JOHN WINTHROPE'S SECOND PROMOTION.
John Winthrope had a small cozy room by himself off the main office of
Hiram Jarney. It was about the size of a twelve by sixteen rug, and so
richly furnished that when he got into it, he felt as if he had been
clandestinely concealed in a bandbox lined with rare and costly velvets.
There were a green rugget on the floor, a miniature roll-top desk in one
corner, glistening in its polish; a typewriting desk near a wide plate
glass window; a cabinet for letter stationery; three leather-seated
mahogany chairs, one at each desk, and another for company. The walls
were green tinted, and around them John had hung some landscape pictures
in chromo, mostly rural scenes; photographs of his parents; one of a
mountain girl, his sister; one of a big young man, his brother; and
those of two boyhood friends.
Every morning at nine o'clock John came into this palatial private
office. First, he perused the morning newspapers, then looked over the
bundle of private letters that came to the head of the firm, and
assorted them according to the postmark, or the nature he judged of the
contents as near as he could make out from outside indications; after
which he placed them in a letter tray, got ready his note book, and
placed them all together orderly, to be picked up, at the ring of the
bell, to be carried to the desk of Mr. Jarney, who arrived at the
office, when in the city, every day punctually at ten.
John learned rapidly. A week had not gone by, after he assumed his new
post, till he was master of every detail of a secretary's work in such
an important place. He was quick in taking down the dictation of Mr.
Jarney, who was a rapid talker, a clear enunciator, never lacking for
the exact word to lucidly express himself. John was speedy on the
typewriter; hence he was but a brief time in conveying, what would
appear to the average person, the unintelligible phonetic characters
into Englishized words, sentences, paragraphs, and finally completed
letters, ready for the chirography of that great man to be attached
thereto. Many letters of little importance, such as from the beggars,
cranks, politicians, boodlers, or of the routine kind, John was soon
authorized to answer himself, to the relief of the chief.
For a whole week John had been at this pleasureable labor, doing it with
far greater ease than he had the more arduous task of keeping books; and
he did it with such dispatch that Mr. Jarney was surprised at his
adeptness, and he favored him with due commendation.
For several days Mr. Jarney was taciturn in the presence of his new
secretary. He talked with him purely on matters in hand after the
dictating period was over, and then but briefly. Not once for nearly a
week did he condescend to converse with him on any other
question--except that occasionally he would remark about the continuing
"beastly weather," as he invariably termed such climatic conditions.
John went through the daily routine earnestly and methodically, with no
thought for anything but that he might make good, and prove himself
worthy of his hire; and also thinking very often of his good old
parents, his dear little sister and big strong brother on the farm in
the hills. He had dismissed Edith Jarney from his mind, as a lost cause
goes before the reasoning man. He had not seen her, nor heard of her,
since that memorable night. He was not presumptuous enough to imagine
that she would contaminate her thoughts about him. For why should he be
so imaginative? He had no reason for believing that such a conventional
lady, as she appeared to be (basing his opinion of her on her station),
would ever think of the affair one moment after she was gone out of his
sight, or was ensconced in her own palatial home, where the shadow of
such as he was not likely of ever being cast.
Still, in his idle moments, he would revert to the event, and simply
wonder what had become of her: whether she had gone to some sunnier
clime to bask in the smiles and receive the addresses of richer bloods
than his; or whether she was not then leading a gay existence among her
class in the gilded halls of her surroundings, where flash and gleam the
lads and maidens of her own selected set in the brighter light that
luxury provides.
But such musings were on rare occasions, and then only reverted to as a
pleasing pastime in his lonesome hours. For, since assuming his new
duties, he not only was serving his own master, but was serving himself
by reading, studying, and working out the mysteries that surrounded the
privacy of Mr. Jarney's business. He did this so that, if the time ever
came, he should be fitted to perform further duties in the advancing
line. However, no matter how busy he was, there were times when
homesickness would steal over him, and he would long for his own people
and their humble fireside to soften his distraught feelings, whenever
they should assert themselves.
Be these things as they may, two weeks, almost, had passed by since he
went into his bandbox office, when Edith Jarney, accompanied by Star
Barton, came to see her father.
The time was in the middle of the afternoon. Mr. Jarney was sitting at
his desk dictating a third and last batch of letters, and John was
sitting by diligently taking notes. Edith opened the office door of her
own accord, and she and Star walked within unannounced. Edith was
dressed in dark colors in harmony with the weather. She carried a
sealskin muff, and had a boa of the same fur around her neck, and the
cutest round hat possible sat upon her head. Verily, she looked like a
princess out on winter parade as she advanced toward a broad, flat-top
table in the center of the room. Star, dressed much in the same fashion,
and looking as stately as any lady at court, followed Edith.
Both young ladies sat down at the table to await Mr. Jarney's
convenience to greet them. John was sitting with his back to them, and
so silent was their tread that he did not hear them enter. His pen flew
from left to right on the pages of his note book as Mr. Jarney talked in
his low monotonous voice, without inflection to his words, or change in
his countenance. Mr. Jarney saw the young ladies enter, but, through a
habit of his of never being disturbed when in the throes of grinding out
letters, the young ladies' coming did not bother him in the least.
Edith and Star sat quietly, abiding their time to speak. Edith tapped
the polished top of the table with her gloved hand. Star sat meditating,
with her eyes bent upon the young man. Thus they sat for ten minutes or
more, watching master and servant at the fountain head of industrial
achievement.
Then, without a word to John, Mr. Jarney arose; and, coming forward,
grasped his daughter by the hand and kissed her on the lips. Turning to
Star, he accorded her the same fatherly greeting.
John arose as Mr. Jarney arose, and was folding his note book as he was
taking a step to make his exit. In that moment, when Mr. Jarney was
saluting Edith, he looked toward her. Recognizing the young lady, he
hesitated for a second, flushed, faltered, hesitated again, for he had
not known they were present. As Mr. Jarney turned to Star to greet her,
Miss Edith turned to John. Her face flushed also. She stood a moment,
with that light of recognition in her eyes, that gives a peculiarly
sensational effect upon the beholder, sometimes. He was uncertain. She
was uncertain. He made a step forward to continue toward his office,
when Edith smiled, came up to him, and extended her hand.
"Mr. Winthrope, I believe?" she said.
John was in the act of bowing when he saw her extended hand, and
foregoing a completion of that act of politeness, he extended his hand
to meet Edith's. John looked very grave. He had needs to look grave, if
the beating of his heart indicated a particle of his feelings at that
moment. Edith continued smiling as only she could smile. Then John
pulled himself together sufficiently in his embarrassment and said:
"Miss Jarney, if I am not mistaken?"
"You are not mistaken, Mr. Winthrope," she said. "I am very glad to meet
you again; but under more pleasant circumstances than when we last met."
"The pleasure is not all yours, Miss Jarney," he replied, releasing her
hand.
"How are you?" she asked, still smiling.
"Fine, thank you," he answered.
"I want you to meet my dear friend, Miss Barton," she said to him, and
then turning to Star: "Miss Barton, my friend, Mr. Winthrope."
Star advanced, and made a low bow in return to that of John's. Mr.
Jarney stood off a few steps taking in the formal introductions and
salaams of his daughter and her friend with his new secretary, at the
same time looking as unbending in his demeanor as a cast iron pillar,
from all outward appearances; but really relishing, with a glad heart,
the simplicity of his beautiful daughter in her cordiality toward Mr.
Winthrope.
"Star--Miss Barton, this is the young man of whom I was speaking." Then,
looking at him, with a quizzical air, as if she wanted to be
patronizingly humble, said, directing her words at Star: "He is the
young man, Star, who rescued my hat and gave me his own umbrella."
"That was a gallant act," said Star, smiling genially upon him. "I have
heard nothing but praise of you for the past two weeks."
Edith thereat blushed more crimson than ever before in all her innocent
career; and sought to turn the subject by saying: "Oh, Star--it is
spitting snow," looking out the window as she said it.
John's face turned a pinky color also, and he began to have qualms of
consternation in being detained from a prompt execution of his work at
hand.
Star immediately saw she had made a blunder, and tried to make amends by
continuing: "I told Miss Edith that I should be happy to meet such a
gallant young man, as she says you are."
Edith was now more flushed. She burned with confusion and despair over
Star's untimely statement of facts.
"If you ladies will excuse me, I will resume my work," said John, to
avoid further complications between Edith's expressive face and Star's
expressive words.
"We will excuse you, Mr. Winthrope--business before pleasure, always,"
said Edith.
"I am glad to meet you--to have met you--and hope to see you again, Miss
Barton," said John, bowing to Star; and then, bowing to Edith, he
departed.
In the meantime, Mr. Jarney had taken his seat at his desk in a highly
flustered state of mind by reason of his daughter's sudden change of
countenance over the unintentional reflect assertion of Star's. When
John had closed the door of his office behind him, and the two ladies
were alone with Mr. Jarney, the latter turned about in his chair, as if
in a passion of rage, and said:
"My dear Edith, what is the meaning of your actions?"
"Why, papa, dear," she answered, "it is only my way of showing my
appreciation of his former kindness."
"My little chit," he returned, as she put one arm around his neck, "you
exhibited more than simple appreciation in your looks, when you greeted
Mr. Winthrope."
"Now, do not scold me, dear papa; if you do, I will cry," said Edith,
fumbling for a handkerchief somewhere about her garments, with which to
stay the flow of tears already glistening in her eyes.
"Ha, ha, Edith," replied her father; "I am not chiding you; I know my
little girl would do nothing unbecoming."
"Papa, is it unbecoming to be civil to a young man like him?" she asked.
"Not in the least, my child; he is a fine young man--" and Edith hugged
her father more closely--"and--ah, Edith, you make me wonder,
sometimes, at your way of looking at other young men of our class."
"None of them is as good as he, I know," she said, with such sincerity,
and so pensively, that her father was really disturbed.
"I know he is a good young man; but, Edith, it would be very naughty for
you to encourage him," he said advisedly.
"Then, you do not like him, papa? I know you do not. Wish I had never
requested you to advance him to this place, then--then--I would not have
seen him again."
"Why, Edith, my child! what are you saying? If you persist in your
talking that way, it will be necessary for me to dismiss him at once,
and have no more of this benefactor business on my hands," replied her
father, sternly; at the same time winking at Star, belying the asperity
of his voice.
"Now, papa, you do not mean that," she responded, patting him on the
head. "I know you too well, you bad dear papa. If I thought you did, it
would make me feel very cross toward you. There--now--papa--do
not--say--any more." She concluded the last phrase with kisses between
the words.
"My dear, we will drop the matter," he said. "I mean to keep him, Edith;
for I like him; really I do. Miss Barton what is your opinion?"
"The same as Edith's," she answered.
Edith turned quickly and looked at Star, a mobile stiffness clouding her
face, not knowing how to take Star's words.
"Ha, ha, ha," laughed her father; "you are an extraordinary girl, Miss
Barton--as extraordinary as Edith."
"Thank you," returned Star, bowing to him. "I have reasons to feel
extraordinary since two weeks ago."
Father, daughter and ward whiled away the time for an hour in such kind
of interchange of colloquy. Then John returned, with his tray full of
letters, and set it down on Mr. Jarney's desk.
"Mr. Winthrope," said Mr. Jarney, looking up, with a deceiving frown,
which caused John to have queer sensations go through him at first; "Mr.
Winthrope, I am going to--I am tired of signing letters, and shall
delegate that power to you. So sit down here at my desk, and put your
'John Hancock' on these, using my name, of course, instead of your own.
You may do this while Miss Barton and I take a little turn down the
street. Edith, I will leave you here to see that Mr. Winthrope does not
shirk his work."
John was amazed; Edith was astounded; Star was astonished. Mr. Jarney
repaired to the cloak room, from whence he returned in a few minutes
wearing a high silk hat and heavy overcoat, and carrying a gold-headed
cane.
"Miss Barton, will you accompany me?" he said to Star, after his
preparation, taking it for granted that she would not refuse.
When they went out, Edith seated herself in the chair where John sat
when he took down her father's dictations. John sat in her father's
chair at the desk, looking so near overwhelmed at the turn of things,
since morning, that he felt like sinking through the floor, or going
straight up to the ceiling and out through the roof to some other
country. As Mr. Jarney and Miss Barton went out the door, John turned
and looked at Edith. He blushed; she blushed.
"This is certainly an unusual situation," said John.
"It more equals our encounter that night," she replied.
"But under pleasanter circumstances," he returned.
"If we had that old umbrella of mine, how realistic we might make it,"
she said, giving a little laugh, and sinking back into the depths of the
cushioned chair, folding her gloved hands as though perfectly at ease,
although showing some timidity of expression in her conversation.
"I have it yet," he said, as he took up a pen loaded with ink, as if it
were his intention to commence signing the letters but looking at Edith
shyly.
"Yet?" she raised her eyebrows.
"I put it away among my other keepsakes," he answered, turning now as if
he really did intend to execute his "John Hancock" on the letters.
"What for?" asked Edith, tapping a finger on the arm of her chair.
"Oh, as a hobby; I always try to keep something to remember any unusual
happening in my life," said he, forgetting to sign the name of "Hiram
Jarney."
"Do you know what I did with yours?" she asked, folding her arms.
"Consigned it to the garbage heap, I suppose," he replied, letting the
ink fall off his pen to the spoilment of a letter.
"You are not a good guesser," she replied, her blue eyes sparkling. "It
came near going there--but I have 'J. W.' as an ornament in my boudoir."
"I imagine it would be out of harmony with the rest of the decorations,"
he said, dropping more ink, and still neglecting to sign the name.
"It harmonizes with my sentiments on certain matters," she said.
"For instance?" He looked at her.
"Class distinction."
"What does mine signify?" attempting to sign, but only getting down the
capital H.
"You," she looked to the floor.
"And yours?" Now interested.
"Me." Still looking down.
"Then, we should exchange them," he said wonderingly.
"That would not be to my liking," as she looked up.
"Not?" he asked, turning from his paper and pen.
"No," she said, demurly.
"Ah, Miss Jarney," he said, with despair indicated in his voice, "I have
presumed, at times, to wish to be better acquainted with you, since that
night; but I have thought it useless."
"Mr. Winthrope, nothing would give me more happiness than to be on good
terms with you."
"But I see no possibility of that, except--I believe we ought to be on
good terms--that is, friends."
"So do I."
"May I hope--no, I must not--may I hope to see you here again,
sometime?" he asked seriously.
"I used to come here often."
"I never saw you here before."
"No--I did not like the last secretary."
"Then you will come again?"
"I anticipate that I shall."
"Then we may become better acquainted?" dropping his pen.
"If you wish it, Mr. Winthrope," she answered, looking at her hands
lying on the arms of the chair, then up to John, who was taking up his
pen again to reach for a new dip of ink.
At that moment the door opened and Mr. Jarney and Miss Barton entered.
He carried his hat and cane in one hand, and arrived at his desk in time
to see John completing the signing of his name to the first letter of
the pile before him.
"Mr. Winthrope," he said, "you have been remiss in your duties. Edith, I
am afraid you would make a poor overseer in this office."
John, thereupon, fell to work with a will to expedite the signing of the
letters that had been so woefully neglected during his entertaining
tete-a-tete with Edith.
Edith and Miss Barton prepared to take their departure. Both were
standing before Mr. Jarney in low conversation, when John turned around,
as a new thought came to him, and said, to Miss Barton:
"Miss Barton, do you have a brother?"
"I have several brothers, Mr. Winthrope," she replied; "but one of them
disappeared months ago."
"What was his given name?"
"Michael."
"Meeting you today. Miss Barton, reminds me that I met a young man about
two weeks ago who gave the name of Mike Barton."
Then John related to her the incident of meeting her brother, and of the
words that had passed between them, without making it clear to the young
ladies, however, that the nature of the business that he followed was of
the most questionable.
"Poor brother! that must be Michael," said Star, when John had concluded
his story. "Wish I could see him; I know I could prevail on him going
home."
"Would you help us find him?" asked Edith, directing her question to
John.
"It would give me pleasure to aid you," replied John.
"How interesting a company we three can make in this undertaking," cried
Edith, with enthusiasm. "Papa, will you permit me to join them?"
"If Mr. Winthrope is your guide, you may," he answered, now interested
himself.
"When shall we begin our search?" asked Edith, eagerly looking at John,
and beaming one of her sweetest smiles on him.
"Whenever Mr. Jarney gives me leave of absence--or, better, I can do it
before or after hours. How will that do?"
"Capital!" cried Edith. "Papa, that will be fine. You can trust me with
Mr. Winthrope?"
"Oh, of course," he answered.
"Good, papa, dear!" she exclaimed. "Now, Star--Miss Barton, we will go
home. When shall we begin?"
"When I notify you," replied John, rising to bid the ladies good day.
The two young ladies departed. To John, it was like the going of two
sunbeams that had crossed his lonely pathway, to shine for a moment,
then disappear, with the promise of returning on a fairer day to come.