Once upon a time there was erected in Longacre Square, New York, a
large white statue, labelled 'Our City', the figure of a woman in
Grecian robes holding aloft a shield. Critical citizens objected to it
for various reasons, but its real fault was that its symbolism was
faulty. The sculptor should have represented New York as a conjuror in
evening dress, smiling blandly as he changed a rabbit into a bowl of
goldfish. For that, above all else, is New York's speciality. It
changes.
Between 1 May, when she stepped off the train, and 16 May, when she
received Eddy Moore's letter containing the information that he had
found her a post as stenographer in the office of Joe Rendal, it had
changed Mary Hill quite remarkably.
Mary was from Dunsterville, which is in Canada. Emigrations from
Dunsterville were rare. It is a somnolent town; and, as a rule, young
men born there follow in their father's footsteps, working on the
paternal farm or helping in the paternal store. Occasionally a daring
spirit will break away, but seldom farther than Montreal. Two only of
the younger generation, Joe Rendal and Eddy Moore, had set out to make
their fortunes in New York; and both, despite the gloomy prophecies of
the village sages, had prospered.
Mary, third and last emigrant, did not aspire to such heights. All she
demanded from New York for the present was that it should pay her a
living wage, and to that end, having studied by stealth typewriting and
shorthand, she had taken the plunge, thrilling with excitement and the
romance of things; and New York had looked at her, raised its eyebrows,
and looked away again. If every city has a voice, New York's at that
moment had said 'Huh!' This had damped Mary. She saw that there were
going to be obstacles. For one thing, she had depended so greatly on
Eddy Moore, and he had failed her. Three years before, at a church
festival, he had stated specifically that he would die for her. Perhaps
he was still willing to do that--she had not inquired--but, at any
rate, he did not see his way to employing her as a secretary. He had
been very nice about it. He had smiled kindly, taken her address, and
said he would do what he could, and had then hurried off to meet a man
at lunch. But he had not given her a position. And as the days went by
and she found no employment, and her little stock of money dwindled,
and no word came from Eddy, New York got to work and changed her
outlook on things wonderfully. What had seemed romantic became merely
frightening. What had been exciting gave her a feeling of dazed
helplessness.
But it was not until Eddy's letter came that she realized the
completeness of the change. On 1 May she would have thanked Eddy
politely for his trouble, adding, however, that she would really prefer
not to meet poor Joe again. On 16 May she welcomed him as something
Heaven-sent. The fact that she was to be employed outweighed a
thousand-fold the fact that her employer was to be Joe.
It was not that she disliked Joe. She was sorry for him.
She remembered Joe, a silent, shambling youth, all hands, feet, and
shyness, who had spent most of his spare time twisting his fingers and
staring adoringly at her from afar. The opinion of those in the social
whirl of Dunsterville had been that it was his hopeless passion for her
that had made him fly to New York. It would be embarrassing meeting him
again. It would require tact to discourage his silent worshipping
without wounding him more deeply. She hated hurting people.
But, even at the cost of that, she must accept the post. To refuse
meant ignominious retreat to Dunsterville, and from that her pride
revolted. She must revisit Dunsterville in triumph or not at all.
Joe Rendal's office was in the heart of the financial district,
situated about half-way up a building that, to Mary, reared amidst the
less impressive architecture of her home-town, seemed to reach nearly
to the sky. A proud-looking office-boy, apparently baffled and
mortified by the information that she had an appointment, took her
name, and she sat down, filled with a fine mixed assortment of
emotions, to wait.
For the first time since her arrival in New York she felt almost easy
in her mind. New York, with its shoving, jostling, hurrying crowds; a
giant fowl-run, full of human fowls scurrying to and fro; clucking,
ever on the look-out for some desired morsel, and ever ready to swoop
down and snatch it from its temporary possessor, had numbed her. But
now she felt a slackening of the strain. New York might be too much for
her, but she could cope with Joe.
The haughty boy returned. Mr Rendal was disengaged. She rose and went
into an inner room, where a big man was seated at a desk.
It was Joe. There was no doubt about that. But it was not the Joe she
remembered, he of the twisted ringers and silent stare. In his case,
New York had conjured effectively. He was better-looking, better-dressed,
improved in every respect. In the old days one had noticed the hands
and feet and deduced the presence of Joe somewhere in the background.
Now they were merely adjuncts. It was with a rush of indignation that
Mary found herself bucolic and awkward. Awkward with Joe! It was an
outrage.
His manner heightened the feeling. If he had given the least sign of
embarrassment she might have softened towards him. He showed no
embarrassment whatever. He was very much at his ease. He was cheerful.
He was even flippant.
'Welcome to our beautiful little city,' he said.
Mary was filled with a helpless anger. What right had he to ignore the
past in this way, to behave as if her presence had never reduced him to
pulp?
'Won't you sit down?' he went on. 'It's splendid, seeing you again,
Mary. You're looking very well. How long have you been in New York?
Eddy tells me you want to be taken on as a secretary. As it happens,
there is a vacancy for just that in this office. A big, wide vacancy,
left by a lady who departed yesterday in a shower of burning words and
hairpins. She said she would never return, and between ourselves, that
was the right guess. Would you mind letting me see what you can do?
Will you take this letter down?'
Certainly there was something compelling about this new Joe. Mary took
the pencil and pad which he offered--and she took them meekly. Until
this moment she had always been astonished by the reports which
filtered through to Dunsterville of his success in the big city. Of
course, nobody had ever doubted his perseverance; but it takes
something more than perseverance to fight New York fairly and squarely,
and win. And Joe had that something. He had force. He was sure of
himself.
'Read it please,' he said, when he had finished dictating. 'Yes, that's
all right. You'll do.'
For a moment Mary was on the point of refusing. A mad desire gripped
her to assert herself, to make plain her resentment at this revolt of
the serf. Then she thought of those scuttling, clucking crowds, and her
heart failed her.
'Thank you,' she said, in a small voice.
As she spoke the door opened.
'Well, well, well!' said Joe. 'Here we all are! Come in, Eddy. Mary
has just been showing me what she can do.'
If time had done much for Joe, it had done more for his fellow-emigrant,
Eddy Moore. He had always been good-looking and--according to local
standards--presentable. Tall, slim, with dark eyes that made you catch
your breath when they looked into yours, and a ready flow of speech,
he had been Dunsterville's prize exhibit. And here he was with all his
excellence heightened and accentuated by the polish of the city. He
had filled out. His clothes were wonderful. And his voice, when he
spoke, had just that same musical quality.
'So you and Joe have fixed it up? Capital! Shall we all go and lunch
somewhere?'
'Got an appointment,' said Joe. 'I'm late already. Be here at two
sharp, Mary.' He took up his hat and went out.
The effect of Eddy's suavity had been to make Mary forget the position
in which she now stood to Joe. Eddy had created for the moment quite an
old-time atmosphere of good fellowship. She hated Joe for shattering
this and reminding her that she was his employee. Her quick flush was
not lost on Eddy.
'Dear old Joe is a little abrupt sometimes,' he said. 'But--'
'He's a pig!' said Mary, defiantly.
'But you mustn't mind it. New York makes men like that.'
'It hasn't made you--not to me, at any rate. Oh, Eddy,' she cried,
impulsively, 'I'm frightened. I wish I had never come here. You're the
only thing in this whole city that isn't hateful.'
'Poor little girl!' he said. 'Never mind. Let me take you and give you
some lunch. Come along.'
Eddy was soothing. There was no doubt of that. He stayed her with
minced chicken and comforted her with soft shelled crab. His voice was
a lullaby, lulling her Joe-harassed nerves to rest.
They discussed the dear old days. A carper might have said that Eddy
was the least bit vague on the subject of the dear old days. A carper
might have pointed out that the discussion of the dear old days, when
you came to analyse it, was practically a monologue on Mary's part,
punctuated with musical 'Yes, yes's' from her companion. But who cares
what carpers think? Mary herself had no fault to find. In the roar of
New York Dunsterville had suddenly become very dear to her, and she
found in Eddy a sympathetic soul to whom she could open her heart.
'Do you remember the old school, Eddy, and how you and I used to walk
there together, you carrying my dinner-basket and helping me over
the fences?'
'Yes, yes.'
'And we'd gather hickory-nuts and persimmons?'
'Persimmons, yes,' murmured Eddy.
'Do you remember the prizes the teacher gave the one who got best marks
in the spelling class? And the treats at Christmas, when we all got
twelve sticks of striped peppermint candy? And drawing the water out of
the well in that old wooden bucket in the winter, and pouring it out in
the playground and skating on it when it froze? And wasn't it cold in
the winter, too! Do you remember the stove in the school-room? How we
used to crowd round it!'
'The stove, yes,' said Eddy, dreamily. 'Ah, yes, the stove. Yes, yes.
Those were the dear old days!' Mary leaned her elbows on the table and
her chin on her hands, and looked across at him with sparkling eyes.
'Oh, Eddy,' she said, 'you don't know how nice it is to meet someone
who remembers all about those old times! I felt a hundred million miles
from Dunsterville before I saw you, and I was homesick. But now it's
all different.'
'Poor little Mary!'
'Do you remember--?'
He glanced at his watch with some haste.
'It's two o'clock,' he said. 'I think we should be going.'
Mary's face fell.
'Back to that pig, Joe! I hate him. And I'll show him that I do!'
Eddy looked almost alarmed.
'I--I shouldn't do that,' he said. 'I don't think I should do that.
It's only his manner at first. You'll get to like him better. He's an
awfully good fellow really, Joe. And if you--er--quarrelled with him
you might find it hard--what I mean is, it's not so easy to pick up
jobs in New York, I shouldn't like to think of you, Mary,' he added,
tenderly, 'hunting for a job--tired--perhaps hungry--'
Mary's eyes filled with tears.
'How good you are, Eddy!' she said. 'And I'm horrid, grumbling when I
ought to be thanking you for getting me the place. I'll be nice to
him--if I can--as nice as I can.'
'That's right. Do try. And we shall be seeing quite a lot of each
other. We must often lunch together.'
Mary re-entered the office not without some trepidation. Two hours ago
it would have seemed absurd to be frightened of Joe, but Eddy had
brought it home to her again how completely she was dependent on her
former serf's good-will. And he had told her to be back at two sharp,
and it was now nearly a quarter past.
The outer office was empty. She went on into the inner room.
She had speculated as she went on Joe's probable attitude. She had
pictured him as annoyed, even rude. What she was not prepared for was
to find him on all fours, grunting and rooting about in a pile of
papers. She stopped short.
'What _are_ you doing?' she gasped.
'I can't think what you meant,' he said. 'There must be some mistake.
I'm not even a passable pig. I couldn't deceive a novice.'
He rose and dusted his knees.
'Yet you seemed absolutely certain in the restaurant just now. Did you
notice that you were sitting near to a sort of jungle of potted palms?
I was lunching immediately on the other side of the forest.'
Mary drew herself up and fixed him with an eye that shone with rage and
scorn.
'Eavesdropper!' she cried.
'Not guilty,' he said, cheerfully. 'I hadn't a notion that you were
there till you shouted, "That pig Joe, I hate him!" and almost directly
afterwards I left.'
'I did not shout.'
'My dear girl, you cracked a wine-glass at my table. The man I was
lunching with jumped clean out of his seat and swallowed his cigar. You
ought to be more careful!'
Mary bit her lip.
'And now, I suppose, you are going to dismiss me?'
'Dismiss you? Not much. The thing has simply confirmed my high opinion
of your qualifications. The ideal secretary must have two qualities:
she must be able to sec. and she must think her employer a pig. You
fill the bill. Would you mind taking down this letter?'
* * * * *
Life was very swift and stimulating for Mary during the early days of
her professional career. The inner workings of a busy broker's office
are always interesting to the stranger. She had never understood how
business men made their money, and she did not understand now; but it
did not take her long to see that if they were all like Joe Rendal they
earned it. There were days of comparative calm. There were days that
were busy. And there were days that packed into the space of a few
hours the concentrated essence of a music-hall knock-about sketch, an
earthquake, a football scrummage, and the rush-hour on the Tube; when
the office was full of shouting men, when strange figures dived in and
out and banged doors like characters in an old farce, and Harold, the
proud office-boy, lost his air of being on the point of lunching with a
duke at the club and perspired like one of the proletariat. On these
occasions you could not help admiring Joe, even if you hated him. When
a man is doing his own job well, it is impossible not to admire him.
And Joe did his job well, superlatively well. He was everywhere. Where
others trotted, he sprang. Where others raised their voices, he yelled.
Where others were in two places at once, he was in three and moving
towards a fourth.
These upheavals had the effect on Mary of making her feel curiously
linked to the firm. On ordinary days work was work, but on these
occasions of storm and stress it was a fight, and she looked on every
member of the little band grouped under the banner of J. Rendal as a
brother-in-arms. For Joe, while the battle raged, she would have done
anything. Her resentment at being under his orders vanished completely.
He was her captain, and she a mere unit in the firing line. It was a
privilege to do what she was told. And if the order came sharp and
abrupt, that only meant that the fighting was fierce and that she was
all the more fortunate in being in a position to be of service.
The reaction would come with the end of the fight. Her private
hostilities began when the firm's ceased. She became an ordinary
individual again, and so did Joe. And to Joe, as an ordinary
individual, she objected. There was an indefinable something in his
manner which jarred on her. She came to the conclusion that it was
principally his insufferable good-humour. If only he would lose his
temper with her now and then, she felt he would be bearable. He lost it
with others. Why not with her? Because, she told herself bitterly, he
wanted to show her that she mattered so little to him that it was not
worth while quarrelling with her; because he wanted to put her in the
wrong, to be superior. She had a perfect right to hate a man who
treated her in that way.
She compared him, to his disadvantage, with Eddy. Eddy, during these
days, continued to be more and more of a comfort. It rather surprised
her that he found so much time to devote to her. When she had first
called on him, on her arrival in the city, he had given her the
impression--more, she admitted, by his manner than his words--that she
was not wanted. He had shown no disposition to seek her company. But
now he seemed always to be on hand. To take her out to lunch appeared
to be his chief hobby.
One afternoon Joe commented on it, with that air of suppressing an
indulgent smile which Mary found so trying.
'I saw you and Eddy at Stephano's just now,' he said, between sentences
of a letter which he was dictating. 'You're seeing a great deal of
Eddy, aren't you?'
'Yes,' said Mary. 'He's very kind. He knows I'm lonely.' She paused.
'_He_ hasn't forgotten the old days,' she said, defiantly.
Joe nodded.
'Good old Eddy!' he said.
There was nothing in the words to make Mary fire up, but much in the
way they were spoken, and she fired up accordingly.
'What do you mean?' she cried.
'Mean?' queried Joe.
'You're hinting at something. If you have anything to say against Eddy,
why don't you say it straight out?'
'It's a good working rule in life never to say anything straight out.
Speaking in parables, I will observe that, if America was a monarchy
instead of a republic and people here had titles, Eddy would be a
certainty for first Earl of Pearl Street.'
Dignity fought with curiosity in Mary for a moment. The latter won.
'I don't know what you mean! Why Pearl Street?'
'Go and have a look at it.'
Dignity recovered its ground. Mary tossed her head.
'We are wasting a great deal of time,' she said, coldly. 'Shall I take
down the rest of this letter?'
'Great idea!' said Joe, indulgently. 'Do.'
* * * * *
A policeman, brooding on life in the neighbourhood of City Hall Park
and Broadway that evening, awoke with a start from his meditations to
find himself being addressed by a young lady. The young lady had large
grey eyes and a slim figure. She appealed to the aesthetic taste of the
policeman.
'Hold to me, lady,' he said, with gallant alacrity. 'I'll see yez
acrost.'
'Thank you, I don't want to cross,' she said. 'Officer!'
The policeman rather liked being called 'Officer'.
'Ma'am?' he beamed.
'Officer, do you know a street called Pearl Street?'
'I do that, ma'am.'