§ 1
June sunshine streamed in through the open windows in an avalanche of
golden light and lay in bright parallelograms on the floor. Jeannette
was making the bed. She was in the gayest of spirits and sang as
she punched the pillows to rid them of lumpiness, and smoothed them
flat. She spread the brilliant cretonne cover, with its gaudy design
of pheasants, over the bed, turned it neatly back two feet from the
head-board, laid the pillows in place, and folded the cretonne over
them, tucking it in gently at the top. The bed-cover was not as long
as it should have been, and it required nice adjustment to make it lap
over the pillows. It was the Wanamaker man’s fault, Jeannette always
thought, when she reached this point in her morning’s housework; she
had told him with the utmost pains how she wished the cretonne to go,
and it was his mistake that it was not long enough. Short as it was,
it could be made to reach by allowing only a scant inch or two at the
bottom. She had put the same material at the windows in narrow strips
of outside curtaining, and there was a gathered valance across the top.
The bedroom was “sweet,”--charming and beautifully appointed like the
rest of her domain. Her mother and Alice had “raved” about everything.
Martin liked it, too, though his wife wished he could find the same
amount of pleasure in their little home that she did. Martin was like
most men: he did not notice things, never commented upon her ideas and
clever arrangements.
To her the apartment was perfection. It was situated in a building that
had just been erected in the West Eighties, halfway between Broadway
and the Drive. It had five rooms and the rent was fifty dollars a
month, more perhaps than they ought to be paying, but Martin had
argued that ten dollars one way or another did not make any particular
difference and if it suited Jeannette, he was for signing the lease. So
he had put his name to the formidable-looking legal document, and the
young Devlins had agreed to pay the big rent and to live there for a
year. They could remain in it for life, Jeannette declared, as far as
she was concerned; she could not imagine ever wanting a more beautiful
or a more satisfactory home.
The apartment contained all the latest improvements: electric lights,
steam heat, a house telephone. The woodwork was chastely white
throughout; the electrolier in the dining-room a plain dull brass;
the fixtures in all the rooms were of the same lusterless metal;
between dining-and living-rooms were glass doors, the panes set in
squares; the bathroom floor was solid marquetry of small octagonal
tiles embedded in cement, and glossy tiling rose about the walls to
the height of the shoulder; the room glistened with shining nickel
and flawless porcelain; the bathtub was sumptuous and had a shower
arrangement with a rubber sheeting on rings to envelop the bather.
Martin had grinned when his eye took in these details. He swore in
his enthusiasm: by God, he certainly would enjoy a bathroom like that;
it certainly would be great. But Jeannette was more intrigued with the
kitchen. Here were white-painted cupboards, fragrantly smelling of
new wood, and a marvellous pantry full of neat contrivances, drawers,
bins and lockers. In one of them Jeannette discovered a little sawdust
and a few carpenter’s shavings; they spoke eloquently of the newness
and cleanliness of everything. There was a shining gas-stove, too,
with a roomy oven that had an enamelled door and a bright nickel knob
to it. There was even a gas heater connected with the boiler; all
one had to do was to touch a match to the burner,--the renting agent
explained,--and presto! the flame came up, heated the coil of copper
pipe and in a moment,--oh, yes, indeed, much less than a minute!--there
was the hot water!
It had seemed so miraculous to Jeannette that she had not believed
it would work, but it did, perfectly. No fault was to be found with
anything connected with the wonderful establishment.
There had been plenty of money with which to furnish it just as
Jeannette pleased. The publishing company had presented her with
a check for two hundred and fifty dollars as a wedding gift in
appreciation of her faithful services, and Mr. Corey had supplemented
this with one of his own for a like amount.
“No,--no,--don’t thank me,--please, Miss Sturgis,” he had said almost
impatiently as he handed it to her. “I feel so badly about your going,
and I can never pay you for all you’ve done for me. This is a poor
evidence of my gratitude and esteem. I wish I might make it thousands
instead of hundreds.”
In addition, he had sent her on the day she was married a tall silver
flower vase that must have cost, Jeannette and Martin decided, almost
as much as the amount of his check.
Her mother had borrowed five hundred upon the old paid-up policy,
asserting that she had done so for Alice, and the older daughter was
entitled to a like amount upon getting married. And besides all this,
Martin had turned over to his wife on the day the lease had been
signed, several hundreds more.
It appeared that a year before, about the very time he had met
Jeannette, his mother died. She had lived in Watertown, New York, where
Martin was born, and where she had an interest in a small grocery
business. Martin’s father,--dead for sixteen years,--had been a grocer
and had run a “back-room” in connection with his store, where Milwaukee
beer had been dispensed but never “hard” liquor. Jeannette did not give
her mother these facts when she learned them; it was nobody’s business,
she contended; everybody when he came to America was a pioneer and
began in a humble way. Paul Devlin’s old partner, Con Donovan, who
had come over from Ballaghaderreen with him in ’73, had carried on
the business after his demise, and there had been money enough to
send Martin to school and to support the boy and Paul’s widow. But
when his mother had followed his father to the grave, Martin had no
longer any interest in groceries, and he gladly accepted the three
thousand dollars Con Donovan offered him for his inherited share of the
business. It hadn’t been enough to do anything with, Martin explained
to his wife; so he had just “blown” it. It accounted for the theatre
tickets, the presents, the entertainments with which he had backed his
wooing. There was nearly a thousand dollars left after the honeymoon
to Atlantic City, and Martin had gone to his bank and transferred the
whole account to his wife’s name upon their return, telling her to go
ahead and furnish the new home in any way she fancied.
Jeannette had nearly seventeen hundred dollars in the bank when she
began. She had no thought of spending so much, but it melted away
in the most surprising fashion. Martin, in a way, was responsible
for this: whenever she consulted him, he was always in favor of the
more expensive course. She would have been quite satisfied with a
two-hundred-and-twenty-dollar dining-room set, but he decided in favor
of the one that cost three hundred and fifty. When she said she would
be contented with the simple white-painted wooden bed, he had chosen a
brass one and ordered the box-spring mattress that had cost nearly a
hundred dollars more. He had also persuaded her against her judgment in
the matter of the big davenport and the upholstered chairs that went
with it for the living-room. Then there had been the matter of the two
oil paintings in ornate gold frames upon which they had chanced in
Macy’s while on a shopping tour. Jeannette had grave doubts about the
oils; she did not know whether they were good or bad. Her misgivings in
regard to them may have sprung from the fact that they hung in Macy’s
art gallery; but there could be no questioning the handsomeness and
impressiveness of the gold frames.
“Why sure, let’s have ’em,” Martin said, eyeing them judicially as he
and his wife stood together considering the purchase; “they look like
a million dollars, and anything I hate are bare walls! You want to have
the place lookin’--oh, you know--artistic and classy.”
“The autumn coloring in this one is most lifelike,” the eager young
salesman ventured. “It seems to me they both have a great deal of depth
and quality,--don’t you think?--and while, of course, the size has
nothing to do with the art, still I really think you ought to take into
consideration the fact that this canvas is thirty-six by twenty-seven,
and the other one is nearly as large. Now for twenty-five and thirty
dollars....”
“Sure, let’s have ’em,” Martin decided in his lordly, arbitrary way,
“and if I find out they’re no good,” he added to the beaming salesman,
“I’ll come back here and slap Mrs. Macy on the wrist!”
This last was most appreciated, and the very next day, in much
excelsior and paper wrappings, the two heavily framed paintings arrived
and now hung facing one another in the front room. Jeannette used to
study them, finger on lip, wondering if they had merit or were nothing
but daubs. They appeared all right; there was nothing to criticize
about them as far as she could see, but she knew they would never mean
anything to her as long as she remembered they had been bought at
Macy’s. Her mother warmly shared her husband’s enthusiasm.
“Why, dearie, they look perfectly beautiful,” she told her daughter,
“and they give your home such an air of distinction. I wouldn’t worry
my head about where they came from, as long as they give you pleasure.”
But if Jeannette had misgivings about the pictures, she had no doubts
about anything else her perfect little home contained. It was complete
as far as she could make it, from the service of plated flat silver her
old associates at the office had clubbed together and given her, to the
carpet sweeper that had a little closet of its own to stand in along
with the extra leaves of the dining-room table. There were towels,
sheets, table linen, chairs, pictures and rugs. She had indulged
her fancy somewhat in curtaining, had decided on plain net at the
windows with narrow strips of some brightly colored material on either
side. She had picked out a salmon-tinted, satin-finished drapery at
Wanamaker’s for the living-room, and gay cretonne for her bedroom, and
she had had these curtains made at the store.
“I’d be forever doing the work,” she had said in justifying this
extravagance to Martin, “and we want to get settled some time!”
“Sure,--have ’em made,” he had agreed genially.
The dining-room had puzzled Jeannette for a long time, but after the
dark blue carpet had been selected and made into a rug to fit the room,
she had found a blue madras that just matched its tone. It cost a great
deal more than she felt she ought to pay, but she had bought the twelve
yards she needed, nevertheless, and had determined she could save
something by cutting and hemming the curtains herself; she could take
them out to Alice’s and use her sewing-machine.
It was all finished now, Jeannette reflected, pushing the big brass bed
into place against the wall. They had been a little reckless perhaps,
but now they were ready to settle down, begin to live quietly and to
save. They owed about two hundred dollars at Wanamaker’s but would
soon manage to pay that off.
She went on calculating expenses as she ran the carpet sweeper about
the room. Martin liked a good deal of meat, so she doubted if she could
manage the table on less than twelve or maybe, thirteen dollars a week;
that would take half of what he gave her on Saturdays. She needed so
much for this, so much for that, and she would have to get herself some
kind of a silk dress for the hot weather; still she thought she could
save five or six dollars a week and Martin ought to be able to do the
same; they would have the Wanamaker bill paid in a few months. As she
went on running the sweeper under the bed and pushing it gingerly into
corners so as not to mar the paint of the baseboards, she reflected
that, as a matter of fact, Martin had really no right to expect her
to pay anything out of her weekly money on what they owed Wanamaker;
every cent of that bill had been for house furnishing, and it had been
clearly understood between them that her money was for the table and
herself. Still it had been she who had wanted the curtains; she ought
to help pay for them.
§ 2
When the bathroom was cleaned, Martin’s bath towel spread along the
rim of the tub to dry, his dirty shirt and collar put into the laundry
basket, his shoes set neatly on the floor of the closet, the ash
receiver in the living-room emptied and the cushions on the davenport
straightened, Jeannette settled herself in a rocking-chair at the
window, her basket of sewing in her lap. She hated sewing; the basket
was in tangled confusion, but it was always that way. Spools and yarn,
papers of needles, pins, buttons, threads, tape, and scraps of material
were all mixed up together in a fine snarl. She found a certain degree
of satisfaction in its confusion. To-day she had a run in one of her
silk stockings to draw together, and a button to sew on Martin’s coat.
She caught the coat up first and as she held it in her hands, the song
that she had been humming all morning died upon her lips. She looked
at the garment with softening eyes; then she raised its rough texture
to her cheek and kissed it. It smelled of its owner,--a smell that was
fragrance to her,--an odor scented faintly with cigars but even more
redolent of the man, himself; it was strong, it was masculine, it was
Martin. There was no smell like it in the world or one half so sweet.
She mused as she searched for a black silk thread, needle and thimble.
When Alice had extolled to her the wonderful happiness of marriage, how
right she had been! Jeannette pitied all unmarried women now. There
was a Freemasonry among wives, and all spinsters, old and young, were
debarred from the mystic circle. She wondered what made the difference.
Unmarried women were all buds that had never opened to the full beauty
of the mature flower. They were of the uninitiated and as long as they
remained so would never attain their full powers. Miss Holland, now,
was a fine woman, efficient, capable, executive, but how much more able
and efficient and remarkable if she had married! She might be divorced,
she might be a widow. That did not make a difference, it seemed to
Jeannette in the full bloom of her own wifehood; it was marrying
that counted; it was that “Mrs.” before a woman’s name, that gave her
standing, poise, position in the world, broadened her sympathies,
increased her capabilities.
She thought her own marriage perfection; she considered herself the
happiest, most fortunate of wives; her pretty home enchanted her,
and Martin was the most satisfactory of adoring husbands. He had his
faults, she presumed, and she, no doubt, had hers, but there were never
woman and man so happy together, so ideally congenial. She thought of
her honeymoon,--the few days at Atlantic City. She had never learned
to swim, but Martin was an expert. He had looked stunning in his
bathing-suit,--straight, clean-limbed, with his big chest and shoulders
and his slim waist,--the figure of an athlete, as she indeed discovered
him to be when he struck out into the sea with the freedom of a seal,
flinging the water from his black mop of hair with a quick head-toss
now and then, his arms working like flails. They had plunged through
the breakers together, and Martin had held her high up as the curling
water crashed down upon them. It had been cold but exhilarating, and
a group had gathered on the boardwalk and down on the beach to watch
the two battling with the waves. Then there had been the quiet rolling
up and down the boardwalk in the big chair while the tide of Easter
visitors sauntered past them in all their gay clothing. The weather
had been warm, the sunshine glorious. She thought of their room at the
hotel and the intimate times of dressing and undressing in each other’s
presence. It had been emotional, exciting, a little frightening, but
there had been the discovery of perfect comradeship, and all the other
phases of marriage,--pleasant and unpleasant,--had been forgotten.
Companionship,--wholehearted, unreserved, constant,--that was the
outstanding feature of marriage for Jeannette.
Her mind carried her on to contemplate the future and what it held
in store for them. Her marriage with Martin must be a success. There
must be no quarrelling, no disagreements, no bickerings. There must
never, never be any talk of divorce between them.... Ah, how she hated
the word divorce now! She had never given the subject any particular
consideration heretofore; it was merely an accepted proceeding by which
unhappily married people won back their freedom. But how differently
she felt about it to-day! She would die rather than ever consent to
a divorce from Martin! She’d forgive him anything! He was a little
spoiled, perhaps; he liked to have his own way, and he hated anything
unpleasant. It must be her duty to humor and educate him; she must give
a little, exact a little. A successful marriage, she believed, depended
upon that. A husband and wife must become adjusted to one another. If
necessary, she resolved, she would give more than she received. Oh,
yes, she would give and give and _give_!
Martin had only one serious fault, and that was he too much liked
having a good time. It seemed to her he was never satisfied with
anything less than an epicure’s dinner; he must have the best all
the time. He loved cocktails and wine and good cigars, a “snappy”
show, a little bite of something afterwards, a gay place to dine,
lively music, lights, color. He wanted “to go places where there was
something doing,” and he didn’t want “to go places where there was
nothing doing.” These were familiar expressions on his lips. His wife
told herself she liked a good time, too; she loved the theatre and to
dress well, and she liked a gay restaurant, good food and music, but
she didn’t want them all the time; she wasn’t as dependent upon them
as Martin was. A husband and wife, she considered, should not indulge
in too much of that kind of frivolous living, and no later than last
evening she had had a talk with Martin about it.
“Aw,--sure my dear,--you’re dead right,” he had assured her. “I know.
We must settle down, and stay at home nights, but we’re still having
our honeymoon, and I can’t get used to the idea that you’re my wife. It
just seems to me we ought to celebrate all the time.”
Martin was always so reasonable, thought Jeannette, recalling his
words. She decided she would have a specially nice dinner for him that
night to show him how much she appreciated his sweetness. She paused
a moment over the decision, as she recalled that something vague had
been said to her mother about coming to dine with them. She knew Martin
would prefer to be alone and she wanted to encourage the idea of his
spending the evenings quietly with her. She would go to see her mother
and explain matters; she would have lunch with her; at Kratzmer’s she
would stop and get some salad, and she’d buy some crumpets at Henri’s
and take them along with her.
Abruptly, she determined to let the run in her stocking wait. She wound
the silk several times about the button on Martin’s coat, pushed the
needle through the fabric twice, and snapped the thread close to the
cloth with an incisive bite of her teeth. Then she carried the work to
her room, hanging Martin’s coat on a hanger in the closet.
As she proceeded to dress carefully, she considered each detail of her
costume. Her wardrobe was delightfully complete; she had plenty of
clothes, a suitable garment for any demand. While an office worker, she
had always dressed with certain soberness, an eye to business decorum.
But as a married woman, a young matron who lived at the Dexter Court
Apartments, she felt she could allow herself more latitude. She ran
her eye appraisingly over the file of dresses that hung neatly in her
closet; their number gratified her; she was even satisfied with her
hats. Now she lifted down her blue broadcloth tailor suit, covered
handsomely with braid, and selected a soft white silk shirtwaist that
had a V-neck and a pleated ruffled collar; she drew on fine brown silk
stockings and fitted her feet into tan Oxfords. Her ankles were trim
and shapely. She never had appeared so smartly dressed; her appearance
delighted her. But she was in doubt about the hat for the day, and
finally selected the Lichtenberg model: a silvered straw, with a
flaring brim, trimmed in gray velvet and a curling gray cock’s feather.
As she pulled her hands into tan gloves and gave a final glance at
herself in the long mirror of the bathroom door she decided that was
the costume she would wear when she went to the offices of the Chandler
B. Corey Company to pay her old friends a visit.
§ 3
Mrs. Sturgis had declared after Jeannette’s marriage she preferred to
remain in the old apartment where she had been comfortable for so
many years. To be sure the rent was thirty dollars a month, but she
said she could manage that. She had her music lessons,--four or five
hours a day,--and there were other pupils to be had if she needed the
income. But it did not appear necessary. Elsa Newman’s cousin, Cora
Newman, who had been studying with Bellini for two years, had developed
a truly remarkable mezzo, and she preferred Mrs. Sturgis to any other
accompanist. The very week Jeannette was married Cora Newman had given
her first public recital, and Mrs. Sturgis had been at the piano. She
had had a very beautiful black dress _made_ for the occasion and the
affair had been a great success. The critics had praised Miss Newman’s
voice and the _Tribune_ had given a special line to the player: “The
singer was sympathetically accompanied at the piano by Mrs. Henrietta
Spaulding Sturgis.” Now both Elsa and Cora wanted her whenever either
of them sang, and there were plans ahead for a concert tour to Quebec
and Montreal. If that turned out successfully, they were talking of
an up-state trip in the fall through Rochester, Syracuse, as far as
Buffalo.
“You know what _I_ eat, lovies,” Mrs. Sturgis had explained to her
daughters when keeping the apartment was being discussed among them,
“is microscopic, and it won’t cost me five a week. I can always get
whatever I need at Kratzmer’s and a little tea and toast is often all I
want.”
“But that’s just _it_!” Jeannette had expostulated. “You don’t eat
enough to keep a bird alive, anyhow, and if you live by yourself, you
won’t eat _that_!”
Mrs. Sturgis had assured them she would take good care of herself.
“You can’t imagine me happy in a boarding-house,” she had challenged,
“and I wouldn’t be able to have a piano there or give lessons!” There
had been no answer to this; boarding in one place and renting a studio
in another would be even more expensive than keeping the apartment.
§ 4
To-day Jeannette heard the familiar finger exercises as she
neared the top of the long stair-flight of her old home:
ta-ta-ta-ta-_de_-da-da-da-da--ta-ta-ta-ta-_de_-da-da-da-da, and as she
noiselessly opened the back door kitchenward, her mother’s voice from
the studio: “_One_-and-two-and-three-and-four-and....”
She took off her hat and gloves, laid them on her mother’s bed and went
to peek in the cupboard; there was a piece of bakery pie and a few
eggs. She decided to make an omelette and with the toasted crumpets and
tea, a little jar of marmalade and the potato salad she had brought
with her, she and her mother would lunch royally. It was ten minutes to
twelve; the lesson would soon be over.
They lingered over their repast until nearly two. Mrs. Sturgis had
lessons from four to six,--the after-school hours,--but until then
she was free. She had had half a notion, she confessed, of going down
to Union Square that afternoon to look at some new piano pieces for
beginners at Schirmer’s. Jeannette told her she would go with her,--she
wanted to get an alligator pear for Martin’s dinner,--but neither of
them appeared inclined to terminate the little luncheon at the kitchen
table. They had finished the crumpets, but there was still marmalade
left, and Mrs. Sturgis produced some pieces of cold left-over toast
with which to finish it.
She was full of news and her affairs. In the first place, Alice and
Roy were going to Freeport on Long Island for the summer. They had
found a very nice place where they could board for eighteen dollars
a week,--oh, yes, both of them and the baby, too,--Roy was going to
commute every day, and the Bronx flat was to be closed,--just turn the
key in the door and leave it until they were ready to come back. Then
there was great talk about the concert tour. Bellini, who had sailed
only the day before yesterday for Italy, had thought Miss Elsa and Miss
Cora had better study another winter before attempting it, but a most
encouraging letter had been received from Montreal, and both the girls
were eager to try the experiment. They were in doubt as to whether
they should take a violinist with them or not; of course a violinist
would be a drawing-card, but they would have his salary and all his
expenses to pay, which would cut down the profits--if there were any!
Jeannette’s mother did not think it was in the least necessary, but if
they didn’t take one, Miss Elsa had said Mrs. Sturgis had better be
prepared to do some solo numbers, and that meant she’d have to do some
real hard practising as she hadn’t done anything like that for years!
She did not know whether to work up the Mendelssohn _Capricioso_ or the
Chopin _Fantaisie Impromptu_; what did Jeannette think? Of course there
was that _Meditation_....
But as her mother rambled on, Jeannette’s mind wandered. Her thoughts
were with Martin. She wondered what he was doing at that moment; with
whom he had lunched; how she could entertain him in the evenings and
keep him from wanting to go out. He must have some friends whom she
could invite to dinner. There was Beatrice Alexander, of course, and
she had heard him speak pleasantly of Herbert Gibbs,--the younger of
the two Gibbs brothers. He was married, she remembered; his wife had a
baby and they lived somewhere down on Long Island. She herself would
have liked to have asked Miss Holland, but she was hardly the type
that would interest Martin. There was Tommy Livingston,--but Tommy
was really too young. Her mind rested on Sandy MacGregor! He was a
widower,--his wife had been dead for over a year,--she knew he would
love to come to them, and Martin was sure to like him. The thought
elated her: Sandy and Beatrice Alexander would make an excellent
combination.
She accompanied her mother downtown in gay spirits, full of
determination to put this plan immediately into effect.
§ 5
The dinner-party, when it took place, was not altogether a success;
still it was far from being a failure. Sandy unquestionably had a good
time, for he and Martin took a great liking to each other. Beatrice
had proven the unfortunate element. She had always been diffident and
the eye-glasses hopelessly disfigured her. Martin liked her because he
knew her so well,--one had to know Beatrice to appreciate her,--but
Sandy had been merely polite and amiable. He enjoyed Martin and
Martin’s cocktails, however,--they had one or two before dinner,--and
each time they raised their glasses, Sandy said: “Saloon!” which had
amused Martin vastly. The dinner itself was delicious,--even Jeannette
felt satisfied. The baked onions stuffed with minced ham,--Alice had
suggested that and shown her how to do them,--had been enthusiastically
praised, the chicken had been tender and the iced pudding, ordered at
Henri’s, could not have been more delicious.
After dinner they played auction bridge; Martin loved cards in any form
and he undertook to teach Jeannette; Sandy was an old hand at the game,
but Beatrice Alexander was but a timid player. After three or four
rubbers, the men abandoned the cards, which, Jeannette could see, bored
them with such partners, and began matching quarters, and Martin had
won eighteen dollars. The last match had been for “double or nothing”
and Jeannette was hardly able to stifle the quick breath of relief that
came to her lips when Martin won. She had always known Sandy to be
liberal-handed and he paid his losses good-humoredly, telling Jeannette
in a way that made her believe he meant what he said, that he had had
a wonderful evening, and would telephone shortly to ask the Devlins to
dinner with him. He generously offered to take Beatrice Alexander home,
and Jeannette returned from the elevator, where she and Martin had
bidden good-night to their departing guests, to the disorder and smoky
atmosphere of their little home with the feeling that it had all been
worth while.
“My Lord!” Martin said that night as he lay in bed waiting for her to
wind the clock, open the window, snap out the lights and join him, “I
wish you had a girl out there in the kitchen to help you with all
that mess. Damned if I like the idea of my wife doing all those dirty
dishes, and having to clean up everything to-morrow. It will take you
all day.”
“Well,” Jeannette answered, “I’ll hate it to-morrow myself. But I
really don’t mind very much. I love the idea of entertaining our
friends. But we can’t have a girl yet. I’ve got to do my own work for
awhile at any rate. You see, Martin, I was figuring it out....”
She had crawled in beside him and at once his arms were about her and
she had nestled close to him, her head on his hard shoulder.
“Your friend Sandy’s a corker,” he said, kissing her hair and ignoring
her plan of figures and economy. “I like that guy fine. You can have
all that eighteen dollars I won from him.”
“Oh, Martin!”
“Sure,--of course.”
“I’ll put it in the till.”
The till was a small round canister intended for tea but converted into
a savings bank.
“You’ll do nothing of the kind,” Martin told her. “You blow it in on
yourself, or for something nice for the house.”
“But, Mart,” she remonstrated, “I want to pay off that Wanamaker’s
bill! We can’t have a girl in the kitchen until we don’t owe a cent.”
“Aw, don’t worry so, Jan. You’re always scared we’re going to go bust
or something. I’ll get a raise as soon as summer’s over. Gibbs is bound
to come through ’cause he knows I’ll quit if he don’t. I bring in a
lot of fine business to that outfit, and all my customers are dandy
friends of mine. I’ll not be working for him at fifty per much longer.”
“Mart,” Jeannette said suddenly, “wouldn’t it be a good plan to have
Herbert Gibbs and his wife to dinner some night and show them how nice
we are and how nice we live and what a good dinner we can give them?
You know it might help; he tells his brother everything, Beatrice says.”
“Great! Say, that’s a bully idea!” Martin was at once enthusiastic.
“Herb would like it fine and so would Mrs. Herb. I’ll get some good
old Burgundy and pour it into him and feed him some Corona-Coronas and
he’ll just expand like a night-blooming cereus.”
And on this happy plan, still with an arm about her, her head pillowed
on his shoulder, they drifted off to sleep.
§ 6
Some six weeks after her return to New York from Atlantic City,
Jeannette arrayed herself in her braided broadcloth tailor suit,
drew on her tan silk stockings and tan shoes, set the gray hat at a
smart angle upon her head, added the touch of a fine meshed veil that
brought the curling gray cock’s feather close to her hair, and paid her
long-deferred visit to the office.
As she turned in at the familiar portals she was astonished at the
difference between her present feelings and those of old. A year before
she had entered the building with a hurried step, a preoccupied manner,
her mind busy as she hastened to her work with ways of attacking
and dispatching it. She had been conscious then that she was the
“president’s secretary,” and had borne herself accordingly as she
made her way through the groups of gossiping girls, aware they thought
her haughty and unapproachable. To-day, she was Mrs. Martin Devlin,--a
matron, smartly dressed,--come to pay a visit to the publishing house
with the air of a lady who had perhaps arrived to select a book in
the retail department or to enter a subscription. The dusty office
atmosphere was alien to her now; the bustling, eager clerks, intent
upon their affairs, seemed pettily employed; there was something
ridiculous about it all to her. Yet less than three months ago this had
been her world; all the vital interests of her life had been centered
within these square walls. She still loved it, loved the building,
the cold cement floors, the bare ceilings studded with sprinkler
valves, loved what evidences of her own handiwork she recognized: the
window-boxes, and the miniature close-clipped trees that stood in the
entrance, the name of the house in neat gold lettering on the street
windows.
Ellis, the colored elevator man, was the first to recognize her; he
grinned, flashing his white teeth out of his black face, chuckling
largely.
“Well, it certainly is good to see you; it certainly is like old times
to see you ’round,” he said, rolling back the clanging door.
She stepped out upon the familiar fourth floor. It was the same--no
different: the old racket, the old hum and confusion. A minute or
two passed before she was seen; then there was a general whispering,
machines stopped clicking, heads turned; there were smiles and nods
from all parts of the big room. Mrs. O’Brien, Mr. Kipps’ stenographer,
rose and came to greet her; Miss Sylvester and Miss Kate Smith
followed suit. Presently there was a small crowd around her with
questions, laughter, little cooing cries of pleasure, a feminine
chatter. She caught Mr. Allister’s eye as he was leaving Mr. Corey’s
office.
“’Pon my word!” She could not hear him say it, but she saw his lips
form the phrase and noted his pleased surprise. He came forward at
once, smiling broadly, pushing his way through the women who gave place
to him.
“Glad to see you, Miss Sturgis,” he said beaming. “Only, by Jove,
you’re not ‘Miss Sturgis’ any more! ... ‘Devlin,’ isn’t it? ... Does
Mr. Corey know you’re here? He’ll be delighted, I know. Wants to see
you badly. Two or three matters have come up he’d like to ask you
about; nobody ’round here seems to know a thing about them.... Come in;
he’ll be mighty glad to see you.”
He pulled back the swing gate in the counter and walked with her
towards Mr. Corey’s office.
As Jeannette passed within a few feet of Miss Holland’s desk and as
their eyes met she mouthed:
“See you in just a minute.”
“Here’s an old friend of ours,” said Mr. Allister, opening Mr. Corey’s
door.
The white head came up, and immediately a pleased flush spread over the
face of the man at the desk.
“Well--well--well,” he said, getting to his feet and coming to take
both her hands. “Miss Sturgis! It’s good to see you again.”
“She’s not Miss Sturgis any more,” laughed Mr. Allister.
“That’s so--that’s so; it’s ‘Devlin’ of course. Well, Mrs. Devlin, you
surely look as though marriage agreed with you.”
They were all laughing in good spirits. A few moments of
inconsequential remarks, and then Allister withdrew while Mr. Corey
made Jeannette sit down.
“Oh, I must have a talk,” he insisted, “and hear all about you.”
The door opened, and young Tommy Livingston came in with a question on
his lips. His eyes lighted as he recognized the caller.
“My new secretary,” said Corey smiling.
“Oh, is that _so_?” Jeannette was pleased; the boy had always been a
protégé of hers. “Well, Tommy, this _is_ a step up for you!”
“Yes, indeed,” he said grinning. “I’m doing the best I know how....”
“Tommy does very well,” approved Mr. Corey.
“I didn’t know you understood dictation,” said Jeannette.
“I don’t very well. I’ve got a stenographer in my office,--’member Miss
Bates?--and I’m going to night school and learning shorthand; I can run
a machine fairly decently now.”
“Well, isn’t that splendid!”
Presently she was alone with Mr. Corey again. He asked about her, about
Martin, about her married life. She was frank with her answers.
“I shall never thank you enough,” she said, “for persuading me to
accept Mr. Devlin. I never would have married if you hadn’t made me,
and I never would have known what I missed. I guess I’d’ve been here
for the rest of my days.”
She was eager for his news, too.
Yes, he and Mrs. Corey were quite reconciled. She was very sorry she
had maligned Jeannette. He was going to England in ten days and was
taking her with him. Babs was about the same; she would never be any
better; they had an excellent trained nurse for her and she was to
spend the rest of the summer at a camp in the Adirondacks. Willis had
written a most interesting letter from Johannesburg; he and Ericsson
were trekking north through Matabeleland and Bulawayo; Mr. Corey did
not expect to hear from him again for three months. Affairs at the
office were about as usual; they expected to publish a big novel in the
fall by Hobart Haüser; Garritt Farrington Trent had left his former
publishers and come over to them; advertising was bad; there was some
talk of a printers’ strike; _The Ladies’ Fortune_ had been selling
excellently on the stands; the pattern business was booming.
There were one or two matters he wanted to ask her about: What was
the arrangement with Hardy as to the dramatic rights of _Harnessed_?
No record could be found of the agreement. And did she recall from
what concern they had bought that last stock of special kraft wrapper?
And the folder containing all the correspondence with the Electrical
Manufacturing Company had disappeared. What could have become of it?
She answered as best she could. When she got up to go, he accompanied
her to the door of his office.
“I can’t begin to tell you how we all miss you here,” he said gravely,
“and how much _I_ do especially. It’s been hard sledding without you.
I’ve thought a hundred times,--oh, a _thousand_ times!--of how much
you did for me to make the work easier and how much you lifted from
my shoulders. I got used to it, I’m afraid, and took a good deal for
granted.... But I’m glad you’re married; that’s where you belong:
making a home for yourself and leading your own life.”
There was moisture in Jeannette’s eyes as she turned away. She loved
Chandler Corey, she said to herself; he was a wonderful man; she knew
she was the only person in the world who truly appreciated him; and she
knew he loved her, too. It was this glimpse of his affection for her
that moved her. Theirs had been a rare comradeship, a fine communion, a
beautiful relationship. It was ended; it was past and done; they could
no longer be together or even find an excuse to see one another without
having their actions misinterpreted. It had been the business, the
common interest, that had wrought the tie between them, and now that
there was no longer any office, the intimacy and companionship was at
an end, the bond sundered,--soon they would have but a casual interest
in one another!--and she had been closer to him than anyone else in the
world, like a daughter, and he a father to her. It was sad; a matter
to be mourned; each going a different way, only memories of a splendid
coöperation and friendship remaining to remind them of happy years
together.
§ 7
Jeannette stopped at Miss Holland’s desk and made her promise to take
lunch with her at the noon hour when they could have a good talk.
As she left the scene of her former activities, her progress through
the aisles between the desks was once again a succession of
hand-clasps, congratulations, well-wishes, nods and smiles. It touched
her deeply; she had no idea she had been so well liked: everyone there
seemed to be her friend.
Miss Holland joined her at half past twelve in the lobby of the Park
Avenue Hotel, and they had a delightful luncheon together at one of the
little tables edging the balcony about the court. News was exchanged
eagerly. Jeannette’s was scant, but her companion had endless gossip
to retail. Miss Holland’s nephew, Jerry Sedgwick, was a midshipman
now, and on his summer cruise in Cuban waters aboard a big battleship.
She and Mrs. O’Brien had a little apartment down on Waverly Place and
managed quite comfortably. The office was getting dreadfully on Miss
Holland’s nerves; it was so different from what it used to be; in the
old days everyone had done the best that was in him or her to make
the business a success; no one had cared what the returns were to be;
the idea of doing more and better work had been the thought actuating
all. Now that the Corey Company had become one of the largest and most
prosperous publishing houses in the country, the spirit had changed;
everyone thought about “profits.” They had conferences of all the heads
of departments each week and no one was interested in learning what
was going on in the different branches of the business; what commanded
their attention was how much “profit” was to be shown. It disgusted
Miss Holland; there was no “Get Together Club” any more. Mr. Kipps was
becoming more and more critical and fault-finding; he had headaches all
the time; Miss Holland believed he was a sick man; he never took any
exercise. The pattern business had grown enormously; Mr. Cruikshanks
had done wonders with it; they had had to lease a whole big building
over on Tenth Avenue to take care of it; _The Ladies’ Fortune_ had a
circulation of nearly half a million; Horatio Stephens had had a very
substantial raise, and had grown awfully opinionated and disagreeable.
There was more gossip of lesser significance. Miss Hoggenheimer of
the mailing department had gone on the stage, and had a part now in
_It Happened in Nordland_, while Miss Gleason had married that big
George Robinson of the Press Room, and Tommy Livingston would soon
be engaged,--if he wasn’t already,--to Mrs. O’Brien’s little sister,
Agnes, who worked in the Mail Order Department.... Oh, yes! and had
Jeannette heard what had happened to Van Alstyne? It was terrible! He
was in the penitentiary at Atlanta for using the United States mail
for fraudulent purposes; he had become involved with some unscrupulous
men who advertised worthless stock and the Federal authorities had put
them all in jail.... And poor Mrs. Inness was dead; she died at her
brother’s house in Weehawken.
Jeannette devoured these details. She sat absorbed, fascinated,
listening to every word that came from her companion’s lips; she could
not get enough of this chatter about her old associates; she was hungry
for every scrap of information, fearful that Miss Holland might neglect
to tell her everything.
She walked back with her friend to the office and would not let her
go for another ten minutes until she had heard the final details of a
violent quarrel between Miss Reubens and Mr. Cavendish.
Miss Holland promised to dine with her and Martin soon, and Jeannette
promised in return to come with her husband to dinner with Miss Holland
and Mrs. O’Brien in the Waverly Place apartment. They parted with many
such assurances.
Jeannette walked all the way home in a daze of memories, thoughts of
the old times crowding upon her brain, her interest in business affairs
and personal happenings in the Chandler B. Corey Company awake again,
stirring with all its former keenness.
§ 8
The dinner to which Mr. and Mrs. Herbert Gibbs were invited and to
which after various postponements they ultimately came was a dismal
failure from Jeannette’s point of view. First of all, she was late
with the meal itself, and in hurrying, spattered grease on her
gown; the yeast powder biscuits would not rise, and the leg of lamb
was underdone, the meat pink when Martin carved it. Then Martin,
himself, was nervous and excited, and the cocktails he had with his
guest before they sat down went to his head and made him talk and
act sillily. Lastly, and most important, the Gibbses were hopeless!
Herbert Gibbs was flat-headed and there was no curve at the back of
his neck, while the hair grew down under his collar sparse and short;
he had an expressionless, stupid face and it was impossible to tell
whether he was being bored or amused at the attempt of young Mr. and
Mrs. Devlin to entertain him and his wife. Mrs. Gibbs was even less
prepossessing. She was a plump German girl, with thin yellow hair done
up in a knob on top of her head which frankly showed her white scalp
through wide gaps. She was irritatingly voluble, had a piercing sharp
nervous laugh, and exclaimed shrilly about whatever Jeannette said or
did. She chatted unceasingly about her child, little “Herbie,” who,
it seemed, was only ten months old but could already both walk and
talk, and she embarrassed Jeannette by asking in a whisper how soon
there was going to be a little Devlin. There was nothing spontaneous
in the conversation during the whole evening, neither while they sat
at table nor later in the living-room, where Mr. Gibbs sat stolidly
puffing at cigars, sipping the red Burgundy with which Martin kept his
glass filled, and Mrs. Gibbs rattled on about how they had found their
home at Cohasset Beach on Long Island, and the involved circumstances
connected with its eventual purchase. Mercifully they were obliged to
take an early train home on account of “Herbie,” but did not depart
until they had warned their young hosts they would soon be expected to
spend a Sunday with them in the country.
That night, going to bed, Martin and Jeannette had their first quarrel.
It left her shaken and unhappy all the next day. She ridiculed their
guests and Martin defended them; she declared they were stupid
and common; he, that she didn’t know them, that they were a very
good-hearted sort, that she had been cold and patronizing with Mrs.
Gibbs, that her husband had noticed it, and become awfully “sore”; it
would have been a “damn sight better,” Martin concluded stormily, if
they had never been asked.
“And after all the trouble I went to!” raged Jeannette to herself,
hugging her side of the bed, rebellion strong within her, “cooking all
day long, planning everything out, going over to Columbus Avenue twice,
getting flowers for the table, working myself dizzy and ruining my
organdie, just so he could make a good impression on them and perhaps
help himself a little at the office!”
A tear trickled down her nose, and she wiped it off with a finger-tip.
She would never give in to him,--never! She would make him beg and
beg and beg for her forgiveness! It would be a long, long time....
With head aching and trying to choke down a sniffle that threatened to
betray her, she fell asleep.
There was an eager reconciliation the next night; promises, vows,
assurances, harsh self-accusations, and Martin carried her off after
dinner to two dollar seats at the _Broadway_, where Jeannette whispered
penitently, hugging his arm in the dark of the theatre, that if the
Gibbses _did_ ask them to visit them some Sunday, she would go and be
her nicest to both.
§ 9
The occasion when Sandy MacGregor had the young Devlins to dine with
him in style on the roof garden of the new Astor Hotel was another
affair that turned out unfortunately. The lady whom Sandy asked to be
fourth in the party,--a Mrs. Fontella,--was not the type with whom
Jeannette had been accustomed to associate. She was boldly handsome
with great round black eyes, masses of auburn hair, a cavernous
red mouth, and a large, prominent bust. She was noisy and coarse,
and when she laughed she showed a great deal of gum and rows of
glittering gold-filled teeth. Jeannette froze into her most rigid and
uncommunicative self. Just before dessert was served, Martin and Sandy
excused themselves from the table and disappeared, leaving her sitting
for almost half-an-hour alone with her noisy and conspicuous companion.
It was evident when the men returned they had been downstairs to the
bar where they had had drinks and had been shaking dice. Jeannette was
thoroughly incensed, and although Sandy had seats for the theatre, she
complained she was ill and insisted upon going home.
There was another quarrel between her husband and herself that night,
but before they went to sleep he won her forgiveness, abused himself
for treating her shabbily, told her again and again he was sorry, and
promised never to be guilty of neglecting her again.
He could be irresistibly winning when he wanted to be.