CHAPTER II

§ 1

It was some three months after the publishing house had been

established in its new offices, that Jeannette had the card of Martin

Devlin brought to her. It was embossed and heavily engraved, with

a small outline of the earth’s two hemispheres in one corner and

bisecting these, in tiny capitals, the words: THE GIBBS ENGRAVING

COMPANY. Mr. Corey was out; Jeannette told the boy to inform the

caller. In a minute or two the messenger returned to say that the

gentleman would like to speak to Mr. Corey’s secretary, but Jeannette

had no time to waste on solicitors of engraving work, and sent word

that she was occupied. The boy reappeared presently with another of Mr.

Devlin’s cards, on the back of which was pencilled:

“Dear Miss Sturgis,--I’d be grateful for two minutes’ interview. Have

a message from an old friend of yours.

M. Devlin.”

Jeannette frowned in distaste, and looked up at the boy, annoyed. She

was extremely busy, typing a speech for Mr. Corey which he was to read

that night at a Publishers’ Banquet at the Waldorf. It was twenty

minutes past four; she expected him to return at any minute.

“Tell the gentleman to come again, will you, Jimmy? I’m really too busy

to see him to-day.”

The boy went out and she returned to her work, her fingers flying.

“The responsibility of molding public opinion,” went her notes, “rests

perhaps with our press, but to whom do the discriminating readers of

the nation in confidence turn for the formation of their taste in

literature, their acquaintance with the Arts, the dissemination of

those inspiring idealistic thoughts and precepts of the fathers of our

great----”

She estimated there were another three pages of it.

The door of her office opened and a young man of square build, with

broad shoulders, and a grin on his face, filled the aperture.

“Beg pardon, Miss Sturgis,” he began. “I hope you won’t think I’m

butting-in.”

He had a strong handsome face, big flashing teeth, black hair and black

eyebrows.

Jeannette looked at him, bewildered. She had never seen this man

before; she did not know what he was doing in her office, nor what he

wanted.

“I’m Martin Devlin,” he announced, advancing into the room.

At once she froze; her breast rose on a quick angry intake, and her

eyes assumed a cold level stare.

“I hope you’re not going to be sore at me.” He smiled down at her in

easy good humor.

“Mr. Corey’s not in,” said the girl. She was staggered by this

individual’s effrontery.

“Well, that’s too bad, but I really called to have a few minutes’ chat

with you,” he returned nonchalantly. “We have a friend of yours down at

our office: Miss Alexander, Beatrice Alexander. ’Member her? She says

a lot of nice things about you.”

“Oh!” Jeannette elevated her eyebrows and surveyed the speaker’s head

and feet.

“I’m afraid you’re sore at me,” he said. He laughed straight into her

cold eyes, showing his big teeth.

Jeannette straightened herself and frowned. She felt her anger rising.

“Er--you--a----” she began, deliberately clearing her throat with a

little annoyed cough. “I think you’ve made a mistake. Mr. Corey is not

in. As you see, I am busy. Good-day.”

She looked down at her notes and swung her chair around to her machine.

“Whew!” whistled Mr. Devlin. He took a step nearer, put his hand on

her desk, bent down to catch a glimpse of her face, and said with a

pleading note in his voice and with that same flashing smile:

“Aw--please don’t be sore at me, Miss Sturgis!”

The man’s sudden nearness brought Jeannette up rigidly in her seat. Her

eyes blazed a moment, but there was something in this person’s manner

and in the ingratiating quality of his smile that made her hesitate.

Her first thought had been to call the porter or one of the men

outside, and have him summarily put out. Instead she said in her most

frigid tone:

“Really, Mr. Devlin, you presume too far. You see that I am busy and

I’ve told you that Mr. Corey is not in.”

“Well that’s all right, but what do you want me to tell Miss Alexander?

She’ll be wanting to know if I delivered her message.”

“Miss Alexander, as I remember her, is a very lovely girl. You can

tell her that I’ve not forgotten her, and that I am sorry that ... that

in her office there are not more mannerly gentlemen.”

Devlin threw back his head and roared. His laugh was extraordinary.

“Say, Miss Sturgis,” he began, “please don’t be sore at me. I didn’t

know I’d find a girl like you in here. Miss Alexander said you were

awfully nice and I thought maybe you’d be doing me a favor one of these

days. I took a chance on getting in to see you the way I did. Don’t

blame the kid.”

“What kid?”

“The office boy. I slipped him a quarter and told him to tell you I was

an old friend of yours and wanted to give you a surprise.”

“Upon my word!”

“Well, you see,--we’ve all got to make our living; you, me and the

office boy.”

“There are ways of doing it,” said Jeannette acidly.

“I think they’re all legitimate.”

“What,--bribing office boys?”

“Well, I didn’t bribe him exactly. I deceived him.” He laughed again.

He was Irish, the girl noted, and presumably considered he had a great

deal of Irish charm.

“At any rate, I got in to see you.”

“Much good it’s done you.”

“I have hopes for the future.”

“I wouldn’t cherish them.”

“Ah, well now, Miss Sturgis, don’t be cruel!”

“I’m not in the least interested.”

“Won’t you tell me who’s doing Corey’s engraving?”

“I will not.”

“I can find out easily enough, and I think I can interest him.”

“I think you can’t.”

“Won’t you make an appointment for me to see him?”

“Certainly not!”

“There’s other ways I can meet him.”

“You’re at liberty to find them.”

“Aw ... you’re awfully mean. Why don’t you give a fellow a chance for

his living?”

“You don’t deserve it.”

“Because I gave the boy a quarter to show me which was your office?”

“Yes, and because you’re so ... so....”

“Fresh,--go on; you were going to say it!”

“Evidently you are aware of it.”

“A fellow hasn’t a chance to think anything else.”

“Well,--you’ll have to excuse me. I’m really very busy.”

“Can I come again when you’ve a little more time to spare?”

“I am always busy.”

“Can I ’phone?”

“I can’t bother with ’phone messages.”

Mr. Devlin for a moment was routed.

“Oh, _gosh_!” he said in disgust.

Jeannette was not to be won. She nodded to him, and began to type

briskly, the keys of her machine humming. The man stood uncertainly a

moment more, shifting from one foot to the other; then he swung himself

disconsolately toward the door, and closed it slowly after him. Almost

immediately he opened it again and thrust in his head.

“I’m coming back again,--just the same!” he bawled. Jeannette did not

look around, and the door clicked shut.

§ 2

The next time he called she was taking dictation from Mr. Corey and

was unaware he had come. When she finished with her employer, and

picked up the sheaf of letters he had given her, she passed through the

connecting door between the two offices, and found Devlin waiting in

her room.

“_Really!_” She stopped short and frowned in quick annoyance.

“Well, here I am again!” he said blandly.

“And here’s where you go out!” She walked towards the door that led to

the outer office and flung it open.

Devlin’s face altered, and a slow color began to mount his dark cheeks.

“Aw--say----” he said in hurt tones. The smile was gone; for the moment

his face was as serious as her own.

Jeannette did not move. Devlin picked up his hat and gloves.

“My God!” he exclaimed fervently, “you’re hard as nails!”

As he went out she suddenly felt sorry for him.

But that was not the last of him. His card appeared the next afternoon.

Mr. Corey was again away from the office.

“I’m not in to this person,” she said to Jimmy, “and if he bribes you

to show him in here, I’ll go straight to Mr. Kipps and have you fired.”

The next day he telephoned. She hung up the receiver, and told the girl

at the switch-board to find out who wanted her before she put through

any more calls. The day following brought a letter from him, but as

soon as she discovered his signature, she tore it up and threw it in

the waste-paper basket. Two minutes later, she carefully recovered its

ragged squares and pieced them together.

“My dear Miss Sturgis,” it read, “you must overlook my boorish methods.

I’ll not bother you again, but I beg you will not hold it against me,

if I try to make your acquaintance in some more acceptable manner.

Yours with good wishes, Martin Devlin.”

He wrote a vigorous hand,--strong, distinct, individual.

Jeannette considered the letter a moment, then uttered a contemptuous

“Puh!” scooped the fragments into her palm, and returned them to the

receptacle for trash.

§ 3

Toward the end of the week, she had a telephone call from Beatrice

Alexander. She had not seen the girl for nearly four years but

remembered how exceptionally kind she had been to her that first day

she went to work, and thought it would be pleasant to meet her again,

and talk over old times. They arranged to have luncheon together.

They met at the Hotel St. Denis. Jeannette always went there whenever

there was sufficient excuse; she loved the atmosphere of the old

place. Her luncheon was invariably the same: hot chocolate with whipped

cream, and a club sandwich. It cost just fifty cents.

Beatrice Alexander had changed but little during the years Jeannette

had not seen her, except that now she wore glasses. A little gold chain

dangled from the tip of one lens, and hooked itself by means of a gold

loop, over an ear. It made her look schoolmarmy, but she had the same

sweet face, the same soft dovelike eyes, and the whispering voice.

“And you _never_ married Mr. Beardsley,” she commented. “I heard you

were engaged and he certainly was awfully in love with you.”

Jeannette explained about her sister, and how happy the two were in

their little Bronx flat. Her companion exclaimed about the baby.

She had had two or three places since the old publishing house

suspended its selling campaign of the History. She had been in the

business office of the Fifth Avenue Hotel Company until it closed its

doors. Now The Gibbs Engraving Company employed her; she’d been there

about a year, and liked it all right, but the constant smell of the

strong acids made her a little sick sometimes. She and Jeannette fell

presently to discussing Martin Devlin.

“Oh, he’s all right,” Beatrice Alexander said. “He came there about the

same time I did. He’s an awful flirt, I guess, and he gets round a good

deal. I don’t know much about him, except that he’s always pleasant and

agreeable, never, anything but terribly nice to me. Everybody likes

him. He’s one of our best solicitors. I heard from one of the men in

your composing room, who’s a kind of cousin of mine, that you were

with the Corey Company and were Mr. Corey’s private secretary, and one

day I happened to hear Mr. Devlin talking to Mr. Gibbs,--Mr. Gibbs and

his brother own The Gibbs Engraving Company,--and he said something

about how he wished he could land your account but he didn’t know a

soul he could approach. And then I mentioned I knew you. That was all

there was to it, only he said you treated him something awful.”

Jeannette rehearsed the interview.

“He struck me as a very fresh young man,” she concluded.

“Oh, Mr. Devlin’s all right,” Beatrice Alexander said again. “He

doesn’t mean any harm. He’s Irish, you know,--he was born here and all

that,--and he just wants to be friendly with everyone. I suppose he was

kind of hurt because you were so short with him.”

“I most certainly was,” Jeannette said, grimly.

“Well, he’s been begging and begging me to call you up. He wanted to

take us both out to lunch, but I wouldn’t agree to that. I told him I’d

see you about it first.”

“I wouldn’t consider it,” Jeannette said, indignantly. “The idea!

What’s the matter with him?”

“I imagine,” Beatrice Alexander said shyly, “he likes your style.”

“Well, I don’t like _his_! ... The impertinence!”

They finished their lunch and wandered into Broadway. It was Easter

week, and the chimes of Grace Church were ringing out a hymn.

“Let’s not lose touch with each other again,” said Beatrice Alexander

at parting. “I’ll ’phone you soon, and next time you’ll have to have

luncheon with _me_. I always go to Wanamaker’s; they have such lovely

music up there, and the food’s splendid.”

§ 4

Jeannette had forgotten Mr. Devlin’s existence until one day as she was

typing busily at her desk she suddenly recognized his loud, infectious

and unmistakable laugh in the adjoining office. Mr. Corey had come in

from lunch some ten minutes before, and had brought a man with him. She

had heard their feet, their voices, and the clap of the closing door

as they entered. Now the laugh startled her. She paused, her fingers

suspended above the keys of her typewriter, and listened. It was Mr.

Devlin; there was no mistaking him. She twisted her lips in a wry

smile. He and Mr. Corey were evidently getting on.

She knew she would be called. When the buzzer summoned her, she

picked up her note-book and pencils, straightened her shoulders in

characteristic fashion, and went in.

Devlin rose to his feet as she entered, but she did not glance at him.

Her attention was Mr. Corey’s.

“How do you do? How’s Miss Sturgis?” Devlin was all good-natured

friendliness, showing his big teeth as he grinned at her.

She turned her eyes toward him gravely, gazed at him with calm

deliberation, and briefly inclined her head.

“Oh, you two know each other? Friends, hey?” asked Mr. Corey, looking

up.

“Well, we’re trying to be,” laughed Devlin.

Jeannette made no comment. She gazed expectantly at her chief.

“The Gibbs Engraving Company,” said Mr. Corey in his brusque

businesslike voice, “wants to do our engraving. I’m going to give them

a three months’ trial. I’d like to have you take a memorandum of what

they’ve quoted us. Mr. Gibbs is to confirm this by letter. Now you

said five cents per square inch on line cuts with a minimum of fifty

cents....”

Jeannette scribbled down the figures.

“Three-color work a dollar a square inch,” supplied Devlin.

“Oh, I thought you said you’d give us a flat rate on our color work.”

“On the magazine covers, yes, but I can’t do that on general color

work.”

“Well, that’s all right.” The discussion continued. Presently the girl

had all the details.

“Give me a memorandum of that,” Corey said, “and send a carbon to Mr.

Kipps.” He turned to the young man. “We’ll talk it over, and let you

know just as soon as we hear from you.” Devlin rose. The men shook

hands as Jeannette passed into her own room. She heard them saying

good-bye. Their voices continued murmuring, but she did not listen.

Suddenly Mr. Corey opened her door.

“Mr. Devlin wants to speak to you a minute, Miss Sturgis.” He nodded to

his companion, said “Well, good-bye; hope we can get together on this,”

and shook hands once more, and left Devlin confronting her.

“Please let me say just one word,” he said quickly. “I met Mr. Corey

at the Quoin Club the other day and made a date for lunch. I’m after

his business all right, and think I’ve got it cinched. I don’t want

you to continue to be sore at me, if my outfit and yours are going to

do business together. I’m sorry if I got off on the wrong foot. Please

accept my apology and let’s be friends.”

“I don’t think there is any occasion----” began Jeannette icily.

“Aw shucks!” he said interrupting her, “I’m doing the best I can to

square myself. I didn’t mean to annoy you. I didn’t care at first what

you thought of me as long as I got in to see Mr. Corey. I confess I

thought maybe I could jolly you into arranging a date for me to see

him. No,--wait a minute,” he urged as the girl frowned, “hear me out.

You see I’m being honest about it. I’m telling you frankly what I

thought at first, but that was before I even saw you. I had no idea you

were the kind of girl you are. It isn’t usual to find a person like you

in an office. Oh, you think I’m jollying you! I swear I’m not. I just

want to ask you to forgive me if I offended you, and be friends.”

There was something unusually ingratiating about this man. Jeannette

hesitated, and Devlin continued. He pleaded very earnestly; it was

impossible not to believe his sincerity.

Jeannette shrugged her shoulders when he paused for a moment. Her hands

were automatically arranging the articles on her desk.

“Well,” she conceded slowly, “what do you want?”

“For you to say you’ll forgive a blundering Irish boobie, and shake

hands with him.”

He wrung a dry smile from her at that. She held out her hand.

“Oh, very well. It’s easier to be friends with you than have you here

interfering with my getting at my work.”

“That’s fine, now.” He held her fingers a moment, his whole face

beaming. “You’ve a kind heart, Miss Sturgis, and I sha’n’t forget it.”

He took himself away with a radiant smile upon his face.

§ 5

It was evident Martin Devlin proposed to be a factor in her life.

When he came to the office to see Mr. Kipps or Miss Holland about the

engraving,--and the work brought him, or he pretended it brought him,

two or three times a week--he never failed to step to Jeannette’s door,

open it, and give her the benefit of his flashing teeth and handsome

eyes as he wished her good-day or asked her how she was. He did not

intrude further. His visits were only for a minute or two. Only once

when she was looking for a letter in the filing cabinet, he came in and

lingered for a chat. He saw she was not typing, therefore ready to talk

to him since he was not interrupting her. When she went to lunch with

Beatrice Alexander a week or two later at Wanamaker’s he joined the two

girls by the elevators as they were leaving the lunch-room, pretending,

Jeannette noticed, with a great air of surprise, that the meeting was

merely a fortuitous circumstance. The subway had a few days before

begun to operate. Jeannette had never ridden upon it, so Martin piloted

her down the stone steps, boarded the train, and rode with her until

they reached Thirty-fourth Street. Beatrice Alexander had said good-bye

as they left Wanamaker’s.

Devlin had a confident, self-assured way with him. It could not be said

he swaggered, but the word suggested him. He was easy, good-natured,

laughing, cajoling, irresistibly merry. His good humor was contagious.

Men smiled back at him; women looked at him twice. To the subway

guard, to the sour-faced little Jew at the newsstand, to the burly

cop with whom they collided as they climbed the stairs to the street,

he was familiar, patronizing, jocular. He called the Italian subway

guard “Garibaldi,” the Jewish newsdealer “Isaac,” the burly policeman

“Sergeant.” One glance at him and each was won; it was impossible to

resent his familiarity. Everybody liked him; he could say the most

outrageous things and give no offense. It was that Irish charm of his,

Jeannette decided, back once more at her desk and clicking away at her

machine, that made people so lenient with him.

She began to speculate about him a good deal. It was clear he was in

hot pursuit of her, and that he intended to give her no peace. He

commenced to bring little boxes of candy which he slid on to her desk

with a long arm when he opened her office door to say “Hello!” Then

flowers put in their appearance: sweet bunches of violets, swathed

in oiled paper, their stems wrapped in purple tinfoil, the fragrant

ball glistening with brilliant drops of water; there were bunches of

baby roses, too, and lilies-of-the-valley, and daffodils. One day she

happened to mention she had never read “The Taming of the Shrew,” and

the following morning there was delivered at her home a complete

set of the Temple edition of Shakespeare’s plays. She protested, she

threatened to throw the flowers out of the window, she begged him with

her most earnest smile not to send her anything more. She was talking

into deaf ears. The very next day she found on her desk two seats for

a Saturday matinée with a note scribbled on the envelope: “For you and

your mother next Saturday. Have a good time and think of Martin.”

In deep distress she told her mother about him, but Mrs. Sturgis shared

none of her concern.

“Well, perhaps the young man is trying to be friends with you in the

only way he knows how. I wouldn’t be too hasty with him, dearie. You

say he’s with an engraving company? Is that a good line of work? Does

he seem well-off,--plenty of money and all that?”

“Oh, _Mama_!” cried Jeannette, in mild annoyance.

“There’s no harm, my dear, in a nice rich young fellow admiring a

pretty girl like my daughter. If the young man’s well brought up and

means what’s perfectly right and proper, I don’t see what you can

object to. You’ve got to marry one of these days, lovie; you must

remember that. There isn’t any sense in tying yourself down to a desk

for the rest of your life! You’ve _got_ to think about a husband!”

“Well, I don’t want _him_!”

“Perhaps not. I’m not saying anything about him. But there’s plenty of

nice young men in the world, and you mustn’t shut your eyes to them. A

girl should marry and have a home of her own; that’s what God intended.

Doctor Fitzgibbons was saying exactly that same thing to me only

yesterday. Now this Mr. Devlin,--it’s an Irish name, isn’t it?----”

“Oh, hush,--for goodness’ sakes, Mama! Don’t let’s talk any more about

him.... What did Alice have to say to-day?”

“She’s really gaining very rapidly now,” Mrs. Sturgis said instantly

diverted. “She says she’s going to let that woman go. She comes every

day and does all the dishes and cleans up and it only costs Alice three

dollars a week.”

“Why, she’s crazy,” cried Jeannette. “She isn’t half strong enough to

do her own work, yet. You tell her I’ll pay the three dollars till

she’s all right again. I can’t imagine what Roy Beardsley’s thinking

about!”

§ 6

Martin Devlin begged her to allow him to take her mother and herself to

dinner, and “perhaps we’ll have time to drop in at a show afterwards,”

he added. Jeannette declined. She had no wish to become on more

intimate terms with him, but he would not take “No” for an answer. He

persisted; she grew angry; he persisted just the same. She considered

going to Mr. Corey and informing him that this representative of The

Gibbs Engraving Company was annoying her, and yet it hardly seemed the

thing to do. She spoke of it again to her mother, and Mrs. Sturgis

at once was in a flutter of excitement at the prospect of a dinner

downtown.

“But why not, dearie?” she argued. “I could wear my lavender velvet,

and you’ve got your new taffeta.... I’d like to meet the young man.”

After all there were thousands of girls, reflected Jeannette, who were

accepting anything and everything from men, wheedling gifts out of

them, sometimes even taking their money. Her mother would get much

pleasure out of the event.

When Devlin urged his invitation again, she drew a long breath, and

consented. There seemed no reason why she should not accept; there was

nothing wrong with him; she liked him; he was agreeable and devoted;

her mother would be delighted.

He called for them on the night of the party in a taxi. It was an

unexpected luxury. He won Mrs. Sturgis at once. Why, he was perfectly

charming, a delightful young man! What in the world was Jeannette

thinking about? She laughed violently at everything he said, rocking

back and forth on the hard leather seat in the stuffy interior of the

cab, convulsed with mirth, her round little cheeks shaking. He was the

most comical young man she’d ever known!

The taxi took them to a brilliant restaurant, gay with lights, music

and hilarity. Jeannette’s blue, high-necked taffeta and her mother’s

lavender velvet were sober costumes amidst the vivid apparel and

low-cut toilettes of the women. But the girl was aware that no matter

what her dress might be, she, herself, was beautiful. She saw the

turning heads, and the eyes that trailed her as the little group

followed the head-waiter to their table. The table had been reserved,

the dinner ordered. Cocktails appeared, and she sipped the first she

had ever tasted. Her mother was in gay spirits, and preened herself

in these surroundings like a bird. Devlin seemed to know how to do

everything. He was startlingly handsome in his evening clothes; the

white expanse of shirt was immaculate; there were two tiny gold studs

in front, and a black bow tie tied very snugly at the opening of his

collar. It was no more than conventional semi-formal evening dress,

and yet somehow it impressed Jeannette as magnificent. She had never

noticed how becoming the costume was to a man before. She realized,

as she glanced at him, he was the first young man she had ever known,

who had taken her out in the evening and worn evening dress. Roy had

been too poor; the tuxedo he had had at college was shabby; she had

never seen him wear it. She studied Devlin now critically. His hair was

coal black, coarse, a trifle wavy; he wet it, when he combed it, and

it caught a high light now and then. His eyebrows were heavy and bushy

like his hair, the eyes, themselves, deep-set but alive with twinkles

and laughter. They were expressive eyes, she thought, capable of

subtlest meanings. His nose was straight, his mouth large and red, and

his big even teeth glistened between the vivid lips with the glitter of

fine wet porcelain. He had an oval-shaped face and a vigorous pointed

chin. His skin was unblemished, but the jaw, chin, and cheeks were dark

blue from his close-shaven beard. It was his expression, she decided,

more than the regularity of his features, that made him so handsome. In

his evening dress he was extraordinarily good-looking. She judged him

to be twenty-six or seven.

The dinner progressed smoothly. Devlin had evidently taken pains in

ordering it, and he gave a pleased smile when Mrs. Sturgis waxed

enthusiastic over some particular feature, and Jeannette echoed her

praise. There was, as a matter of fact, nothing spectacular about

it: oysters, chicken _sauté sec_,--a specialty of the restaurant,--a

vegetable or two, salad with a red sauce--Mrs. Sturgis thought it

most curious and pronounced it delicious--an ice. To his guests, it

seemed the most wonderful dinner they had ever eaten. The girl was

impressed; her mother flatteringly excited.

“It’s all so _good_!” Mrs. Sturgis kept repeating as if she had made a

surprising discovery.

Devlin called for the check, glanced at it, dropped a large bill on

the silver tray, and when the change was brought, amounting to two

dollars and some cents,--as both Jeannette and her mother noted,--waved

it away to the waiter with a negligent gesture. It was lordly; it was

magnificent!

Jeannette loved such ways of doing things, she loved the lights and

music, the excellent food, the deferential service, the gorgeous

restaurant, the beautifully gowned women. She would like to own one

rich and sumptuous evening dress like theirs, and to be able to wear it

to such a magnificent place as this, and queen it over them all. She

knew she could do it; she could dazzle the entire room.

Devlin guided his guests through the revolving glass doors to the

street, the taxi-cab starter blew his whistle shrilly, a car rolled up,

the door was held open for them to enter, and banged shut. The starter

in his gold-braided uniform and shining brass buttons, touched his

cap respectfully, and the taxi rolled out into the traffic. Jeannette

thrilled to the luxuriousness and extravagance of it all.

It was the same at the theatre. They had aisle seats in the sixth row;

the musical comedy was delightful, spectacular, magnificent, in tune

with everything else that evening. After the theatre, their escort

insisted upon their going to a brilliant café where the music was

glorious, and where Jeannette and her mother sipped ginger-ale and

Devlin drank beer. Mrs. Sturgis commented half-a-dozen times upon the

peel of a lemon, deftly cut into cork-screw shape, and twisted into

her glass, which gave the ginger-ale quite a delightful flavor. It was

Devlin’s idea; she had heard him suggest it to the waiter. He was a

very remarkable young man,--very!

They were swept home in another taxi-cab, and he refused to let them

thank him for the glorious evening. He hinted he would like to call,

and perhaps be asked to dinner. But of course, that was not to be

thought of! A grand person like him coming to one of their simple

little meals, with Mrs. Sturgis or Jeannette jumping up to wait on the

table? That would be perfectly ridiculous! But he might call some time,

or perhaps go with them to a Sunday concert. He would be delighted, of

course. He held his hat high above his head as he said good-night, and

stood at the foot of the steps until they were safely inside.

It had been a memorable evening; they really had had a most wonderful

time; Mr. Devlin certainly knew how to do things! Mrs. Sturgis,

carefully pinning a sheet about her lavender velvet preparatory to

hanging it in the closet, began planning how they could entertain him.

“Is he fond of music, do you know, dearie? I think we could get seats

for some Sunday afternoon concert, and then bring him home to tea. It

would be much better to ask him here than to go to any of those little

tea-places; we could get some crumpets and toast them ourselves, and

might buy a few little French pastries. You could see he was dying to

be asked.”

Jeannette felt vaguely irritated.

“Oh, let’s not rush him, Mama.”

“Rush him? Who’s talking of rushing him, I’d like to know? The young

man is a very delightful, presentable gentleman, and he’s evidently

taken a great fancy to you, and he’s even been nice to your poor old

mother. I declare, Janny, I can’t sometimes make you out! I just

was proposing we extend him a little hospitality in return for his

extremely lavish entertainment. He’s been most kind and considerate,

and the least we can do....”

Jeannette’s mind wandered. It certainly would be wonderful, went her

roving thoughts, to have money, and dress gorgeously, and go about

to such magnificent restaurants, and then taxi off to the theatre,

whenever one wanted to! It would be wonderful, too, to have somebody

strong and resourceful always looking out for one’s comfort and

enjoyment, paying all the bills, never bothering one about money,

consulting and gratifying one’s slightest whim!

She went to sleep in a haze of golden imaginings. Her mother’s voice in

the next room planning various schemes, commenting upon Mr. Devlin’s

attractiveness, grew fainter and fainter, and finally dwindled silent.

§ 7

But the next morning Jeannette vigorously attacked the subject. There

had been nothing extraordinary about the past evening. A man in

conventional evening dress had taken her mother and herself to dine in

a restaurant, and afterwards had driven them in a taxi to the theatre.

What was there so remarkable in that? It was being done all the time;

the restaurants were packed full of such parties night after night. It

had merely _seemed_ wonderful to a girl and her mother unused to such

entertainment.

Jeannette kept reminding herself of this throughout the ensuing day.

She did not propose to have her head turned, as her mother’s evidently

was, by a little splurge of money. She was not in love with Martin

Devlin, she did not care a snap of her finger for him, she would not

marry him if he had a million! There was no sense in letting him think

she would even consider such an idea. She couldn’t help it, if he was

in love with her. She had done nothing to encourage him, and she didn’t

propose to begin. No, the whole thing had better come to an end; it

had gone quite far enough; she’d have to call off any silly plans her

mother might be making.... What! Marry Martin Devlin and give up her

job? _Never in the world!_

But Jeannette found she was dealing with a personality very different

from that of Roy Beardsley. Mr. Devlin had one idea, one object:

the idea was Jeannette, the object matrimony. He besieged her with

attentions, he gave her no peace, he hounded her footsteps. Mrs.

Sturgis threw herself whole-heartedly upon his side. She was deaf to

her daughter’s remonstrances; she refused to be discourteous, as she

described it, to a young man so attentive and considerate. Mother and

daughter actually quarrelled about the matter, refused to speak to

each other for a whole day, made up with tears and kisses, but this in

no jot altered Mrs. Sturgis’ purpose of being Mr. Devlin’s friend and

advocate.

Jeannette was not to be shaken. She did not desire Mr. Devlin, she did

not want to marry anyone, she had no intention of abandoning her work.

“You _got_ to marry me, Jeannette,” this purposeful young man said to

her one day.

“Never,” said Jeannette resolutely.

“Oh, yes, you will,” he told her with equal confidence.

“Well, we’ll see about that. I don’t care for you; I wouldn’t marry you

if I did; you are only annoying me with your attentions. I would really

like you much better if you’d leave me alone.”

The very evening this conversation took place she found a beautiful

little scarab pin waiting for her when she got home. She mailed it

back to him at The Gibbs Engraving Company. The next day came perfume,

and a day or two later a large roll of new magazines; he sent her

candy, flowers, theatre tickets. She gave the candy away, threw the

flowers out of the window, tore up the theatre tickets and sent the

torn paste-boards back to him in a letter in which she told him further

gifts would only anger her. They kept on coming with undiminished

regularity. She wept; her mother scolded her; Devlin called. There was

no evading him; he was everywhere.

One day, he grabbed her, took her in his arms, beat down her

resistance, strained her to him, and kissed her savagely, hungrily on

the mouth. In that instant she capitulated; something broke within her;

an overwhelming force rose like a great tide, welled up over her head

and submerged her. She wilted in his embrace, succumbed like a crushed

lily and longed for him to trample on her.

Love, glorious, intoxicating, passionate, had sprung to life

in her. She resented it; she was helpless against it. She

fought--fought--fought to no purpose. It rode her, rowelled her,

harried her. Martin Devlin had conquered her heart, but her will was

another matter.

§ 8

Jeannette became miserably unhappy. She imagined she had experienced

all love’s emotions when Roy Beardsley possessed her thoughts. She

laughed now when she thought of them. She had been little more than a

school girl then, with a school girl’s capacity for love,--a maiden’s

love, virginal, immature. It was not to be compared with this flame

that seethed within her now. Oh, God! Her love for Martin Devlin was

an agony! For the first time in her life she knew the full meaning

of fear. She feared this man with a fear like terror. Ruthlessly he

obtruded himself into her life, ruthlessly he assaulted the securest

fastnesses of it, ruthlessly, she dreaded, he would strike them down

and subdue her will as easily as he had won her love. He was in her

thoughts all day and all night; she trembled when he was near her; it

was torment when they were apart. Again and again, she returned to

her determination to put him out of her life; he would only cause her

trouble; there was only unhappiness in store for them both. It was

useless. Neither her thoughts nor Devlin had any mercy upon her. She

knew at last what love, real love, was like; it was a raging fire,

white-hot, scorifying, consuming.

His lips never again found hers after that first terrible moment of

weakness. Sometimes he caught her to him and strained her in his

arms, but her cheek or hair or neck received his eager kiss. She

resisted these embraces with all her strength, struggled in his grasp.

She was mortally afraid of him; mortally afraid of herself. Desire

throbbed in all her veins. She clung desperately to the last redoubt

in her defenses behind which every instinct told her safety lay. She

would allow him no avenue of approach; she would tolerate no moment’s

weakness in her fortitude.

“Janny, you love me, and, by God, I love you. You’re the finest woman

I’ve ever known, Janny. When are you going to marry me?” Martin had his

arms about her, but both her hands were pressed against his breast.

He seemed so big and powerful as he stood holding her; she knew his

clean shaven chin was rough with his beard, firm and cold; he smelled

fragrantly of cigars.

Ah, love! That was one thing,--she had no control over her heart,--but

marriage was another. That was very different indeed.

“Martin dear,--I _do_ love you,--I’m proud I love you. But I don’t want

to get married!”

“Why not?”

Jeannette sighed wearily.

“I don’t suppose I can ever make you understand. I like to live my

own life; I like to come and go as I please; I like to have the money

I earn myself to spend the way I like. And besides that, I love my

work, I love being at the office. I’ve been part of this business now

for three years; I’ve helped to build it up, I know every detail; it

belongs to me in a way. Does that sound unreasonable to you?”

“No, not unreasonable exactly. But I don’t think you see it right;

you attach too much importance to it. You’ll be just as free and

independent as my wife as you are now.”

Would she? She wondered. It was of that, that she had her gravest

misgivings.

“And then there’s Mr. Corey. I wouldn’t feel right about leaving him;

he depends on me so much.”

“Well, for God’s sake!” exclaimed Martin. “Do you mean to tell me you

would let _that_ stand in the way?”

“It’s a consideration,” said Jeannette honestly. Martin’s face settled

grimly.

“And then there’s Mama,” went on the girl. “She’s so happy now, living

with me. She doesn’t have to work so hard any more, and she goes to

concerts and visits Alice and does as she pleases. You see, if I

married, that would have to come to an end. I don’t know what she would

do.”

“Why, she could do a lot of things,” argued Martin. “She might go and

live with your sister, for instance, or come with us; she could divide

her time between the two of you.”

“Alice would love to have her,” admitted Jeannette. “Mama’s crazy about

Etta, and of course it would make it easier for Allie. But I don’t

think Mama would consent to live with either of her children.”

“I’ve always been a fan for your ma,” said Martin, “and that just shows

how dead sensible she is. Your sister’s husband and I could each send

her twenty-five dollars a month, and she could find some place to board

easily for that.”

“Roy hasn’t got any twenty-five dollars.”

“We can fix up some arrangement that will be satisfactory all ’round.”

“Mama would never consent to give up her teaching. It really means too

much to her.”

“Well, there you are! You haven’t got a real reason on earth for not

marrying me to-morrow.”

But Jeannette felt she had, though she could find no one to agree with

her.

“You’re just playing with your happiness, dearie,” her mother said to

her. “Martin Devlin’s a fine young man. You could go a long way before

you’d find a better husband. I want to see my dearie-girl in a little

home of her own like her sister’s.”

“Oh, Janny,” said Alice, “you don’t know what fun, being married is!

Why, after you’ve become a wife, you feel differently about the whole

world. Why, I’d marry _anybody_ rather than not be married at all! ...

And then, Janny, you haven’t got the faintest idea how sweet it is to

have a baby of your own. Etta is just the joy of our lives. You ought

to see Roy playing with her when he comes home from the office and I am

getting her bath ready!”

Jeannette studied her sister’s radiant face curiously. There was a

mystery here; something she did not understand. This was the girl who

had borne her child in agony, who had endured nearly fifteen hours of

labor, who had been torn and ripped, and had lain helpless on her back

for six long months, fighting her way back to strength and normality,

despairing and weakly crying! Yet here she was talking of the joy of

having a baby, urging her sister to a like experience!

It was puzzling. How soon mothers forgot! Six months of helplessness

already unremembered! It had not passed from Jeannette’s recollection.

It had been terrible--terrible! ... And yet she would like to have a

baby of her own,--a baby without that fearful ordeal,--a little Martin

Devlin. She kissed Etta on the back of her wrinkled fat neck where it

was sweetly perspiry and fuzzy with the lint from her blankets.

§ 9

Jeannette was equally sure of two things: she loved Martin with all her

soul; she would never consent to give up her position with Mr. Corey

and marry him. Martin, her mother, Alice, even Mr. Corey, who soon

learned of the situation, could not persuade her.

Corey had a long talk with her about the matter.

“I don’t know very much about your young man; Gibbs speaks well of him.

He tells me he’s been with them a little more than a year, and is their

star salesman. I think he has more possibilities in him than that. Of

course you never can tell. I confess I was impressed when I first met

him. Somebody at the Quoin Club had him there as a guest and introduced

us, and he talked good business from the start. I don’t think much of

Gibbs’ engraving, but that’s no reflection on Devlin. Personally I

think you ought to marry. I advised you the same way before. Perhaps

you were right in not being too hasty in that instance. I can’t know,

of course, whether you’re seriously interested or not. Your heart has

got to tell you that. If you love Devlin well enough and think you’ll

be happy with him, you ought to marry him. I hate to see you wasting

your life down here in this office. You’re deserving a better chance.

Business is no place for a girl. You ought to be building a home and

rearing children of your own. If you make as good a wife as you have a

secretary,” he ended with a smile, “your husband will have no occasion

to find fault with you.”

But she could not bring herself to give up her independence. That was

what stuck in her throat. She came back to it repeatedly. A little

apartment like Alice’s to share with Martin, to fix and furnish,--it

appealed to her imagination, it had its attractions,--but it would be

such a leap in the dark! She was so sure of her happiness living the

way she was--why alter it? Yet was there any happiness for her without

Martin? She tried to picture it, and her heart misgave her.

Some of the glamor that surrounded him at first had now disappeared.

He no longer seemed a scion of wealth, a prince, a lordling, to

whistle menials to his beck and call, and to swagger his way in and

out of restaurants, leaving a trail of scattered largess in his wake.

Familiarity had stripped him of the cloak of splendor with which he

first had dazzled her. She liked him all the better without it, for it

had only been bluff with him, his way of trying to impress her. She

knew him now for an ever merry soul, an amused and amusing companion,

possessing rare thoughtfulness, a little vain, a little opinionated,

vigorous, direct, domineering, who could, if he so desired, charm an

angel Gabriel to softness. He had his faults; she thought she knew them

all. He was happy-go-lucky, had small regard for time, appointments,

or others’ feelings; he was extravagant in all his tastes; and loved

pleasure inordinately. But there was a charm about him that made up

to her a thousandfold for these trifling short-comings. He was the

handsomest of men, generous and invariably kind-hearted, he could win a

smile from an image, or accomplish the impossible, once his mind was

made up.

It was a satisfaction to learn that he earned only fifty dollars a

week. She had thought him a millionaire at first. He threw money about

with a prodigality that distressed her. His theatre tickets, his gifts,

his unceasing attentions cost money,--a great deal of money. She

knew his salary did not warrant it. She was glad he got but fifty a

week,--only fifteen more than she did, herself. Roy was getting forty.

Martin seemed more human to her after she knew the size of his salary;

he was more comprehensible.

And here, once more, was confronting her the matter of finances were

she to marry. She and her mother together enjoyed an income that was

never less than two hundred dollars a month. She contributed eighty, as

her share towards rent and food, and had still sixty dollars a month

left to spend as she chose, for clothes, for a gift to Alice, or for

delightful adventures with her mother, lunches and theatres on Saturday

afternoons, and the little surprises that were so delightful. Would she

have anything like as much out of the two hundred dollars Martin earned

if she married him? What part of his weekly pay envelope was he likely

to give her to run their house, and to spend on herself?

It was only fair, since he pressed his suit so vigorously, that this

all-important matter should be brought up and discussed. She did not

consider herself mercenary. The question of the wife’s allowance in

marriage seemed a vital one to her. She had tasted independence, and

did not consider she should be expected to relinquish it in marriage.

Alice and Roy got along in amiable fashion on this point. Roy kept

five dollars a week for himself and gave his wife the rest of his

pay envelope. Sometimes toward the end of the week he would ask her

for fifty cents or a dollar to tide him over until Saturday. That

arrangement seemed to Jeannette eminently fair. Roy gave all he could

be reasonably expected to, she thought; five dollars a week was about

as little as he could get along on for carfare, lunches and tobacco.

Of course, his clothing and the pleasures he and his wife shared, came

out of what Alice was able to save from week to week,--and she did

manage to save a little. But, as Jeannette had often remarked, Alice

was different from her. She, Jeannette, had won for herself an economic

value to be measured in dollars and cents, and it was not fair to

expect her to forego this for a hazy, uncertain condition in which her

wishes and wants were only to be gratified at her husband’s whim. It

was better to have a frank discussion and settle the matter.

Martin shouted a delighted laugh when she expounded this thought.

“Why, my darling,” he said, “don’t bother your head about it. You can

have every cent I make and if that isn’t enough, I’ll go out and steal

for you.”

“But seriously, Martin, what do you think a wife should have out of her

husband’s income? Now, I’m not saying I’ll marry you----”

“You darling!”

“No--no,--be sensible, Martin. I want to thresh this out. If I _should_

consent to marry you, what would you think would be a fair proportion

of what you earn that I could count on as my own?”

“What would you be wanting money for?” Martin asked, amused by her

earnestness.

“What would I be wanting money for?” she repeated. “Why, what do you

think? ... For clothes, for pleasures, to throw away if I liked!”

“Aw, hear her!” he laughed. “Why, my darling, I’ll buy you your clothes

and everything your little heart desires if only you’ll say ‘yes’ to

me.”

“Martin, I’ll never say ‘yes’ until this is settled,” she said

spiritedly, her eyes with a queer light in them.

Martin was serious for a moment.

“Sweet woman,” he said earnestly, “you can have it all. Divide it any

way you like. I don’t care in the least. There’s plenty for the two of

us.”

But Jeannette would consider nothing so indefinite. She did not want

a great deal, but she wanted to feel sure of something that would be

regarded as entirely her own. With difficulty she persuaded him to

talk about the matter in earnest. They agreed that if his salary were

equally divided, and Jeannette paid all the table expenses out of her

half while he paid the rent and everything else out of his, that would

be an equitable arrangement. That satisfied Jeannette; it gave her

something to think about when she considered marrying him.

But even with this much settled, she was no nearer making up her

mind than she had ever been. Marriage meant giving up the office,

the close affiliations she had formed there. Propinquity had made

her fellow-workers her friends; she knew them all intimately, knew

something of their private lives, rejoiced or sorrowed with them at the

inevitable changes of fortune. When an eminent surgeon from Germany

performed a miraculous operation on Mr. Featherstone’s little son and

gave him the use of his legs on which he had never walked, she shared

his father’s joy; when Mr. Cavendish married a charming Vassar girl who

was the daughter of a wealthy Wall Street banker, she congratulated

him with a real pleasure; when Miss Holland’s seventeen-year-old

nephew secured an appointment at Annapolis and successfully passed

the entrance examination, she took keen satisfaction in her friend’s

delight. She was shocked and saddened when Sandy MacGregor’s wife died,

and when Mr. Allister was taken ill with pneumonia no one inquired more

frequently about him while he struggled desperately to live, or felt

more pleasure when it was announced he had turned the corner and would

before long be back again at his desk. She was glad when Francis Holme,

Walt Chase and Sandy MacGregor each received a substantial gift of

the company’s common stock at Christmas-time, and was correspondingly

sorry that Horatio Stephens and Willis Corey shared equally in the

honorarium. When Miss Peckenbaugh asked for a raise in salary, and her

request was endorsed by Mr. Allister, she took it upon herself to tell

Mr. Corey certain facts about the young lady that had become known to

her, and when as a result, the request was refused and Miss Peckenbaugh

in anger resigned, she was amused and delighted. At the same time she

urged and secured a five-dollar raise per week for old Major Ticknor

who had a little blind grandchild he was helping to maintain in a

private sanitarium. Young Tommy Livingston in the bindery had impressed

her upon a certain occasion with his brightness and ability, and she

recommended him warmly to Mr. Corey, and had the satisfaction of seeing

him promoted to a desk in Mr. Kipps’ department. At her suggestion,

window-boxes filled with flowers were put along the windows of the

press-room that faced the street; she persuaded the firm to install a

lunch-room for the women employees on the eighth floor, and it was her

idea that a regular trained nurse be engaged and established in a small

but complete infirmary within the building. She induced Mr. Corey to

offer a certain rising young author, whose work had been her discovery

and who was showing steady improvement, an increase in royalty

percentage, and she prevented the publication of a certain piece of

fiction, which Corey had given her to read, because she considered it

vicious, despite Mr. Allister’s strong recommendation. She advised her

chief to instruct Horatio Stephens to order a series of articles from a

woman writer whose work in another magazine had interested her, and she

urged him not to engage a certain Madame Desseau of Paris, a designer

of women’s clothes, as the fashion editor of _The Ladies’ Fortune_.

Jeannette had a hand in almost every important step that was taken. Mr.

Corey respected her judgment, frequently consulted her, and sometimes

followed her advice even when contrary to his inclinations. He often

told her that he believed her intuition was unerring and the greatest

possible help to him.

§ 10

That particular winter proved an exceptionally strenuous and exacting

one for Mr. Corey. He was worn out with work and with the ever

increasing demands upon him, demands that came more and more from the

outside.

The P. P. Prescott Publishing Company, a house with a reputation of

half a century of high literary output, through mismanagement was in

danger of bankruptcy. While the “P P P” books were famous the world

over, the bank that had financed the concern for years was tired

of the arrangement; the tottering house owed the Chandler B. Corey

Company nearly a hundred thousand dollars for subscription premiums

Francis Holme had sold it, and it was a foregone conclusion that if

the Prescott Company failed, there would be no way of collecting the

debt. Mr. Corey wanted to take over the Prescott Company entirely,--it

could have been bought at the time for practically nothing by assuming

its obligations,--but this was one of their chief’s bold and brilliant

ideas that Mr. Kipps and Mr. Featherstone opposed and, to Jeannette’s

intense regret, persuaded him against. The result was that instead of

absorbing the Prescott Company, and letting the Corey organization

administer its various activities, Mr. Corey was forced to become

chairman of the board which undertook to put the older publishing house

on its feet again, and to do most of the work himself.

In addition to this he was compelled to accept the leadership of a

committee appointed by the Publishers’ Association to confer with the

postal authorities in Washington regarding the rates on second class

mail matter which were in danger of being raised. He had been obliged

to make several trips to the capital. He was one of the directors of

a large paper mill which, in conjunction with some other publishers,

he had purchased. He had shown an interest in local politics and had

been put on the Republican State Central Committee; he was one of

the governors of the Swanee Valley Golf Club, and executor of the

estate of Julius Zachariah Rosenbaum, a wealthy Jewish capitalist,

whose autobiography he had published during the old Hebrew’s life. No

one outside the immediate members of the firm, with the exception of

Jeannette, knew that Rosenbaum had taken sixty thousand subscriptions

to _Corey’s Commentary_ when the story of his life was appearing in

serial form in that magazine, and when the book was published he

ordered twenty-five thousand copies, presumably to distribute among his

friends. Poor Rosenbaum! It was doubtful if he had a score, and when

he died there was universal rejoicing throughout the country that the

most grasping of moneyed barons, who had consistently obstructed the

wheels of progress, was gone. But he left a large slice of his wealth

in charitable endowments, and named Chandler B. Corey as one of the

executors of his will.

These responsibilities weighed heavily upon Mr. Corey’s health and

strength. He had been troubled with indigestion for several months and

his general condition was not good. In addition there were domestic

cares. With the increase of their fortunes, Mrs. Corey had moved

herself and her family into a stone front house on Riverside Drive

where she proceeded to maintain an expensive order of existence. She

had begged hard for this new home, and her husband weakly had given

way. He never seemed able to refuse his wife anything, Jeannette

thought. He could be strong about other matters, but where Mrs. Corey

and his son, Willis, were concerned he was foolishly irresolute. Mrs.

Corey established herself in great feather in the new house, hired

four servants in addition to a liveried chauffeur, who drove her

Pope-Toledo, and began to entertain lavishly. Her special victims

were authors, particularly visiting ones from England, and if any

of them happened to be titled, it was always the occasion for an

elaborate affair. Mr. Corey hated these entertainments, and to avoid

them frequently went to Washington on the plea of pressing business

connected with the postal rates. The new order was exceedingly

expensive. Jeannette could not understand why Mr. Corey put up with it.

But his wife’s reckless expenditure was a matter of small concern in

comparison with his anxiety for his daughter. The unfortunate girl

had fallen during a sudden epileptic seizure, and struck her head

upon a brass fender at the hearth. She had lain for three months in a

semi-conscious condition, and though treatments had partially restored

her mind, she was not wholly competent and would never again be able to

go about without an attendant. It was a great grief to her father. His

troubles had been further augmented at this particular time by Willis,

who had been paying marked attention to a married society woman with an

unenviable reputation for many affairs with young men. Mr. Corey solved

this particular problem by sending Willis on a hunting expedition to

South Africa with Eric Ericsson, the Norwegian explorer. Ostensibly

the young man went to write articles about the trip for _Corey’s

Commentary_. It was announced he was to be gone for a year. Jeannette

was aware that Mr. Corey had paid Ericsson five thousand dollars to

take his son with him; the money had been given, of course, in the form

of a contribution to scientific research.

It was small wonder that Corey’s physician ordered a complete rest

for him in the early spring of the year. The man was threatened with a

nervous breakdown, his doctor told him; the matter of his indigestion

must have his serious attention; he must take a vacation, and he must

take it immediately. Affairs at the office made it impossible, at the

moment, for this vacation to be of any length; even Jeannette realized

that it would be hazardous for the company to be left without Mr.

Corey’s guiding hand on the helm. It was decided that he should go to

White Sulphur Springs, play golf as much as he was able, give especial

attention to his diet, and keep in touch with the office by mail and

telegraph. He would be able, it was hoped, to get a complete change of

climate and a proper rest by this arrangement.

“Of course, you’ll have to go with me, Miss Sturgis,” he said, wheeling

round upon her when this conclusion had been reached. “I couldn’t do a

thing down there without you.”

“Why, certainly,” the girl answered. As their eyes met a moment, the

same thought passed through both minds.

“We’ll take your mother along,” said Corey in his brisk, direct fashion.

Mrs. Sturgis at once was in a great state of agitation.

“But my pupils, dearie,--my little pupils!” she cried. “What will the

darlings do without their lessons?”

“Well, the little darlings can get along without them,” Jeannette

told her. “When their parents want to take them off to the mountains

or the seashore, they just take them, and there’s never any question

about paying for cancelled lessons. I guess you can do the same for

once in your life.... Anyhow, there’s no use arguing about it, Mama.

Mr. Corey needs me, and if you don’t go with me, I’ll go without you.

It’s perfectly ridiculous that we have to be chaperoned! He’s like my

father! ... But I thought you’d enjoy the trip. You know it isn’t going

to cost either of us a penny!”

“Why, of course, dearie,--but you kind of spring this on me. I haven’t

had a chance to think it over.... Of course, I’d love it.”

§ 11

White Sulphur Springs was beautiful, the weather perfection; Jeannette

enjoyed every hour of her stay. She had wanted to get off by herself

for some time, to think calmly over what she must do about Martin

Devlin. He had given her one of his hungry kisses when he said

good-bye, and she felt at the moment he was dearer to her than life

itself. He was urging her with voice, eyes and lips to be his wife. A

realization had come to her that she could temporize with the situation

no longer; she must either agree to marry him, or in some way bring the

intimacy to an end.

Corey played golf mornings and afternoons. Jeannette watched his mail,

and answered most of it herself, only consulting him when necessary.

She would give him brief memorandums of what his mail contained, and

show him the carbons of the letters she had dispatched, signed with his

name, “per J. S.” He did not have to give more than an hour a day to

his affairs.

The doctor had warned him about his diet, and had directed him to take

a hydrochloric acid prescription three times a day. Jeannette watched

his food as well as his mail; she studied the menus in the dining-room

and ordered his meals in advance, so that he would be sure to eat the

proper food; she made him take his medicine, and persuaded him to try

some electric baths that were operated in connection with the hotel.

She kept a chart of his weight, and when they met at the breakfast

table she would inquire about his night. She saw with satisfaction that

he was improving steadily; his face, neck and hands were turning a

healthy bronze color, his appetite was excellent, his sleep undisturbed.

At first a problem presented itself in Mrs. Sturgis. The little woman

was intensely excited at being so closely associated with Mr. Corey.

His presence agitated her; she felt it was her duty to entertain him,

to evince an interest in his comings and goings, to maintain a pleasant

and polite ripple of conversation at the table or whenever they were

together. She believed it was expected of her to show an interest equal

to her daughter’s in the state of his health, and that she must always

inquire how he felt and how he had passed the night. Jeannette knew Mr.

Corey hated this kind of fussy solicitude; it annoyed and irritated

him. The girl suffered acutely whenever her mother commenced to ply him

with her prim inquiries, or when she pretended to be interested in his

golf game about which she knew, and her daughter and Mr. Corey knew she

knew, not one thing. Jeannette suspected there were moments when Mr.

Corey could have strangled her with delight.

There came a distressing hour eventually to mother and daughter.

Jeannette had to tell her that Mr. Corey did not like her concern as to

his welfare, that he had come down to White Sulphur Springs to rest,

and that he must be spared all possible conversation. Mrs. Sturgis

wept. She declared she had never been so “insulted” in her life, that

she was going to pack her trunk and go home at once.

It was in the midst of this scene that a bell-boy of the hotel brought

Jeannette a telegram addressed to Mr. Corey. She tore it open. It was

from his wife.

“Dear Chandler, am lonesome without you. Wish to join you for rest of

your stay. Wire me if I may come. Can leave at once. Love.

Rachael.”

Jeannette shut her teeth slowly as she read the words. It was most

unfortunate. Mrs. Corey would upset her husband, would interfere with

his daily routine, clash with him at once over his golf, object to

the time he gave to it, find fault with Jeannette’s presence, angrily

resent her supervision of his health and meals, so that little of the

hoped-for good would result from these weeks of rest and recreation.

And Mr. Corey would amiably agree to letting her join him!

Jeannette’s distress soon persuaded Mrs. Sturgis to forget her own

grievances. Once her sympathy for her daughter was aroused, she waxed

indignant over Mrs. Corey’s selfishness and lack of consideration.

“Why, the woman must be crazy,” she said warmly. “He came down here

just to get away from her!”

“Oh, I know,” murmured Jeannette, “and as sure as I show him her

telegram he will tell me to wire her to come at once.”

“Well, I wouldn’t tell him anything about it,” declared Mrs. Sturgis.

They fell to discussing the situation. After long consultation and

several efforts at drafting it, they concocted the following answer:

“Mr. Corey is not well. I think it would be unwise for you to join

him just now. He is getting a maximum amount of rest and sleep

and anything tending to interfere with these I believe would be

unfortunate. Will keep you advised of his condition.

Jeannette Sturgis.”

In the middle of the night that followed, Jeannette awoke, and

considered what she had done. As she lay awake reviewing the matter,

the conviction slowly came to her that she had committed a dreadful

blunder. Her mouth grew dry; a cold sweat broke out on her. She got up,

went to the window and gazed out upon the flat moonlight that filled

the hotel garden below with evil shadows.

Mrs. Corey was certain to be wild! She would be insane with anger!

Jeannette could follow the workings of her mind: Was her husband’s

secretary to presume to tell her what she should do where his welfare

was concerned? Was this stenographer at so much a week to take it upon

herself to tell her employer’s wife she did not think her presence at

her husband’s side a good thing for him? Was she implying that it would

be harmful, distressful for him? Did she have such entire confidence

in herself and her judgment that she could send a telegram like that

without even consulting him? ...

Oh, the heavens were about to fall! It was an irreparable mistake! Mr.

Corey, himself, would be furious with her! The mental distress she had

been anxious to save him, she had, with her own hand, brought ten

times more heavily upon him! She was a fool,--an utter, inexcusable

fool! She was--was--was----

She did not sleep the rest of the night. She rolled and tossed in her

bed, and walked the floor.

In the morning she went straight to Mr. Corey and told him what she

had done. His seriousness as he frowned, and pulled at his moustache

confirmed her worst fears. He made no comment; asked a few questions;

there was nothing more. Jeannette went on talking volubly, at times

incoherently, for the first time in all the years she had been his

secretary, trying to justify herself. Suddenly a rush of tears blinded

her; she tried to check them; it was useless.

“Well, well, well, Miss Sturgis,” Corey said consolingly patting her

folded hands. “You mustn’t take it so hard. It’s not such a serious

matter. You’re making too much of it. I guess I can square it for both

of us.”

He drew a sheet of hotel paper toward him and scribbled a couple of

lines with his fountain pen.

“Here,” he said, shoving it towards her. “Send her this telegram and

see how it works.”

Jeannette read what he had written through blurred vision.

“Dear Rachael, Miss Sturgis has shown me your wire of yesterday. I

agree with her that it would be a mistake for you to join me just at

present. Am writing you. Much love.

Chandler.”

The girl looked up at him with swimming eyes. Impulsively she caught

his hand; his generosity overwhelmed her; in a moment she had pressed

the hand to her lips.

§ 12

They returned to New York the end of March. Mrs. Sturgis had been in a

flutter of excitement during the last ten days of their stay; she was

madly anxious to get home to see Alice, who had written she was going

to have another baby. Both her mother and sister were distressed at the

news; they felt it was unfortunate she was going to have one so soon

after her first. Little Etta was not a year old yet.

On Washington’s Birthday, which fell on a Friday that year, Martin

Devlin had come all the way from New York to see Jeannette. He had

brought with him in his pocket a flawless, claw-set diamond solitaire

in a little plush jeweller’s box and had begged Jeannette to allow him

to slip it on her finger. She had found herself missing him during

the weeks of separation more than she had believed it possible she

could miss anyone; she missed his big hands and his big voice, his

indefatigable solicitude, his joyous laugh, his unwavering love for

her. In the months,--it was close to a year,--that she had known him,

she had grown dependent upon these; Martin was part of her life now;

she could not imagine it without him; love had enriched the existence

of both. But she was no nearer marrying him than she had ever been.

During the weeks of sunshine, the hours of solitude and thinking

she had enjoyed, it seemed to her that marriage would be a terrible

mistake; she believed she saw her destiny lying straight ahead; she

had chosen a vocation, and like a nun, who renounces marriage, she

too must give up all thought of being a wife. She must pursue her life

work unhampered by domesticity. Not forever would she be Mr. Corey’s

secretary; there were heights beyond she planned to attain. She told

herself she had the capacity of being a successful executive; some day

she would hold a position like Miss Holland’s, have a department of her

own. Walt Chase had charge of the Mail Order business; one of these

days he would be promoted to something more responsible, and Jeannette

intended then to ask Mr. Corey to give her his place. She knew she

could do the work,--perhaps even better than Walt Chase. She had plans

already to make it larger and to get out special literature designed to

arouse women’s interest. Walt Chase was getting seventy-five dollars

a week now. She would like to be earning that much. She knew what

she would do with it: she’d begin to put by a hundred a month, and

invest it in good securities; when she grew old or wanted to take a

vacation, she would have something saved up. She had only commenced

to think of these matters recently, but now the idea fired her. It

would be wonderful to have a private income of one’s own. And perhaps

she might take her mother with her on a little jaunt to Europe! ...

But matrimony? No, marriage was too great a risk, too much of an

experiment. She acknowledged she loved Martin Devlin as much as she

could ever love any man. Of that she was sure. She was not equally sure

she would always be happy with him, that she would like married life

itself. Why risk something that might bring her untold sadness?

So Jeannette had argued before Martin arrived to see her and so she

had planned to tell him. It was a familiar conclusion with her, but

this time she determined that he should have the truth and she would

convince him that she could never marry him. But when Martin put his

big fingers around her arm and drew her strongly to him, crushing her

in his embrace while he forced his lips against hers, she wanted to

swoon in his arms and so die. The weakness was but momentary; she fled

from him, won control of herself again, and the bars were up once more

between them. But she had not been able to bring herself to enunciate

her high resolve; she had refused the ring, yet Martin had returned to

New York with the confident feeling that some day she would wear it.

Mr. Corey had entirely regained his old buoyancy during the six weeks’

rest. He came back to his desk with all the dynamic energy which had

so impressed Jeannette when she first became his secretary. She, too,

was glad to be home again, back in her own office, resuming her daily

routine, gathering up the threads of activity and influence she loved

to have within her grasp, and seeing Martin every day. Alice, with her

round eyes reflecting in their depths that same curious light Jeannette

had noticed when the first baby was coming, welcomed her mother and

sister in the gayest of spirits. She was having not nearly the same

degree of discomfort, she told them, that she had had while carrying

Etta. She made them come to dinner the night they arrived in New York;

she wanted them to see the baby, and to show them the sewing machine

Roy was buying for her on the installment plan. Martin was included in

the party. This troubled Jeannette a little, for it seemed to establish

him in the family circle.

She had returned from White Sulphur Springs on Sunday. On Tuesday, Mr.

Corey did not come to the office all day. Jeannette had expected him;

he had said nothing to her about being absent; she had no idea where

he was. On Wednesday, when he came in, in the middle of the morning, a

strained white look upon his face told her at once that something had

gone wrong. He rang for her almost immediately, and indicated a chair

for her, while he instructed the operator at the telephone switch-board

he was not to be disturbed.

“Miss Sturgis,” he began, working a troubled thumb and forefinger at

the ends of his moustache, “I have some unhappy, news for you; it has

been unhappy for me, and I fear it will be equally so for you. Mrs.

Corey as you know is a high-strung, temperamental woman. You’ve no

doubt observed she had a decidedly suspicious nature....”

Jeannette’s heart stood still. In a flash she saw what was coming. A

gathering roar began mounting in her ears, every muscle grew tense.

She could see Mr. Corey’s mouth moving, his lips forming words and she

heard his voice, but what he was saying, was meaningless to her; she

could get no sense out of it. Suddenly he came to the word “divorce.”

Her whole nature seemed to have been waiting for him to say it; as he

pronounced it, she sat bolt upright, and a quick convulsion passed

through her. At once her mind was clear and she was able to follow

everything he was saying.

“... wrote her a long letter from the hotel. I was loving and

affectionate in it--as affectionate as I knew how to be, for I feared

the unfortunate matter of the telegrams would anger her. I think

I wrote some eight or nine pages, and I tried to explain that you

had been merely actuated by your solicitude for me. In my anxiety

to placate her, I spoke very harshly of you, told her that you

realised you had overstepped your province, that I had given you a

severe reprimand and that you were much chagrined. I explained to her

carefully your mother was with us, but she knew that was to be before

we left. I assured her of my devotion. I got no answer. I suspected

before we reached New York that she was at outs with me, but there

have been other occasions when this was so, and I had no doubt that I

could soothe her injured feelings. She had always resented your being

my secretary; of course, you’ve known that. I did not dream, however,

that she was as angry with me as she evidently is. She has shut herself

into her own apartment at home and declines to see me; she is preparing

to file against me a suit for absolute divorce, accusing me of improper

conduct with you at White Sulphur Springs, claiming that your mother

was bribed into conniving----”

“_Oh!_” gasped Jeannette.

“I am telling you these unpleasant details, so that you can fully grasp

the situation. You will have to know in any case, and I think it is

only fair to you to give you the whole truth from the start. She has

gone to Leonard and Harvester and persuaded them to represent her. I

don’t know what Dick Leonard is thinking about; he has known me for

twenty years. Winchell, whom I saw yesterday, has been to interview

Leonard, and he informs me that a detective agency was employed to

watch us while we were at the hotel, and that affidavits have been

obtained from some of the hotel employees which substantiate Mrs.

Corey’s allegations.”

Mr. Corey smiled wryly.

“I don’t want to go on shocking you in this fashion. I just wish to

say that Winchell showed me a copy of the plea, and the statements

contained in it are as odious as they are false. You and I have been

spared nothing.”

Again Mr. Corey paused, and a savage frown gathered on his brow.

Jeannette was trembling; she wet her lips and swallowed convulsively.

“The brunt of the attack,” he resumed after a moment, “seems to be

levelled against you. Leonard told Winchell that Mrs. Corey had no

desire to expose me,--that was the word used; she wishes to bring to

an immediate termination a relationship which she cannot tolerate; she

declines,--so Leonard states,--to remain my wife as long as you are

my secretary. As Winchell points out we have no way of determining

whether or not she is in earnest. Of course she cannot prove her suit;

she can prove nothing; but she sees quite clearly she can blacken your

reputation before the world and force you out of this office by the

very publicity which is bound to be attached to the case.... It makes

me angry; it makes me _very_ angry. I have been thinking over the

situation from every angle, and I would willingly, and, I confess, with

a good deal of relish, contest her suit, force her to retract every

word she has said against either of us, and assist you in every way I

could in suing her for libel. All my life my guiding principle has been

justice. I believe in justice; I believe in a square deal, and this is

foul, rank and outrageously unfair. If there was any possible way of

obtaining justice for you I wouldn’t care anything for myself. I would

welcome the publicity; certainly I have no cause to dread it. But it

would serve you hard.... Take our own office here,--how many of those

people outside there would believe in your or my innocence, no matter

how completely we were vindicated?

“But far more important that the opinion of any one of those out

there,--or that of all of them together,--is the effect this unpleasant

story would have upon your young man. No doubt he has the same

confidence in you that I have, but you will appreciate that no man

likes to have for a wife a girl who has been mixed up in a scandal....

You see, how it would be? ... Devlin is a fine fellow; I like him; he

will make his mark. You have confided in me that you care for him....

Well, Miss Sturgis, I advise you to marry him!--marry him before this

ugly story gets bruited abroad. I am convinced it will never be told.

I know Mrs. Corey and I know how she will act. As soon as she hears

you are married and no longer here, she will withdraw her suit and be

anxious to make amends. I have no desire for a divorce. I understand

all too well that it will be Mrs. Corey who will suffer if we are

separated, not I, and I have the wish to protect her against herself.

There are the children to think of, too. This is merely the act of an

insane woman,--a woman blinded by jealousy. Outrageously unfair as it

is to you, and much as I shall hate to part with you, it seems to be

the wisest thing to do. Winchell advises it, and I confess when I think

of your own interests and everything that is involved, I agree with

him. What do you think?”

Jeannette sat staring at her folded hands. Slowly the tears welled

themselves up over her lashes and splashed upon the crisp linen of her

shirtwaist. She was not sorrowful; she was only hurt,--hurt and cruelly

shocked that anyone could believe the things Mrs. Corey had said of

her and this man who was father, friend, and counsellor to her, whom

she loved and respected and who, she knew, loved and respected her in

return. Their relationship during the four and a half years they had

been so intimately associated had been above criticism; it had been

perfect, irreproachable. Jeannette felt foully smirched by the base

imputation.

“_Gracious--goodness!_” she said at last upon a quivering breath, her

breast rising. Tears trembled on her lashes, but for the instant her

eyes blazed.

“Well,” Mr. Corey said wearily after a pause, “it’s too bad,--isn’t it?”

Too bad? Too bad? Ah, yes, it was indeed too bad! Silence filled the

book-lined room, the very room she had taken such pains and such

delight in furnishing so tastefully. She recalled Mrs. Corey had

resented that! She had put some fresh pine boughs in the earthenware

pot in the corner yesterday, and the office smelled fragrantly of

balsam. The rumble of the presses below sent a fine tremor through the

building. Both man and girl stared at the floor. They were thinking the

same things; there was no need to voice them; both understood; it was

all clear now to each.

He was right. The best thing,--the only thing for her to do was to

resign. That would immediately pacify his wife; it would avert the

breach and save Corey from an ugly scandal which could only hurt him.

And then there was herself to consider, her own good name, her mother

and Alice, and there was Martin! Nothing stood in the way now of her

giving him the answer for which he eagerly waited. Martin! Ah, there

was a refuge for her, there was a haven ready to welcome her! He would

take her to himself, protect her, shield her against these slandering

tongues!

Suddenly at the thought of him, so merry and strong and confident, of

his joy at the promise she was now free to make, the floodgates of her

heart opened and, bowing her head upon her fiercely clasped hands, she

burst into convulsive sobbing.