and I called your
bluff. You see you haven't got a prayer."
And some last energy rose up in Bernice, for she clinched her
hands under the white cloth, and there was a curious narrowing of
her eyes that Marjorie remarked on to some one long afterward.
Twenty minutes later the barber swung her round to face the
mirror, and she flinched at the full extent of the damage that
had been wrought. Her hair was not curls and now it lay in lank
lifeless blocks on both sides of her suddenly pale face. It was
ugly as sin--she had known it would be ugly as sin. Her face's
chief charm had been a Madonna-like simplicity. Now that was gone
and she was--well frightfully mediocre--not stagy; only
ridiculous, like a Greenwich Villager who had left her spectacles
at home.
As she climbed down from the chair she tried to smile--failed
miserably. She saw two of the girls exchange glances; noticed
Marjorie's mouth curved in attenuated mockery--and that Warren's
eyes were suddenly very cold.
"You see,"--her words fell into an awkward pause--"I've done it."
"Yes, you've--done it," admitted Warren.
"Do you like it?"
There was a half-hearted "Sure" from two or three voices, another
awkward pause, and then Marjorie turned swiftly and with
serpentlike intensity to Warren.
"Would you mind running me down to the cleaners?" she asked.
"I've simply got to get a dress there before supper. Roberta's
driving right home and she can take the others."
Warren stared abstractedly at some infinite speck out the window.
Then for an instant his eyes rested coldly on Bernice before
they turned to Marjorie.
"Be glad to," he said slowly.
Read next: Bernice Bobs Her Hair#Chapter VI
Read previous: Bernice Bobs Her Hair#Chapter IV
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