CHAPTER VII

§ 1

September brought an end to the yacht-racing and a few weeks later

Martin’s beloved A-boat was towed with a number of others a mile or two

down the Sound to be housed in winter quarters. Jeannette earnestly

hoped that this would mean her husband would spend more time with her

at week-ends. He was gone from Monday till Friday all day, and she felt

that at least part of his Saturday afternoons and Sundays should be

hers. But Martin always wanted to _do_ things on these days; he wanted

some active form of amusement, some excitement, a “party,” as he called

it; he was never content to sit at home and read or go for a walk with

his wife. He asserted he needed the exercise, and if he missed it

between Saturday noon and Sunday night, he was “stale” for the rest

of the week. Sometimes Jeannette came into the city by train on a

Saturday, met him after the office closed at noon, and together they

went to lunch and later to a matinée. Then the alternative presented

itself of either remaining in town for dinner and going to another show

or of taking a late afternoon train back to Cohasset Beach. Such a

program, of course, cost money, but unless Jeannette did this, Martin

would go off to the Yacht Club Saturday afternoon, and return there in

the evening after dinner to play poker. The Saturday night dances gave

place at the close of the yachting season to “smokers” which only the

men attended. A certain group called itself “the gang,” and prominent

in it were such club lights as Herbert Gibbs, Zeb Kline, Fritz Wiggens,

Steve Teschemacher and Doc French. Martin Devlin was warmly hailed as

one of them. They played poker every Saturday night and the “session”

lasted until an early hour Sunday morning.

Jeannette came to hate these men; she resented their taking her husband

from her; she begrudged his gambling when he could not afford to lose.

When she protested, the only answer from him was a testy: “Quit your

crabbing.” He almost invariably won and divided his winnings with

her, or at least divided what purported to be his winnings. His wife

despised herself for taking the money; it made her want him to win,

though she wished to be indifferent to his card-playing, since she did

not approve of it. She tried to justify her acceptance of the money on

the ground that it went to pay off some of their bills. But sometimes

she bought a small piece of finery for herself with it. She was

becoming very shabby in appearance. She reminded herself almost daily

that she had not bought any new clothes since she was married, and the

bride’s wardrobe, though ample, was now worn and much depleted.

§ 2

It was towards the end of summer, when already there was a brisk touch

of fall in the air, that Roy Beardsley fell ill with typhoid and for

three weeks was a desperately sick man. Martin, who had various talks

with the physician, told Jeannette that there was small hope of his

recovery; certain phases of the case made it appear very grave.

Jeannette took Etta and Ralph to stay with her in the country and

Mrs. Sturgis moved out to the flat in the Bronx to help Alice fight

for Roy’s life. Jeannette, from the first, believed he was going to

die; destiny, it seemed to her, had ordained it. For the first time in

many years she got down on her knees in her bedroom and prayed. She

realized more clearly than anyone else in the family what a tragedy

Roy’s death would be to them all,--to helpless Alice and his helpless

children, to her little mother, to Martin, to herself. She did not

know what would become of Alice and her babies! How would they live?

She and Martin would have to shoulder the responsibility, and they had

difficulty in making ends meet as it was! Where would Martin get fifty

or even twenty-five dollars a month to send Alice? And how could Alice

and the children manage on so small a sum? Roy, she knew, had a three

thousand dollar life insurance policy,--hardly more than enough to bury

him decently! Alice could not go to work; she had not the faintest

notion of how to earn a living. She was clever with her needle, but

that was all. It was impossible to imagine her a seamstress! But

she would either have to go into that work and let Jeannette keep

the children, or she would have to live with her mother, while Mrs.

Sturgis and Martin,--between them,--would have to contribute what they

were able to their support! It was a terrible prospect in any case.

Jeannette was ridden with fear of the catastrophe. How different it

would be, she reminded herself, were she in Alice’s situation,--she

with her profession and her experience in business! She had nothing

to fear on that score; she could always take care of herself. Poor

Alice!--poor little brown bird!--there would be nothing for her to

do; she could not support _herself_, not to mention her two children!

Jeannette remembered that once she had begged to be allowed to follow

her sister’s example and go to work, and she recalled how she and her

mother had vigorously opposed her. She wondered now if that had been

right. Perhaps every woman ought to have a profession or at least a

recognized means of earning her livelihood. How secure Alice would

feel now in that case if Roy died! Grief-stricken, yes, but with

the comforting knowledge that neither she nor her children need be

dependent on anyone!

All day long as Jeannette watched Etta and Ralph playing under the

apple trees, which had begun to shed their yellow leaves and the scant

weazened fruit from their scraggy branches, she thought of Roy’s

possible death and her sister’s plight. Any one of the family group

could be spared better than he! Yes, even Alice! ... Oh, it would be a

calamity,--a dreadful, horrible calamity if Roy died! ... Twenty times

a day she closed her eyes and thought a prayer.

She enjoyed having the children with her. Etta was an affectionate,

ebullient child, always ready with hugs and kisses; little Ralph

placidly viewed the world with reposeful solemnity, made no demands,

was amiably satisfied with any arrangement his elders or even his

big sister thought wise, and in his gentleness was extraordinarily

appealing.

Late in the afternoons, Jeannette would dress them in clean rompers,

pull on their sweaters and set them out on the lower step of the front

stoop to wait for Martin. There they would sit for sometimes an hour,

or even longer, watching for him and at the first glimpse, Etta would

run screaming to meet him with arms flung wide, Ralph following as

best he could. Martin was particularly in love with the boy, and he

would hold the baby in his lap for long periods, neither of them making

a sound; or the child would grasp his finger and toddle beside him,

see-sawing from one slightly bowed leg to another, to inspect the pool

and perhaps capture a frog.

Only a miracle would stay Death’s hand, the doctor had said, but the

miracle happened; very slowly the tide began to turn and inch by inch

the flood of life came back to the wasted body of Roy Beardsley.

Jeannette shed tears of gratitude when it was definitely asserted he

would get well. She left the children in Hilda’s care and went to

the city to rejoice with her mother and sister. They clung together

the way they used to do before either of the girls was married, wept

and sniffled and kissed one another again and again. Roy’s blue eyes

seemed enormously large and dark when his sister-in-law saw him; his

lip was drawn tight across his teeth and these protruded like the fangs

of a famished dog. His cheeks were sunk in great hollows beneath his

cheek-bones, and his hands were the hands of the starved. He was a

living skeleton, but his great eyes acknowledged her presence and her

smile, and there was a faint twitching of the tight-drawn lip. Although

she had been prepared, she could not keep from betraying the shock his

altered appearance gave her; he was indeed ghastly.

The averted tragedy sobered them all. Roy would be many weeks getting

back his health and he must take particular care of himself during

the approaching winter, the doctor cautioned. No one ever whispered

the word “tuberculosis” but each knew it was that which Roy must

guard against. If it could be managed, he ought to be taken to a

warmer climate, the physician advised, and he must make no effort, but

rest, drink milk and eat nourishing food for a long time until he had

entirely regained his strength. His father eagerly wrote him to come to

California; Jeannette and Martin asked to keep the children; everyone

urged Alice to take her husband to the Golden State. So just before the

first snow of the year, she and Roy departed westward, waving good-bye

through the iron grill at the station to the little group behind it,

who waved vigorously in return until “All aboard” was shouted, the

porter helped Alice up into the vestibule and the train began slowly to

move.

§ 3

The winter was hard. It was unusually cold and snow lay heavy in great

mounds along the edges of the village streets, and beaten trails of it

meandered through the frozen fields. Soot from the trains blackened the

white drifts and the road-beds were rutted in sharp ridges, and gray

ice, that crackled and shivered like glass underfoot, formed in the

hollows. The leafless trees spread their branches in black nakedness

against the bleak sky and the wind blew chilly across the bare

countryside from the icy waters of the Sound.

Yet Jeannette knew her first happiness at Cohasset Beach. Her days

were full of the care of her small niece and nephew. They were

endearing mites, exacting, but warmly affectionate. She had had no

experience in bringing up children but her mother came down to stay

with her for a while, and Mrs. Drigo, who lived a hundred yards or

so down the street, and had four healthy youngsters of her own,

gave counsel in emergencies. Jeannette devoted herself to her task.

She attacked the problem much as she would have met some untoward

circumstance in business. She considered herself efficient, set great

store by efficiency, and proposed to apply it to the care of her

sister’s children. She devised a system and adhered to it.

In the cold mornings when the children woke, they might look at their

picture-books until she came in to dress them. They must not make any

noise and Martin must not go in to play with them or even open their

door to say “Hello” when he got up early to fix the furnace. They had

their “poggy” and milk at eight and immediately thereafter were bundled

into their woolly leggings, sweaters, hooded caps and mittens and sent

out to play in the snow. They were to amuse themselves until eleven,

when, furred and properly shod, their aunt appeared to take them with

her to market, wheeling Ralph in his go-cart, while Etta trailed along

beside them. Upon returning, the children had their luncheon, always

a good full meal of baked potato, cut-up meat and vegetables, and a

little dessert. Jeannette believed small children should have light

suppers, and that their “dinner” should come at midday. After they had

eaten, it was nap-time, and this was the blessed interval of relaxation

for herself. Her charges must stay in bed until three o’clock, when

they were re-dressed in their woolly leggings, sweaters and caps, and

permitted to go out again to play in the snow. For the rest of her

life, bits of watery ice stuck to the fine hairs of woollen garments

always brought back to Jeannette with poignant emotion the memory of

these days. When the children stamped into the house at the end of

their play, their skins hard and coldly fresh, their breaths puffs of

vapor, their cheeks crimson, the little sweaters and leggings would

be encrusted with hard, icy snow. Jeannette would have a log fire

going, and she would undress them before its crackling blaze and hang

their damp outer garments on the fire screen to dry. The little naked

figures dancing in the warm room in the flickering firelight was always

a delightful sight to her. They were their merriest at this hour and

said their cutest things with which she remembered later to regale

Martin. Upstairs the oil heater would be warming the bathroom which

Hilda had made ready and presently there would come a mad dash into

the dining-room and up the cold stairway to the grateful temperature

of the little room. And here began a great splashing with shrieks and

admonitions, and here Jeannette dried their sweet little bodies and

slipped them into their cotton flannel double-gowns. Then downstairs

once more before the replenished log fire to sit on either side of her

and empty their warmed bowls of crackers and milk and listen to the

story she either read or told them until Martin came in to find them

so. Then followed kisses and hugs all round and immediately thereafter

the children were dispatched to bed with a final warning from their

aunt that there must positively be no talking.

Thus it was day after day, always the same, relentlessly the same,

undeviating monotony. Martin always praised Jeannette, her mother

praised her, even the neighbors praised her. Alice wrote loving

messages of deep gratitude. She responded to the general approval,

delighted in the applause. The thought that she was proving herself

equal to this unfamiliar rôle, that she was doing her job efficiently,

comforted and inspired her. Revelling in her righteous duty, she threw

herself passionately into its perfect execution. She gave it all her

energy, thought and time. She told her husband and mother with much

emphasis that Etta and Ralph were far better behaved now than they ever

had been with their own father and mother.

“It’s routine, I tell you,” she would say. “Children respond to routine

and this business of deviating from a strict schedule is demoralizing.

A little firmness is all that is necessary in making children good.

They really are very adaptable. I confess I was surprised. They learn

so quickly! The minute Etta and Ralph saw when they first came that I

wouldn’t stand for any foolishness, they were as meek as lambs.... I

declare! Alice is so soft and easy-going with them, I hate to think of

their being spoilt when they go back.”

It was another surprise to Jeannette to discover how little the

presence of the children in the house disturbed Martin. She had thought

he would grow restless after a time and that they would be certain to

annoy him. She had been sure he would soon object to ties which would

chain her to the house. Martin loved children--loved them particularly

well for a man, perhaps--but he was often unreasonable where her time

and movements were concerned, and had always rebelled at restraint.

Now he mildly accepted the new element in their lives without protest

and as time passed continued amiable. If she could not go out with him

or accept an invitation, he did not reproach or even urge her, but

praised her for her devotion, and often stayed at home to keep her

company. Saturday nights, however, when the “gang” gathered at the

Yacht Club, he went off to join them, but since the children were with

her, Jeannette did not mind being alone in the house.

“Come home early,” she would say to him. “It’s such fun to have you in

the house on Sundays and the children love it. I hate to have you wake

up tired and hollow-eyed, and you know, Martin, when you get only two

or three hours’ sleep you are sometimes a little cross and the children

notice it.”

“You’re dead right,” he would agree with her readily. “I’ll tell the

boys I’ve got to quit at midnight. They can begin the rounds then;

there’s no sense in our sitting up until three or four o’clock in the

morning.”

And often he kept his word.

§ 4

Alice and Roy had planned to stay six months in California, but in

April Jeannette received a letter from her sister with the news that

they had decided to return the first of May; Roy was in fine shape,--he

was even fat!--they both were mad to see their children.

The letter left Jeannette feeling strangely blank. What was she to do

without Etta and Ralph? She had talked a great deal about the fearful

responsibility, the exacting care these youngsters involved and what

a relief it would be to her when their mother came home to take them

off her hands. She had aired these views to her own mother and to Mrs.

Drigo, Mrs. Gibbs, and particularly to Martin. Yet now that Alice was

coming a month, even six weeks sooner than she intended, she had none

of the expected elation. A sadness settled upon her. She wondered how

she would occupy herself when the babies were gone.

“What do you suppose Roy intends to do?” she asked Martin one day. “He

hasn’t got a job. I don’t see how he’s going to manage for Alice and

the children.... He might leave them with us for awhile.... No,--I

suppose Alice will want them back immediately! ... It will be some time

before he gets settled.”

“Oh, he’ll find something to do, right away,” Martin answered her

cheerfully.

That was one of Martin’s irritating qualities, reflected his wife. He

was always so optimistic, so confident, never appreciating how serious

things sometimes were. Roy and Alice were facing a grave situation; it

might be desperate. Martin refused to regard it as important.

“I wonder if Mr. Corey would take him back at the office?” Jeannette

hazarded. Very probably he would. It was a brilliant idea and, acting

upon it at once, she went the following day to see her old employer.

The visit to the publishing house was strangely disquieting. She was

struck by the number of new faces, the many changes. The counter which

formerly defined the waiting-room on the fourth floor had been removed

and now the space, walled in by partitions, was converted into a retail

book store with shelves lined with new books and display tables. A

gray-haired woman inquired her name with a polite, indifferent smile,

and when she brought back word that Mr. Corey would see Mrs. Devlin,

undertook to show Jeannette the way to his office!

There were changes behind the partitions as well. It was amazing the

differences two years had wrought. There was none of the flutter of

interest her appearance had caused at her previous visit. One or two of

her old friends came up to shake her hand and to ask about her, while

a few others nodded and smiled. She did not see Miss Holland anywhere,

and Mr. Allister of whom she caught a glimpse in a distant corner

accorded her a casual wave of the hand. She was forgotten already, she,

who had once enjoyed so much respect, even affection, who had been the

president’s secretary, had been known to have his ear and often to

have been his adviser! Miss Whaley, whom she remembered as having been

connected with the Mailing Department, she met face to face on her way

to Mr. Corey’s office, but the girl had even forgotten her name!

But there was nothing wanting in her old chief’s reception. Mr. Corey

rose from his desk the instant she entered his room, and reached

for both her hands. He was the same warm, cordial friend, eager to

hear everything about her. How was she getting on? How was that

good-looking husband of hers? Where were they living? He reproached her

for not having been in to see him, appeared genuinely hurt that she

had neglected him so long. He had changed, too, Jeannette noticed;

his face sagged a little and he no longer bore himself with his old

erectness. She observed he still dyed his mustache; a little of the

dyestuff was smeared upon his cheek.

News of himself and his family was not particularly cheerful. Babs

was in a private sanitarium at Nyack; Mrs. Corey was badly crippled

with rheumatism,--a virulent arthritis,--and, in the care of a

trained nurse, had gone to Germany to try to get rid of it; Willis

had picked up an African malarial fever while he had been exploring,

and although he was home again, recurrent attacks of it kept him in

poor health. Jeannette noted a gentleness in Mr. Corey’s voice as

he spoke of his son; he blamed himself for Willis’ condition; that

African trip on which he had sent him was responsible for the boy’s

broken constitution. As for business, things were in bad shape, too.

The public did not seem to be buying books any more; they weren’t

interested; _The Ladies’ Fortune_ was doing pretty well, but the

increased cost of production knocked the profits out of everything; the

office was demoralized, the “folks” did not seem to coöperate as they

had done in the old days; he, himself, found daily reasons to regret

the hour when Jeannette had ceased to be his secretary; he hadn’t had

any sort of efficient help since she left; recent secretaries all had

proven a constant source of annoyance to him. Tommy Livingston had

got married and asked for one raise after another until Mr. Corey was

obliged to let him go; he believed he was doing very well for himself

in the news photograph business; Mr. Corey finally had had to take Mrs.

O’Brien away from Mr. Kipps, but even she was far from competent. There

were other details about the business that awoke the old interest

in Jeannette. Something in this office atmosphere fired the girl; it

brought buoyancy to her pulse, it stimulated her, it put life into her

veins. How happy she had been here! Never so contented, she said to

herself.

She hastened to tell Mr. Corey the object of her visit, and he promised

to find a place somewhere in the organization for Roy.

“I have only a hazy recollection of the young man,” he said, “but I’ll

do whatever you want me to, on your account, Miss Sturgis.”

Jeannette smiled. She would always be “Miss Sturgis” to Mr. Corey. She

liked it that way; her married name meant nothing to him, never would.

She thanked him warmly and promised to come to see him again.

As she made her way out through the crowded aisles of the general

office, amid the familiar rattle of typewriters and hum of work, past

old faces and new, her heart tugged in her breast. She was still part

of it; some of herself was implanted eternally here in this tide of

work, in the busy, preoccupied clerks, in the hustle and bustle, in

the smell of ink and paste and pencil dust, in the very walls of the

building.

§ 5

The good news she had to tell Roy of the job she had secured for him

warmed her heart. There was no time to write, but she treasured it to

herself and imagined a dozen times a day, as he and Alice were speeding

homeward, how she would break it to him.

Martin was unable to be present when they arrived at the Grand Central

Station, but Mrs. Sturgis, Jeannette and the two children were there

waiting for them to emerge from the long column of passengers that

streamed in a hurrying throng from the Chicago train. There were

screams of joy and wet lashes as the parents’ arms caught, hugged and

kissed the children again and again. Mrs. Sturgis had a cold luncheon

prepared at home, and with bags and children, the four adults bundled

themselves into a taxi and drove to Ninety-second Street, laughing

excitedly, interrupting one another with inconsequences after the

manner of all arriving travellers.

Roy indeed had put on weight; the emaciated look had entirely

disappeared. His plumpness altered his expression materially and his

sister-in-law was not quite sure she liked it. There could be no

question about his splendid health. His face was round and there were

actually folds in his neck where it bulged a trifle above his collar.

Alice looked prettier than ever and as Jeannette studied her, she

realized how much she had missed her sister during the past few months

and how much she loved her. Yet when the children climbed into their

mother’s lap and tried awkwardly to twine their short arms about her

neck, Etta announcing shrilly that she loved her “bestest in all the

world,” Jeannette experienced a cruel pang of jealousy. Now Alice would

immediately begin to spoil them and undo all her good work! ... It was

going to be very hard,--very hard, indeed.

She was anxious to tell her good news. Roy must be worrying about

the future and it was not fair to keep him in the dark. But when she

told him triumphantly, he and his wife only looked at one another

with a significant smile. They had good news of their own: they were

going back to California and meant to take the children with them;

they intended to live out there for a year or two in a place called

“Mill Valley,” just across the bay from San Francisco, with Roy’s

father. Dr. Beardsley was a dear old white-headed man,--the dearest on

earth, Alice declared,--and he was rector of a little church in Mill

Valley and lived in the most adorable redwood shake house up on the

side of a mountain just above the village. The house was a roomy old

place and Dr. Beardsley had talked and talked to them about coming to

California and making their home with him for two or three years until

Roy had gained a start, for it appeared that Roy wanted to write,--he

had always wanted to write,--and while he had been convalescing out

in California under the big redwoods, he had written a book,--not a

big one,--but a story about an old family dog the Beardsleys had once

owned, and he had sent it to a magazine and they had paid three hundred

dollars for the serial rights and there was a very good chance that

some publisher would bring it out in book form! The money was not very

much of course, but it was unquestionably encouraging and Dr. Beardsley

felt that he and Alice ought to combine forces and give Roy a chance at

the profession he hungered to follow. He had never had an opportunity

to show what he could do with his pen, and it was not fair to have him

give up this ambition merely because he had a wife and two children on

his hands. Dr. Beardsley had three or four thousand dollars in the bank

and he declared he had no particular need of the money and was ready

to invest it in his son’s career as a promising speculation in which

he, himself, had faith. He believed, he had said, he would get a good

return on his money! He had urged Alice and Roy to come with their two

children and make their home with him for a while, live the simplest

kind of life,--living was extraordinarily cheap in Mill Valley; Mama

wouldn’t believe how cheap after New York!--and wait until Roy was on

his feet with a well-established market for his work.

“So we talked it over and said we would,” concluded Alice with her soft

brown eyes shining confidently at her husband, “only it’s going to be

awful hard to leave you Mama, and Sis.”

Mrs. Sturgis promptly grew tearful.

“No--no, dearie,” she said between watery sniffles and efforts to check

herself, “I don’t know _why_ I’m crying! It’s quite right and proper

for you and Roy to accept his father’s kind offer. There’s no question

in my mind he’ll be a great writer, and I think you’re very wise, and

it will be lovely and healthy for the children and I approve of the

whole idea thoroughly, only--only California seems so terribly far

away!” A burst of tears accompanied the last. Jeannette felt irritated.

Her mother would soon be reconciled to Alice and the children being in

California,--but in her own heart there was already an ache she knew

would not leave it for many months.

§ 6

The end of May, when the dogwood was again powdering the new-leafed

woods with its white featheriness, when the Yacht Club had formally

opened its season, and Martin had towed his adored A-boat out of

winter storage, had pulled it with a row-boat the two-and-a-half miles

to its summer moorings, Alice, Roy and the children departed, and

Jeannette faced an empty home with what seemed to her an empty life.

It was inevitable she should reach out for distraction. During the

spring, Doc French had married Mrs. Edith Prentiss, a rich widow, whom

Jeannette had liked from their first meeting. The new Mrs. French was

her senior by only a year or two, and much the same type: tall and dark

with beautiful brows and skin and masses of glistening black hair. She

had a great deal of poise, and dash, and dressed handsomely. At the

opening of the season for the Cohasset Beach Yacht Club, when there was

a dinner and dance, the Devlins were Doctor and Mrs. French’s guests

and had a particularly good time. Jeannette bought herself a new dress

for the occasion. She would not have been able to go otherwise, she

told Martin, as she had absolutely nothing to wear! All the pretty

clothes that had formed her trousseau were completely gone now; she did

not have a single decent evening frock left!

The affair led to the young Devlins being asked to a Sunday luncheon

on board the new Commodore’s sumptuous yacht and this had been another

happy event. Martin had been in high feather, and had proven himself

unusually amusing and entertaining. The Commodore’s wife had singled

him out for attention; the Commodore, himself, and Doc French had urged

him to allow his name to be put up for membership in the Yacht Club.

It was a great temptation for both the young husband and wife, but it

was out of the question for them to belong to two yacht clubs, and

Martin resolutely refused to resign from the Family. No, he said, there

were too many “good scouts” in the little club, and he wouldn’t and

couldn’t “throw them down.” Jeannette did not urge it, although it was

hard to decline the invitation to join the Cohasset Beach Club. Yet

she felt that membership in it was beyond their means and would lead

to other extravagances, while specially was she afraid of the free

drinking that went on there. Martin had a mercurial temperament; one

drink excited him; more made him noisy and silly; he was not the type

that could stand it. Better the Family Yacht Club as the lesser of the

two evils. She would have been satisfied if he never entered either.

She voiced her complaint to her mother, with a good deal of vexation:

“It makes me so mad! Martin _won’t_ economize, _won’t_ help me save and

insists upon being a member of that cheap little one-horse organization

with its cheap common members, spending his time and money in a place

he knows I detest and where I never set my feet that I don’t regret it.

And if he would only help me get out of debt and would behave himself

when there was liquor around, we might be able to join the Cohasset

Beach and associate with nice, decent people of our own class and enjoy

some kind of social life. It’s unfair--rottenly unfair! I’ve been

struggling all winter taking care of my sister’s babies, and of course

it’s been expensive and we haven’t been able to put by a cent. I’ve

done my level best to economize; I haven’t bought myself so much as a

pair of shoes since last year, ... and look at me!”

She held out her foot and showed her mother where the stitching along

the sole had parted. Mrs. Sturgis shook her head distressfully, and

made “tut-tutting” noises with her tongue.

“And what does he expect me to do?” Jeannette went on, her voice rising

as her sense of injustice grew upon her. “Here’s Doc French and his

wife, Edith,--she’s really a stunning girl, Mama, and I like her so

much!--anxious to be nice to me, wanting me to go with them to the

smart Yacht Club all the time, asking me to their house for dinner and

cards, or to go motoring with them in their beautiful new car, and

Commodore and Mrs. Adams inviting me to luncheon on _The Sea Gull_,

and I haven’t a decent stitch to my back! If I complain to Martin, he

says I’m ‘crabbing’ or tells me to get what I need and charge it! And

that’s just madness, Mama,--you know that. He denies himself nothing

and expects me to do all the self-sacrificing. I declare I’m sorely

tempted sometimes to take him at his word, to go ahead just as I like,

get whatever I need and let him meet the bills as best he can. That’s

what most wives would do! I’ve never known such humiliation since I

went to that Armenian dance with Dikron Najarian. In all the time I

was supporting myself, I was never so shabbily dressed as I am right

this minute! It does seem to me that Martin could manage better. I

know _I_ did when I was earning my own money and financing my own

problems. Martin makes just about what you and I used to have when we

were living together, and you know perfectly well, Mama, we had money

to _throw away_ then. Why we used to go to the theatre and everything!

I haven’t been inside a theatre in--in--well, since last September and

that’s nearly a year! _I_ don’t know what he does with his money! He

swears he doesn’t gamble any more, but he’s always broke and I have the

hardest time getting my sixty-two fifty out of him on the first and the

fifteenth. He tried to borrow some of it back from me last month! I

tell you, he didn’t get it! He never takes me into his confidence about

money matters and he never comes and gives what’s coming to me out of

his pay envelope of his own accord! I always have to _ask_ him for it!

Think of it, Mama, having to _ask_ him to give me what’s my right! I

never had to go to Mr. Corey and _ask_ him for my salary on Saturday

mornings, and I work ten thousand times harder for Martin Devlin than

I ever did for Mr. Corey! ... I was no shrinking violet when Martin

married me! I was a self-supporting, self-respecting business woman

and when we married we made a bargain, and I intend he shall live up

to it. I don’t propose he’s going to welch on me merely because I’m a

woman. He’s got to give me just as much consideration as he would a man

with whom he’s made a contract. Our marriage was an honorable agreement

with certain specified provisions, and if he doesn’t live up to them,

neither shall I!”

“Oh, Janny, Janny!” cried her mother in alarm; “don’t talk so reckless,

dearie! What on earth do you mean?”

“Walk out on him!” flashed Jeannette. “I’ll go back to my job and run

my own life the way it suits me!”

§ 7

Martin spent every Saturday afternoon at the Family Yacht Club, “tuning

up” his boat. He loved to tinker about her, adjusting this, tightening

that; he was never finished with her; there was always something still

remaining to be done. He and Zeb Kline sailed the _Albatross_ together

in the races; they constituted her crew.

As soon as Martin reached Cohasset Beach from the city on the last day

of the week, he hurried directly from the station to the yacht club.

He kept his outing clothes,--they consisted of little more than a

shirt, a pair of duck pants and “sneakers,”--in a locker at the club.

By two o’clock he was squatting in the cockpit of the teetering little

boat, busy with wrench, knife, or rag, thoroughly happy. If there was

sufficient wind later in the afternoon, he and Zeb might take a short

sail up the Sound, round the red buoy, and home again, or over two legs

of the course. The afternoon was all too short; it was six,--seven,

before a realization of the passing time came to him. He wanted a quick

swim then before re-dressing himself, and if someone did not give him a

lift, there was the long hike homeward.

He would be sure to find one of three situations when he opened the

door of the bungalow upon reaching home: Jeannette would be there,

coldly unresponsive, resentful of his tardiness; she would be dressing

for a dance at the Cohasset Beach Yacht Club in frivolous mood, or she

would have already departed to dine with Doc and Edith French, having

left word with Hilda for him to follow if he cared to. He came to

accept these circumstances. He did not particularly like them but he

did not know how to go about changing them. To dress and join his wife

was generally too much effort after his long afternoon on the water. He

either found his own amusements or else, thoroughly weary, went to bed.

At an early hour on Sunday he was usually astir and often left the

house while Jeannette was still asleep, or else they breakfasted

together about nine o’clock and made polite inquiries as to one

another’s plans for the day. Every Sunday afternoon during the

summer there was a race and Martin would not have missed one for any

consideration. As soon as he could leave the house, he was off to the

club and Jeannette did not see him again until he came stumbling home

late in the evening, sunburnt and thoroughly exhausted.

One Saturday night it was nearly eight o’clock when the flickering

acetylene lamps of Steve Teschemacher’s big brass-fitted motor car

swept into the circular driveway before the Devlins’ home, and Martin

got out, called “Good-night and many thanks!” and opened the door of

his house. Dishevelled, his hair blown, his shirt open at the throat,

carrying his cravat and collar, he walked in upon a dinner party his

wife was giving. The four people at his table were all in immaculate

evening dress. He recognized Doc French and Edith, but the remaining

person in the quartette was a man he had never seen before.

“Mr. Kenyon, my dear,” said Jeannette, introducing him. “Our little

party was quite impromptu. I didn’t know how to get you. I telephoned

the club twice but Wilbur said you were out on the water.”

Doc French welcomed him, clapping him on the back.

“Get a move on, Mart,” he said, jovially, “your cocktail’s getting

cold.”

Martin hurried. The blankness passed that had come to him as,

unprepared, he arrived upon the scene. His good-nature asserted

itself; he was always ready for a good time. In fifteen minutes he

was entertaining his wife’s guests with an Irish story, told with

inimitable brogue, and had them all roaring with laughter.

Kenyon he did not fancy. The man was too perfectly dressed, his white

silk vest had a double row of gold buttons and fitted his slim waist

too snugly; the movements of his hands were too graceful, too studied;

his heavily lashed eyes squinted shut when he laughed, and the eyes,

themselves, were glittering and glassy.

Martin went with the party to the Cohasset Beach Yacht Club for the

dance to which they were bound. Since he had declined to become a

member he felt he ought not to go at all to the club, but Doc French on

this particular night would not listen to him, and carried him off with

the others. There were the usual drinks, the usual gay crowd, the usual

music and the usual dance; Martin, pleasantly exhilarated, had his

usual good time. He saw his wife here and there upon the dancing floor

during the evening, and thought her unusually vivacious and pretty,

but it was not until three or four days later that a casual happening

brought back to him a disquieting recollection that each time he had

caught a glimpse of her that night, her partner had been Kenyon.

The incident that stirred this memory was the chance discovery of

two cigarette stubs in a little glass ash tray on the mantel above

the fireplace. Jeannette did not smoke. She explained readily that

Gerald Kenyon had been to tea the previous afternoon. But Martin

was not satisfied. Kenyon was a type of rich man’s son,--idler and

trifler,--whom Martin thought he recognized; Jeannette had said

nothing about having had him to tea and the circumstance was too

unusual for her to have forgotten to mention it; now he recalled the

matter of the dance.

One of their old angry quarrels followed. It left both shaken and

repentant, and in the reconciliation that followed, much of their early

warm love and confidence in one another returned. Many differences were

settled, many concessions and promises were made, and better harmony

existed between them thereafter than they had known for a long time.

§ 8

It was then that Jeannette seriously considered having a baby. Martin

was anxious for a child, and she knew how happy one would make him, how

grateful and tender he was sure to be to her. She dreaded the ordeal

more than most women; she was fearful of the agony that awaited her

at the end of the long, dreary, helpless nine months; Alice’s hard

labor, and the following weakness from complications that had kept her

practically bedridden for half-a-year, had made a grave impression on

Jeannette’s mind. She shuddered at the idea of being torn, at being

manhandled by doctors, at being pulled and mauled and treated like

an animal. It represented degradation to her, but she was prepared

to go through with it. She wanted a child; she wanted one as much as

Martin did; she wanted more than one. Her husband had accused her once

of not loving children, but after the devotion she had lavished upon

Etta and Ralph during the long months of the past winter, she felt she

had convinced him that such a reproach was wholly unjustified. Far

more than the agony of childbirth, Jeannette apprehended the fetters

that maternity would forge about her feet. Once a mother she knew her

liberty was over. She would be bound then by the infant at her breast,

by ties of duty and maternal instinct, and above all by love. She hated

the thought of restriction; she hated the thought of giving up her

independence; she rebelled at inhibitions which would prevent her from

going her own way, living her own life, being her own mistress.

Once again the question of money obtruded itself. What did the years

ahead hold in store for her as Martin’s wife? How would she fare at her

husband’s hands when she was thirty, forty, fifty? The infatuation of

the bride for the man she had married, was gone now; she saw him in a

cold, critical light. She loved him; she loved him truly and honestly;

she loved him more than she had ever thought to love any man. Never was

she so happy as when they two were alone together and in sympathy. She

liked often to recall the happy day they had spent with Alice and Roy

on the sand reefs off Freeport. Martin had been so sweet, and splendid

and dear that day! No woman could love a man more than she did, then;

he had been everything that stirred her admiration. But that was a

year ago and he wasn’t the same; he and she had drifted apart. Perhaps

it was as much her fault as his; perhaps their grievances against one

another were no more than those of any average couple. She realized

that both were strong-willed and opinionated; it was inevitable that

they should sometimes clash. But if Martin differed with her, he

could pursue his own way independent of his wife, while she must wait

upon his pleasure. She did not--could not trust Martin with the old

confidence he had once inspired. Perhaps that was the experience of all

wives. Most women put up with it, _had_ to put up with it, made the

best of conditions, lay with what equanimity they could in the bed they

had chosen in the first flush of love. But with her,--and always with

this thought ever since she had been a wife, Jeannette had breathed a

prayer of gratitude,--there was a way out! The girls that had married

blindly out of their father’s and mother’s house had no alternative

if their marriages proved unsatisfactory but to endure them or seek

divorce. But she and all other women who had achieved a livelihood

of their own in the world of business, who had won for themselves an

economic value that could be measured in dollars and cents, could go

back to work! They did not have to appeal to the law, the disreputable

divorce courts, to free them from an intolerable alliance, or compel a

reluctant man to support them with alimony gouged from his unwilling

pocketbook!

Ever since she had become Martin’s bride, Jeannette realized she had

hugged this thought to herself and always found consolation in it. It

had even been in her mind when she considered marriage; she had said to

herself in those uncertain days, that if the experiment did not prove

satisfactory, there was a stenographer’s job waiting for her somewhere

in the world. Now this knowledge that she could be independent again if

she chose had a vital bearing on the question of her having a child.

Once a mother, the door of escape from a situation which might some day

become intolerable would be forever closed. She could not leave a baby

as she could leave a husband.

Should she risk it? Should she take the plunge, leave the safe return

to shore behind her and strike out into unknown waters, placing faith

in her husband’s devotion and his ability to take care of her? Ah, if

she could only be sure! If she could only be convinced of Martin’s

dependability! She did not care a snap of her finger for Gerald

Kenyon, Edith French or the Cohasset Beach Yacht Club or anything!

All she wanted was that Martin should be good to her, should protect

and provide for her with as much thought and care as she had given

herself when she had been a wage-earner and her own mistress! If Martin

would stand back of her, she would welcome a baby, she would bear him

half-a-dozen,--all that her strength was equal to! She would banish her

fear of the ordeal!

She told him so passionately. She showed him the reasonableness and

righteousness of her stand, and he admitted the truth of what she said.

He promised to do anything she wanted.

“You’re dead right, Jan,” he said with a gravity that went straight to

her heart, “I see your point. I’ll do the best I can. And golly! won’t

it be great when there’s a kid in the family,--you know,--a kid that’s

our own? Why, you were never so happy or so pretty, and you never were

so good to me and I never loved you more than when Etta and Ralph were

toddling round here.”

But she would agree to nothing until he had demonstrated to her that he

had changed and was as much in earnest about the matter as she proposed

to be.

“Mart, you’ve got to show me; you’ve got to convince me you’ve turned

over a new leaf. I want to be satisfied that I am always going to be

glad I’m your wife before I anchor myself to you for the rest of my

life. Now we’re in debt. While I’ve been out of sympathy with you, I’ve

done some charging in town,--new clothes I had to have in order to go

about with Edith French. If we have a baby it’s going to cost money,

and we’ve _got_ to be out of debt first,--don’t you think so? You can

reëstablish my faith in you by showing me now how you can help me save.

If we cut down and put our minds to it, we can save a thousand dollars

by the first of the year. Now I’ll let Hilda go and do my own work, if

you’ll resign from the Family Yacht Club!”

It was a challenge and Martin’s startled eyes found hers.

“And sell my A-boat?” he asked blankly.

“And sell your A-boat,” Jeannette repeated firmly.

“Well-l, my God,--that’s kind of tough,” he said slowly. “But all

right,--if you say so, I’ll get out, I’ll sell it and quit.”

“Do you really mean it, Mart?”

“Yes, I’ll--I’ll resign.... Only, Jan, can’t I finish the season? Zeb

and I’ve got a swell chance for the cup and all the A-boats have been

invited over to Larchmont for their annual regatta, and Zeb knows that

course, and we’re all going to be towed over the day before....”

He was like a little boy pleading for a toy. She could not find it in

her heart to refuse him.

“Very well,” she conceded slowly, “only as soon as the season’s over

you’ll positively resign?”

“Sure. I’ll tell the fellows to-morrow that it’s my last year, and I’ll

quit after the final race.”

§ 9

June, July and August passed, Labor Day came and went, the yachting

season closed with gala festivities, special boat races, a big dance at

each of the clubs, and one day Martin announced that Zeb had paid him

sixty dollars for the _Albatross_, and that he had sent in his letter

of resignation to the board of directors. It was then that Jeannette

told Hilda she would be obliged to let her go. She had grown fond of

the girl and was sorry to lose her, but in the face of this evidence of

her husband’s good faith, she felt she must begin to carry out her part

of their bargain.

Apart from this, there were other considerations which made her welcome

this new régime of curtailment and self-denial. She was not satisfied

with the recent order of her life; her conscience troubled her; there

had been certain evenings during the past summer, memories of which

were not altogether pleasant.

Hardly a week had gone by without Doc and Edith French inviting her

to go with them to a dance at the Cohasset Beach Yacht Club or on a

jaunt to some road-house on Long Island, and Gerald Kenyon invariably

had been along. He had made love to her, flattering love to her, and

she had been diverted. She liked him; he danced well, he was rich and

a prodigal host, he was agreeably attentive. She would have early sent

him to the right-about had it not been he proved a convenient escort.

Martin was rarely on hand to accompany her; Gerald was eager to go

with her anywhere she wished. She suffered his attentions, reminding

herself that it was only for a few weeks,--just until the end of the

summer,--and it was her last fling at gaiety. She would rid herself of

him by September and prepare her household and her life for the time

of retrenchment. Nothing of serious significance had happened on any

of these merry evenings; Martin could not have found fault with her;

Gerald had never so much as kissed her cheek, but the atmosphere that

had prevailed was disturbing to Jeannette. Gerald often imbibed too

freely, but he was never offensive. He and the Frenches sometimes grew

noisy and there was a good deal of loose talk. A drink or two had a

marked effect on Edith, and Jeannette wondered sometimes at the things

she said and did. Not that her words and actions were in themselves

particularly shocking, but coming from a woman of her graciousness and

refinement they sounded rough. Jeannette was ready, now, to be quit of

these intimates. Their society was not healthy, and in her soul she was

conscious she did not belong in it. Her innate sense of rectitude took

offense at such behavior.

Thus it was that she turned to the period of self-denial with

willingness, even zeal. She threw herself whole-heartedly into the

program of her new existence. She wanted to clean her soul as well as

her life.

She was happy in the changed order of her days; she liked doing her own

work since it meant penance for her as well as saving; she liked to

think she was preparing herself for her child. She figured out how long

it would take them to be out of debt: less than a year if they saved

only fifty dollars a month.

“Now, Martin,” she reminded her husband, “I’m not going through with

this unless you stand back of me. You’ve got to save penny for penny

with me, and you’ve got to show me you’re deadly in earnest.”

She said this because he did not seem as enthusiastic, now, as he had

been when the plan was first discussed. The eagerness was missing, and

he was rather sour about it. She knew he grieved over the sale of his

boat, and it was bitter hard for him to give up his club. But this time

she was determined. She had renounced her frivolous, expensive friends;

he must renounce his; she proposed to get along without the luxury of a

servant, he must deny himself, too.

“Well, damn it!” he growled at her implied reproach, “ain’t I doing

everything you want? The boat’s gone, and I’ve sent my letter in to the

club! What more do you want me to do?”

“Martin! that’s no way to speak to your wife! You’re not doing it for

_me_!”

She sighed in discouragement. He had a long way to go.

His efforts to divert himself about the house on Saturday afternoons

and Sundays were pathetic. He started vigorously to spade up a bit of

ground which he declared would make an admirable vegetable bed in the

spring. The spading lasted half a day and all winter Jeannette saw

the snow-covered shovel sticking upright in the ground where he had

left it. He was bored by inactivity. Books did not interest him; he

scorned the solitaire she suggested and in which she herself could find

amusement; likewise he grew impatient at walks in the woods now full of

autumn tints. Jeannette tried her best to entertain him. Several times

she asked the Drigos over for auction bridge but Mrs. Drigo and her

husband quarrelled so much when the cards ran against them, that Martin

declared he did not care to play with them. Jeannette tried “Rum” but

that, too, bored him; there was no pleasure in the game, he told her,

without stakes and one couldn’t gamble with one’s wife. At the end of

her resources, she shrugged her shoulders and let him seek out his own

amusements as best he could. His attitude nettled her. He ought to face

the new life, she felt, with the same fortitude, conscientiousness and

willingness that she displayed. She told him so with a good deal of

rancor one day: he was acting like a spoiled boy; he wasn’t being a

good sport about it. He only glowered at her in reply and stalked out

of the house.

She had her own suspicions where he went, but she did not reproach

him. In her heart she was sorry for him; his empty evenings and his

week-ends hung heavy on his hands. She hoped he would get used to the

idea and by and by be moved to follow her example.

But as the weeks and then the months began to go by, and she saw that

it was only she who was making the sacrifices,--cleaning, cooking,

washing dishes, denying herself clothes and even trips to the city

to see her mother,--a dull anger kindled within her. This burst into

flame when she learned by chance that Martin was still a member of the

Yacht Club. ’Stel Teschemacher telephoned her one day to remind her

to be sure and come to a bridge tournament the ladies of the club had

arranged for the following Wednesday afternoon. Jeannette explained

with some relish that she feared she was not eligible to participate

since her husband was no longer a member of the club, but ’Stel

Teschemacher assured her that such was not the case.

“Oh, no, you’re mistaken, Mrs. Devlin. He’s still a member and a very

valued one. The Directors refused absolutely to accept your husband’s

resignation; they just positively made him reconsider it.... Why, we

couldn’t get along without Mr. Devlin! He’s just the life of the club!”

Jeannette said nothing to Martin. She was bitter, feeling he had

tricked her, was not playing fair. She decided she would go to New York

and pour out her grievance in a stormy recital to her mother. It would

relieve her mind. On the train she met Edith French and when the city

was reached, her friend triumphantly carried her off to lunch at the

Waldorf.

§ 10

Not very long after this, she learned that Martin had been playing

poker, and had lost. He had had a bad streak of luck and was obliged

to confess to her he did not have enough money to pay the rent without

making a levy upon her share of his salary; she must count on only

forty dollars when his next pay-day fell due.

At that her resentment burst forth. She had denied herself consistently

since the first of September. With her own hands she had made the

little Christmas presents she had sent Alice and the children, and even

what she had given her mother, in order to save a few dollars, and here

was Martin gambling away at the card table money that was hers!

“You’re no more fit to be a father than a husband,” she told him, her

anger blazing. “You expect me to bear a child to a man like you! You’re

no better than a common thief!”

“Aw, cut that out, Jan,” he answered, a dull crimson reddening his

neck; “I’ll admit I’m in wrong and that you’ve got every right to be

sore at me, but what’s the use in accusing me of being dishonest?”

“Dishonest?--dishonest?” she repeated furiously, her hands clenched.

“Half of every dollar you earn belongs to me,--and don’t you forget

it! It’s mine by right of being your wife; it’s mine by right of your

definite promise when I married you that we should share and share

alike. I made a financial sacrifice then because I thought you and I

were going to build a house and rear a family. I used to earn a hundred

and forty dollars a month,--let me tell you,--and every cent of it I

spent as I chose and for what I chose. I’ve never seen that much or

anything like that much, since I married you. Don’t fool yourself you

_give_ me a penny! You work in your office and I work here and we both

earn your salary. When you take my money and gamble with it and lose

it, you’re doing exactly the same as if you put your hand in Herbert

Gibbs’s cash drawer and helped yourself! It’s just plain thievery!”

Martin was on his feet, his face congested.

“If you were a man, I’d knock your damned head off.”

“If I were a man,” retorted his wife, “you’d be afraid to!”

§ 11

It was in this mood of fury, with her grievance seething within her,

that she gladly agreed to accompany Edith French on a day of shopping

in the city. Edith telephoned she had been invited by a certain famous

Fifth Avenue importer to witness, at a private showing, the opening of

some sealed trunks just received from Paris containing the new spring

models. She wanted Jeannette to go with her, and the two women arranged

to leave for town on an early morning train.

It was a cold, glittering winter’s day when the crispness in the

air set the blood tingling; snow was piled in the street and there

was a general scraping of iron shovels on stone and cement. Edith

and Jeannette feasted their eyes on the new styles as they eagerly

discussed clothes and fashions. Edith, stimulated by her privileged

glimpses, bought herself a new hat, which Jeannette declared to be the

most beautiful thing she had ever seen in her life! Edith, it seemed

to her companion, was free to purchase anything that took her fancy.

If a garment or bauble attracted her, she got it without hesitation.

Jeannette’s heart was sick with longing. She watched her companion

enviously. In a reckless moment, urged by her friend to whom she had

confided at luncheon the tale of Martin’s perfidy, and who had been

gratifyingly sympathetic, she selected and charged a long woolly, loose

tan coat that had a deep collar of skunk. The coat had been “on sale”

and Edith had been so full of admiration for the way Jeannette looked

in it, that she offered to buy it and give it to her as a present.

To this Jeannette would not agree, but later, wrapped in its soft

ampleness and with a glowing satisfaction that it was the most becoming

garment she had ever owned, she did not press an objection when Edith

proposed to telephone Gerald Kenyon and ask him to take them to tea.

At five o’clock sitting against the crimson upholstered wall-seats

of a glittering café, sipping her hot tea and nibbling her thin,

buttered toast, listening to the music and the pleasant chatter of

her companions, conscious of Gerald Kenyon’s admiring eyes, Jeannette

decided that it was the first happy moment she had known in months, and

that if Martin chose to go his way, she had ample justification to go

hers.

A madness descended upon her. She was near to tears most of the time

but went dry-eyed upon her way, shutting her ears to the voice of

conscience, refusing to allow her better nature to assert itself. On

and on she stumbled into the forest of imprudence, allowing herself to

give no heed to the gathering shadows, taking no thought of how she

should ever find her way out of the gloom when the hour came for her to

turn back,--for, of course, she must some time turn back!

Little by little she was beguiled into doing the things she had

foresworn. She allowed Edith to persuade her into going almost daily

with her to the city; she spent here and there the dollars she had

so hardly saved; she began heedlessly to charge again: shoes, silk

stockings, a smart French veil, gloves. The two friends fell into the

habit of lunching or taking tea with Gerald Kenyon and sometimes going

to a matinée with him, and the day came--as he had carefully planned

it should come,--when Jeannette lunched with him alone. And over the

small table at which they sat so intimately, still in the grip of

the insanity that fogged her sense of righteousness and values, she

confided to his eager, understanding ears the story of her husband’s

selfishness, and listened to his persuasive voice as he offered to help

her out of her difficulties.

“Why, listen here, Jeannette,” he said, bending toward her earnestly

across the littered luncheon cloth, “I can make five thousand dollars

for you over night. There’s no sense in your troubling yourself about

money matters. If you’re in debt, I can show you a way that will pull

you out of the hole and give you all the spending money you need! The

old man, you know, is in steel. He’s on the inside and there’s nothing

that goes on down in Wall Street that he doesn’t know. He gave me a tip

the other day: a sure-fire tip. Did you ever hear of Colusium Copper?

Well, it’s one of the subsidiary companies of the United States Steel

Corporation, and its stock’s going right up. The old man telephoned me

to come down and see him, and he says to me: ‘Gerald, put what you can

lay your hands on on Colusium Copper; it’s due to go to seventy-five

and you want to get out about seventy-two or three.’ It was fifty-eight

then; it’s about sixty-six to-day. Why, look here,--it went up a couple

of points yesterday.” He showed her the figures convincingly in a

newspaper he drew from his pocket. “Now you just let me buy a few of

those shares for you this afternoon before the market closes, and I’ll

hand you a check for five hundred to-morrow when you meet me for lunch.

You don’t have to put up the money; I can fix that for you; I’ll just

telephone my brokers you want to buy a few shares and that I’ll O.K.

the deal. It’s a sure-fire proposition, Jeannette. You won’t be risking

a cent.”

He was very earnest, very persuasive; his voice was gentle and so

kindly. Five hundred dollars! thought the girl; it would wipe out all

those little purchases here and there that she had had charged to her

account about which Martin knew nothing!

Gerald was a _dear_! He was really a most generous, warm-hearted

friend! It was wonderful of him to take such an interest in her

trifling financial problems.

And the next day he showed her the check: $515.60 beautifully made

out,--W. G. Guthrie & Company, Stock Brokers,--and it was drawn in her

name. Her fingers trembled a little as she took the stiff bank paper in

her hands.

“You see what I told you!” Gerald said with a triumphant smile. “Why,

say, I could have made it five thousand just as easy if you had only

said the word. The old man knows when anything like this is coming off

in the Street. You have to laugh at the way the public runs in and lets

the big guns fleece them. The big fellows stick up the bait and the

poor fools rush after it and then chop--chop go the axes! ... Any time,

Jeannette, you want a bit of change just let me know and I can fix it

for you. I’ll just give the old man a ring and ask him what’s good....

Now, for Heaven’s sake don’t get the idea that what I’m able to do for

you on a little flier down in Wall Street is anything in the nature of

a present or anything like that. I’m just slipping you a little piece

of inside information,--savvy, dearie?”

The endearment was unfortunate. It suddenly reminded Jeannette of

her mother and she remembered she had not been to see her in weeks.

Besides, it was the first time Gerald had addressed her with any such

familiarity.

“I don’t think I’d better take this,” she said abruptly, tossing the

folded check at him. She leaned back in her chair and drew her hands

close to her breast.

He picked it up, tapped his fingers gently with it and began to argue.

He argued long and eloquently: the money did not belong to him, it was

hers, it represented the profits of her own little deal, he hadn’t a

right to a cent of it, it was impossible for him to touch it. But now

no word from him could reach Jeannette. Fear was awake in her; she

began to be very frightened; her panic grew. Suddenly she wanted to

get up from the table and run into the street. She wanted to go to her

mother; she wanted her mother badly. She felt she must get out of the

restaurant, must get into the air, must get away from that table and

this man at any price. She was like one who stands with her back to a

precipice and, turning around, finds herself within a few inches of its

edge, a chasm yawning at her feet. Fright made her giddy, her mouth was

dry, her throat closed convulsively.

“If I can only stand it for ten minutes more,” she said to herself,

gripping tight her folded hands beneath the table, “and keep my head

and not let him suspect! ... I must go on and pretend.... Just ten

minutes more.”

She managed it badly. The experienced eye of her companion guessed all

that was passing in her mind, and he cursed himself for having been too

precipitous. The wary hare that he had been at such pains to coax to

his side for so many months had taken flight at the first lift of his

finger. He would have to begin all over again, and this time proceed

more leisurely. For the present, he knew his cue was to withdraw.

He let her make her escape without remonstrance. He asked if she would

not allow him as a friend to mail her the check, and when with more

vehemence than she meant to display, she refused, he tore the paper

neatly into bits and let the fragments flutter from his finger-tips to

the table.

“Well,--it’s too bad,” he said with a shrug that eloquently expressed

his hurt. “Sorry. My only object was to try and help a bit.”

He left her at the door of the restaurant with a graceful lift of

his hat, saying he hoped to see her soon again. It was lost upon the

girl. She hurried to a telephone booth in a drug store at hand and

tried to reach the apartment on Ninety-second Street, but there was

no answer. She thought of Martin but there was the uncomfortable

confession she would have to make to him of her recent extravagances.

Her recklessness, she realized, had robbed her of the righteousness of

her quarrel with him; reproach he could meet with reproach.

She longed then for her sister,--her quiet, brown-eyed sister,--who

had never judged her harshly in her life, but Alice was in far-away

California. There was nobody, nobody in the world to whom she could

turn for comfort, for sympathy and counsel, and then coming toward her

with a pleased and smiling recognition in his face she saw Mr. Corey.

She fluttered to him with almost a sob, and put both her hands in his;

as he greeted her affectionately she wanted desperately to lay her head

against his shoulder and give way to the fury of tears that fought

now to find escape. In that moment, everyone seemed to have failed

her,--mother, sister, husband,--but this staunch, loyal, rock-solid

friend who believed in her, who knew only the best of her, whose faith

in her was unbounded, who knew her as she really was.

He was talking but she listened not to his words but to her own heart

that told her here was the haven for which she sought, here was the

counsellor, the friend who would help her without cavil or reproach.

“Tell me about yourself,” he was saying. “You promised you’d come in to

see me once in awhile,--and that brother-in-law of yours? I thought we

were going to find a job for him? What happened?”

Jeannette attempted to explain: Roy was trying to become an author, his

first story was appearing as a serial and he and his wife and babies

were in California. As she spoke of Alice, her voice suddenly grew

husky and when she tried to clear her throat, the hot prick of tears

sprang to her eyes, and she was obliged to stop and press her lips

together. Mr. Corey’s brows met sharply.

“What’s the matter? You’re in trouble?” He waited for her to speak but

she could only shake her head helplessly and blink her swimming eyes.

“Come in here with me,” he said in the old authoritative voice she

still loved to obey. They turned from the crowded street where they

were being jostled, into the drug store she had just quitted. It was

crowded in here, too, with a swarm of elbowing people before the soda

fountain. Corey guided the girl to the rear and they stopped by a

deserted counter.

“Now what is it? Tell me about it,” he said shortly. “Can I help you?”

She tried again to answer him but she was still too shaken; at any

effort to speak her tears threatened.

“Please,” she managed, gulping.

He left her, went to the soda counter and returned with a glass of

water. She drank it gratefully; the cold drink steadied her.

“I’ve just been acting foolishly,” she said at last, dabbing her eyes

with a corner of her handkerchief. “It’s all my fault, I guess.”

By degrees he pried her story from her: Martin had been treating her

badly; he had been very unfair to her; their marriage was a hopeless

failure; she couldn’t make it a success alone; she had struggled and

struggled and she didn’t believe it was any use; he was fearfully

extravagant and she had to do all the saving to keep them out of debt;

she had done without a servant just so they could get a little ahead,

but try as she would, they kept falling behind, and Martin didn’t

care....

She had no intention of misrepresenting her case to Mr. Corey, but

hungered for his sympathy, for his justification and approval, for his

censure of her husband.

He heard her with furrowed brows, his keen eyes watching her face, and

when she fell silent, he waited a long moment.

“Life’s hard on young people,” he said at length with a deep breath

and a dubious shake of his head. “It’s hard enough for them to get

adjusted to one another without having to worry over money matters. I’m

sorry your marriage has not turned out well. I feel particularly badly

because I urged you into it. Devlin seemed a likely fellow to me.”

They both considered the matter, studying the floor. Jeannette felt as

she stood there her life was breaking to pieces.

“If you’re in debt,” said Mr. Corey at length, “and it’s merely a

question of money to tide you over present difficulties; you must let

me lend you what you need.”

“Oh, no, thank you,” she said quickly.

“Oh, yes, but you must,” he insisted.

With firmness she declined. She wasn’t begging; she just had had one

man try to give her money; she couldn’t accept financial assistance

from anyone. No, it was her own problem,--she could work it out herself

without anyone’s help.

“Very well, then,” he suggested, “come back and work for me awhile.

I’ve an abominable person as secretary now; I intended to fire her

anyhow, and it will give me tremendous satisfaction to do so at once,

for I never needed efficient help more desperately than now.”

The words of polite thanks on Jeannette’s lips died. She raised her

eyes and fixed them on the face of the man before her, a light breaking

slowly in them.

“You mean ...?” she began. Her face was like radiant dawn.

“I mean exactly what I say: come back for as long as you wish. Stay

until you’ve earned what you need, and be free to go when you’re ready:

three months, six months, whenever you like.... It will be good to see

you back even for a short time at your old desk.”

Her intent gaze leaped from pupil to pupil of his smiling, earnest

eyes. Her thoughts raced: there was Martin; he would say “No” of

course; he wouldn’t consider letting her do this; he’d be furious, but

Martin would have to be won over, and if not ... well then ... there

was her mother and her own old room waiting for her in the apartment on

Ninety-second Street!

“Well?” said Mr. Corey amused, at the glowing color in her face.

“Mrs. Corey?” Jeannette faltered.

“She’s in Germany and a very sick woman. It’s rheumatism, you know, and

she’s been crippled a long time. I doubt anyhow if she’d care.”

Somewhere up above like pigeons fluttering forth from heaven’s dome

came happiness winging down upon the girl.

“Oh, yes,--if you’ll have me,--indeed I’ll come back.... I’ll be there

Monday morning! ... Oh, it will be _wonderful_!”

END OF BOOK II

BOOK III

BREAD

CHAPTER I

§ 1

The cat was crying to get in. Jeannette, deep in slumber, was irritated

by persistent mewings. Every once in awhile the outside screen door at

the back of the apartment shut with a small clap as the animal, sinking

its claws into the wire mesh, tried to pull it open. The noise awoke

Jeannette finally and she sat up with a start.

It was morning. Gray light filled the room. She peered at the alarm

clock, blinking her eyes, and saw there were still twenty minutes before

she had to get up. In the next room, the sound of a closing window

announced that Beatrice Alexander was already astir.

“She’s put Mitzi out,” thought Jeannette, drawing the bed clothes over

an exposed shoulder. “I wish she’d remember to leave the door ajar.”

Presently Beatrice’s steps passed in the hall and in another moment

the annoyance ceased. Jeannette dropped gratefully back to sleep. But

it seemed she had hardly lost consciousness when the whirring clock

bell aroused her again. Though still drowsy, she immediately got up;

she never permitted herself to remain in bed after the moment arrived

for rising; indulgence of this kind was weakness of character, and she

despised weakness in herself or in others. As she dressed, she heard

Beatrice in the kitchen busy with breakfast preparations. From the

window a glimpse of the street showed the sun’s first rays striking

obliquely through the haze of early morning.

The apartment in Waverly Place had now been her home for seven years;

she and Beatrice Alexander had taken it together a month after her

mother’s death, and life for the two women as time rolled on had become

undeviating in its routine. There was small variation in their days.

It was Beatrice’s business to prepare breakfast. She rose at seven;

Jeannette half-an-hour later. The meal was always the same: fruit,

boiled eggs, four pieces of toast, and a substitute for coffee,--cubes

of a prepared vegetable material dissolved in hot water. Beatrice set

the table daintily, with a small Japanese lunch cloth and a yellow

bowl filled with bright red apples in its center. Knives, forks and

spoons were nicely arranged and she never neglected to put tumblers of

drinking water beside the triangularly folded, fringed napkins, and

finger-bowls at each place with a bit of peel sliced from the bottoms

of the grapefruits or oranges which began the breakfast. Beatrice was

a fastidious person, Jeannette often thought gratefully; she liked

“things nice.”

While her friend was busy in kitchen and dining-room, Jeannette

dressed with her usual scrupulous carefulness. She gave but meager

attention to household affairs; these were Beatrice’s province; it

was Beatrice who did the ordering, paid the bills and managed the

small establishment. Jeannette’s companion was much like Alice and

these duties came naturally to her. Besides, during the years Mrs.

Sturgis and her daughter had lived together, it had been her mother who

attended to such matters; Jeannette had grown accustomed to leaving

household details to someone else. She took pains to explain this to

Beatrice when they discussed the project of an apartment together and

the latter had assured her it would be quite satisfactory. There had

never been the slightest friction between the two women; Beatrice

Alexander, with her soft, whispery voice and shy manner, was one of the

sweetest-tempered persons in the world.

The years had dealt not unkindly with Jeannette. At forty-three,

she was still a handsome woman,--no longer graceful and willowy,

perhaps,--but erect, aggressive, substantial-looking. There was a

solidarity about her now; her arms were big and round, her shoulders

broad and plump, her bosom well-developed; she was thirty pounds

heavier, and walked with a sturdy tread. There was gray in her hair,

too, and a certain settled expression about her mouth that proclaimed

middle age, but she was a fine looking woman with clear eyes and

skin, an impressive carriage, and much that was commanding in poise.

She dressed smartly and was always meticulously neat. Every morning

she donned a fresh shirtwaist, crisply laundered. It was a matter of

concern to her that this should set so snugly and correctly where it

joined the plain dark tailored skirt that closely fitted her back,

the effect should be of the skirt holding the blouse trimly in place.

When she had completed her toilet, she was the embodiment of trigness

and trimness, from her dark lusterless hair with its streaks of gray,

which she now wore in a smooth sweep encircling her head like a bird’s

unruffled wing, to her tan-booted feet in sheer brown silk stockings.

She always had taken a great deal of pains in the matter of attire, and

her hats, shoes and garments were of the latest approved styles and the

best materials, and came from the most exclusive shops in New York. She

still observed the strictest simplicity in the matter of clothes when

she dressed for the office.

She surveyed herself now in the mirror with approval, and as she

noted her fine tall figure, the breadth of her shoulders, the round,

neat, firm waist line, her calm, strong face,--shrewd, capable,

resourceful,--she could understand the awe and respect with which

the girls in her department regarded her. A hint of a smile touched

her resolute lips as she thought that to them she must appear a

super-woman, a sort of queen, the fount of all wisdom, justice and

power. She liked the idea.

She flung back the covers to let her bed air during the day, and

righted the flagrant disorder in her room with a few effective

movements. As she opened her closet door or bureau drawers, the

scrupulous neatness of their contents pleased her; the row of dresses

in the closet suggested the orderliness of a company of soldiers; her

shoes and slippers, each pair equipped punctiliously with boot-trees,

ranged themselves on a shelf in effective array, her lingerie was

carefully be-ribboned, folded in piles, and a scent of sachet arose

from its lacy whiteness.

As she busied herself she came upon a muss of face powder that had been

spilled upon the glass top of her bureau. A small sound of annoyance

escaped her. She crossed the hall to the bathroom, returned with the

moistened end of a soiled towel, resurrected from the laundry basket,

and wiped up the offending litter vigorously.

About to quit the room she paused a moment with her hand on the

door-knob for a final inspection, and turned back to make sure the

lower bureau drawer was locked and that she had put the key in its

hiding place under the rug; she raised the window an inch higher; a

white thread on the floor attracted her eye and she picked it up with

thumb and finger to deposit in the waste-basket before she joined

Beatrice Alexander in the dining-room. A glance at her wrist watch

assured her she was on time to the minute.

“Morning, Beat,” she said saluting her companion. “What was the matter

with Mitzi this morning?”

“I let her out early; she was clawing the carpet and growling. She

wouldn’t stop, so I just had to get up and put her out.”

“Strange,” commented Jeannette, eyeing the cat who blinked at her

comfortably from beside an empty soup plate that had held her bread and

milk. She began to talk baby talk to the pet:

“Mitzi-witzi! Yes, oo was,--oo went out to see a feller,--ess oo

did....”

The two women sat down to the breakfast table together. Jeannette

spread her _World_ out before her; Beatrice propped the _Times_ against

a water pitcher. They picked at their fruit, raised egg spoons to their

lips delicately, broke off bits of toast and inserted them in their

mouths, sipped their coffee with little fingers extended. Silence

reigned except for the small noises of cup and spoon, and the crackle

of newspapers.

“I _do_ think France ought to be more lenient with Germany,” Beatrice

remarked at length, adjusting her eye-glasses.

“I’d make her pay to the last mark she’s got,” asserted Jeannette. She

folded back her newspaper carefully to another page.

“They had quite an accident in the subway,” Beatrice observed.

“So I see.... Does seem to me the papers are awfully hard on the

Interborough. I should think they ought to be permitted to charge an

eight-cent fare; everything else is going up in price.”

“Do you suppose that Hennessy woman will get off?” asked Beatrice after

an interval.

“Well, I’d like to see her.”

“Senator Knowles died, they think, from drinking whiskey that had wood

alcohol in it.”

“Served him right. I wish they all would.”

§ 2

At twenty minutes past eight, Jeannette put on her hat carefully

before the mirror, drew about her shoulders her tipped fox scarf,

jerked her hands vigorously into stout tan gloves, and proceeded down

the two flights of stairs to the street. As she descended she noted

with customary pleasure the effect of the cream-painted woodwork

in the halls, the width of the stairs, and the flood of light from

the skylight above the stair-well which effectively illuminated the

interior of the house. She and Beatrice had indeed been fortunate in

finding a home in such a pleasant, well-arranged building. It was the

same apartment Miss Holland and Mrs. O’Brien had occupied for so many

years, until the latter married again, and the former went to live with

her nephew, Jerry,--who was a Commander now, had a wife and babies,

and was stationed at the Brooklyn Navy Yard. The trend of Jeannette’s

thoughts reminded her she had not been to see Miss Holland for nearly

two months; she resolved upon a visit in the immediate future.

The street was filled with morning sunshine as Jeannette stepped out

upon the stone flagging of the lower hall, closed the inner door behind

her, and felt in her purse with gloved fingers for the key to the

mail-box.

She found two letters for herself: one from Alice saying that Etta was

going to town on Saturday, would love to lunch with Aunt Jeannette and

be eternally grateful to her if she’d help her pick out the dress;

the other was a circular from Wanamaker’s. It was the latter rather

than the former communication that started the train of thought which

occupied Jeannette’s mind as she firmly stepped along the Avenue.

Her walk to the office took twenty-three minutes and as she passed

Fourteenth Street she noted by a clock in front of a jeweller’s store

that she was a minute ahead of time. The Wanamaker circular set

forth the advantages of a sale of women’s suits, yet it was not the

attractive prices nor the smart models that occasioned Jeannette’s

thoughts. The envelope containing the circular was addressed to “Mrs.

Martin Devlin.” No one called her by that name any more. When she

went back to work as Mr. Corey’s secretary, she had been welcomed as

“Miss Sturgis.” “Miss Sturgis” had meant something in the affairs of

the Chandler B. Corey Company; no significance was attached to “Mrs.

Devlin.” It seemed wiser to drop her married name,--and after the break

with Martin, she had no desire to keep it.

Odd to have been a man’s wife, to have belonged to someone! It would

be hard to think of herself as a “Mrs.” again, to call herself “Mrs.

Martin Devlin.” How many years ago had it been? Fifteen? Sixteen?

Something like that. Had there really ever been an interval of four

years in her life when she had been a married woman? It seemed to her

she had always been part of the Chandler B. Corey Company,--or the

Corey Publishing Company as it now was called,--part of it without a

break since those days of long ago when it had occupied three floors in

a clumsy old office building and had looked out, with Schirmer’s Music

Store and Tiffany’s, upon Union Square. What a slim, tall, ignorant,

ill-equipped young thing she had been that day she went eagerly to meet

Roy at the office and had watched Miss Reubens looking at photographs

in the reception room! Jeannette smiled now at the memory of herself.

It strained the imagination to believe that the present Miss Sturgis of

the Mail Order Department had been that awkward girl so long ago.

The years--the years! The changes they had wrought! Jeannette thought

of her last painful interview with Martin and the shadow of a frown

came to her brow. She had gone over every detail of it a million times.

It had indeed been harrowing. Poor Martin! He had pleaded so hard for

her to come back to him, he had offered to do anything she wanted, but

it was too late then; she couldn’t make him see it. She reminded him

again and again that he had talked just the same way when he begged

her to marry him; she had doubtfully agreed then, had consented to

give their union a trial, and it had turned out a failure,--a hopeless

failure. No, she didn’t blame him; she told him so over and over and

admitted it was as much her fault as his; she was no more fitted to be

a wife than he a husband; many people were constituted that way; they

weren’t suited to married life. She pointed out to him that unless a

marriage was happy, it was a mistake, and neither he nor she had been

happy as man and wife. Why, she had never been for one minute as happy

married to Martin Devlin as she had been since she became her own

mistress again! She loved her independence, she told him, too much to

surrender it to any man. And he? Well, it had been clearly demonstrated

that he liked the society of men and enjoyed outdoor sports more than

he did being a husband. She tried hard not to reproach him, had even

said she saw no reason why they, two, could not go on being friends,

occasionally seeing one another, but at that point Martin got angry,--a

sort of madness seemed to take hold of him and he had said all sorts of

terrible things to her, even called her names,--unforgettable ones. It

had ended in a dreadful scene, a terrible scene,--dreadful and terrible

because in spite of the fury and bitterness that gripped them, they

knew love still remained. Jeannette would never forget the storm of

tears, the abject grief that had come to her at their parting. Love

Martin though she did, she realized she loved her re-won independence

more, and she would not,--_could_ not return to him. Mr. Corey had

taken her in; she had promised to work for him for a while at least,

and it was utterly impossible for her to tell him, after he had

discharged his other secretary, that she was going back to her husband

again. If Martin had only given her a year or two she might have been

willing to be his wife once more, and she had told him as much, but

Martin refused to listen; he had thrown down his challenge and forced

her then and there to choose between her job and himself. There was

nothing else for her to do; she had made her decision, and Martin had

gone his way. She had never regretted it, she said to herself now; she

was far better off to-day, far happier and more contented than she ever

would have been as Mrs. Martin Devlin. As his wife she would have had

ties and known sickness; she and he would have quarrelled and there

would have been everlasting recriminations; she would have lost her

looks, and her clothes would have become shabby; she would have grown

familiar with poverty and have had to fight for herself and family the

way Alice did,--poor, deserving, hard-working Alice, with her five

children and unsuccessful husband! No doubt she, Jeannette, had missed

much in life, but hers had been the safe course, the prudent and sure

one. She was now in charge of the Mail Order Department of the Corey

Publishing Company, she was earning fifty dollars a week, had five

Liberty bonds all paid for, and was beholden to no one.... Of Martin

she had not heard for years. On a visit to Alice at Cohasset Beach,

she had one Sunday encountered ’Stel Teschemacher and that lady had

informed her that Zeb Kline, while on a brief visit to Philadelphia,

had seen Martin, and Martin had an agency for a motor-car there and

was doing quite well. Jeannette would have liked to hear more, but she

did not care to have ’Stel Teschemacher suspect she was interested.

It was ’Stel’s husband who sold the Beardsleys their home at Cohasset

Beach. The purchase had followed the death of Roy’s father and the

return of Roy and his family to New York. Dr. Beardsley had not lived

long enough to make a writer’s career for his son possible. His death

had sadly broken up the small home in Mill Valley, and Roy and Alice

had deemed it wiser to put the little money the clergyman left them

into a home of their own than spend it in paying rent, butchers’ and

grocers’ bills on the chance that Roy’s pen might some day earn a

livelihood sufficient for their needs. He had been only moderately

successful as an author. His dog story had been published and he had

placed several short stories but these had been few and far between and

then little Frank had come to add his chubby countenance to the family

circle and his parents decided a writer’s career was too precarious for

a man with a family. A job on a newspaper or magazine would insure a

steady income. So with grief over their bereavement and disappointment

in their hearts for the abandoned profession, Roy and his wife returned

to New York and then in quick succession had come the finding of his

position on the _Quart-z-Arts Review_ which carried with it a moderate

salary, the purchase of the house at Cohasset Beach, and in time the

arrival of the small Jeannette,--’Nettie she was called to distinguish

her from her aunt,--and Baby Roy, who was seven years old now and had

recently asserted his manhood by resenting the identifying adjective by

which he had been known since birth. Jeannette paused a moment in her

retrospective thoughts to calculate: Twenty-two years! Yes,--Alice and

Roy had been married twenty-two years! They were an old married couple

now.

§ 3

She realized abruptly she had reached the office. Men and women, up

and down the street, were converging in their courses toward the doors

of the publishing company. The great concrete block of eight stories,

crowded now to the limit of its capacity, with the thundering presses

on the lower floors, had often seemed to her a monster that sucked in

through its tiny mouth each morning a small army of workers, mulled

them about all day between its ruminating jaws, fed on their juices and

spewed them forth at evening to go their ways and gather new strength

during the night to feed its hungry maw again upon the morrow.

Though the picture was grim and repellent, she cherished no hostility

toward the institution that employed her. With the exception of the

four-year interlude of adventuring in matrimony, she had been an

employee of the self-same concern since she was eighteen; for nearly

twenty years her name had appeared upon its pay-roll; in November

she could make that very boast. More than any building in the world

this block of steel and concrete was bound up with her destiny; she

had spent most of the days of her life within it; she had seen its

beginnings, had watched it spring into being, had had a hand in

altering and adapting it to the needs of business, had observed its

almost barren floors slowly fill year after year with human activity

until now the use of every square foot of space was a matter of debate;

she was one of the half dozen still gleaning a livelihood within its

walls to-day who could speak of a time before its existence had even

been conceived.

Most of those early associates on Union Square were gone now,--dead

or following other lines of endeavor. Old Kipps still pottered

about in the manufacturing department, Mr. Cavendish white-haired,

gray-moustached and rosy, still edited _Corey’s Commentary_; Miss

Travers, her merry face now lined with many criss-crossed wrinkles, had

succeeded Mr. Olmstead and while not accorded the title of Auditor,

which he had enjoyed, was known as the Cashier. Then there was Sidney

Frank Allister, who, while he did not date back to the Union Square

days, was still to be reckoned among those early associated with the

fortunes of the publishing company, and now very much identified with

them since he had become President and sat in the seat of Chandler B.

Corey.

For Mr. Corey was dead. He had died the year Jeannette lost her mother

and had followed his son, Willis, to the grave after a few months. Mrs.

Corey had left him a widower many years before. There remained only his

daughter, Babs, in an Adirondack sanitarium for the insane, to inherit

his wealth and fifty-one per cent of the stock of the business he had

created. He died a rich man and his will provided that his worldly

possessions should be divided equally between his two children, their

heirs and assigns, and of these last there were none, for Willis had

never married and Babs could not. Jeannette often used to muse upon the

futility of human ambition when she thought of the man she had served

so long as secretary. She knew it had been the great desire of his life

to found a publishing house that should become identified with the

growth of American literature and pass on down the years in the hands

of the Corey family, father and son succeeding one another after the

fashion of some of the great English houses.

One day while sitting in his office intent upon affairs of business,

his head dropped forward and banged on the hard surface of his desk

before him, and he was dead. His heart had suddenly grown tired of its

work. Even before he was laid away at Woodlawn, there had begun the

mad scramble for the control of stock which would elect his successor.

Jeannette never learned how Mr. Allister succeeded in obtaining it, but

Mr. Featherstone had shortly been eliminated entirely from the affairs

of the company and it was whispered that Mr. Kipps had played a double

game. However that may have been, Sidney Frank Allister was by far the

best man to fill Corey’s place, in Jeannette’s opinion. He was not so

shrewd nor so far-seeing, but he had certain literary qualifications

which fitted him for the position. Mr. Featherstone, Jeannette had

early come to regard as a blustering blow-hard, while Mr. Kipps was

hardly grammatical in speech or in letters, and had grown into a fussy

old man. Francis Holm or Walt Chase might have proven themselves even

better material, but three years prior to Mr. Corey’s death, both these

young men had broken away from the old organization; Holm had launched

forth into the publishing business for himself, and Walt Chase had gone

to Sears, Roebuck & Co. in Chicago at a salary, it was rumored, of ten

thousand a year, and Jeannette had succeeded him as head of the Mail

Order Department.

Much as she had enjoyed being secretary to Mr. Corey, she was forced to

realize as the years rolled by, that the position held no future for

her. She would always be the president’s secretary as long as Mr. Corey

lived but against the congenial work and easy rôle her ambition had

protested. Recollections of early resolutions she had made on entering

the business world returned to disturb her complacency. She remembered

vowing then she would go to the very top and some day become herself an

executive instead of a secretary. She saw no reason why she should not

follow in Walt Chase’s footsteps and be worth ten thousand a year, if

not to the Corey Company then to some other. She had great confidence

in herself, felt especially qualified to do mail order work, and was

sure she could increase sales and manage the department better than

Walt Chase. It was a pet idea of hers that women, not men, bought books

by mail, and she was confident that attacks directed at women, written

from a feminine standpoint, would show results. When the offer from

Chicago came and Chase announced he was going, she determined suddenly

to seize the opportunity and asked Mr. Corey for Chase’s place; she had

played secretary long enough, she told him,--she wanted her chance at

bigger work.

There had been a great deal of demurring and discussion before she was

allowed to try her hand. Mr. Kipps and Mr. Featherstone had vigorously

opposed the plan, arguing that while Miss Sturgis had proven herself an

incomparable secretary, there was no indication she would be equally

successful in charge of the Mail Order Department. Walt Chase had

built up a steady sale for the company’s publications, and had been,

doing many thousands of dollars’ worth of business a year. Mr. Kipps

and Mr. Featherstone shared the opinion that a woman was not competent

to manage affairs involving so much money,--they were too large for

the feminine mind to grasp. They contended, too, that she had had no

experience in mail order affairs, and that a young man, named Owens,

who had been Chase’s assistant for over a year, was his logical

successor, and had been led to expect the promotion; it was doubtful,

they said, whether he and Mr. Sparks, and old Mr. Harris and the one

or two other men who had been under Walt Chase would consent to remain

if a woman was placed in charge of them; this particular branch of the

business had become exceedingly profitable and it was pointed out to

Mr. Corey that he was in great danger of demoralizing it by permitting

a girl to assume its management.

Jeannette had stood firm and resolutely pressed her request in the

face of opposition which she considered stupid and which angered her.

Mr. Corey finally agreed to give her a trial although it was clear he

had his misgivings. But during the nine years in which Jeannette had

filled the coveted position, she had amply demonstrated to everyone’s

satisfaction her faith in herself to be warranted, and this in spite

of the fact that Owens and Sparks had promptly resigned as predicted

by Mr. Featherstone and Mr. Kipps, and for a time the work had been

demoralized indeed.

Yet she triumphed, as she knew she would, and the ideas she had long

cherished for conducting mail order campaigns had borne fruit. Last

year she had the satisfaction of stating in her annual report that

the business of her department had doubled in size since she had taken

it in charge. It had been a long struggle fraught with interference

and constant criticism of her methods. It had been particularly hard

at first when Mr. Kipps supervised everything she did and vetoed some

of her pet projects. He had hampered her in every way he could, not

because he had any personal feeling against her but because she was

a woman and he had no faith in a woman’s judgment. That was the way

he had always treated Miss Holland; but now since Miss Holland had

resigned and gone to live with her nephew in Brooklyn, he was willing

at any minute to wax eloquent in praise of her extraordinary ability:

ah, yes,--yes, indeed,--Miss Holland was a remarkable woman,--fitted

in every way for business,--brain like a man’s,--wonderfully

clear-sighted, excellent judgment; they didn’t “make” many women like

Miss Holland,--she was the exception, one in a million!

Jeannette had to contend against such prejudice for the first year or

two, but eventually she overcame it. Mr. Corey helped her whenever

possible. She strove to keep the affairs of her department to herself

and when forced to seek higher authority, made a practice of going

directly to the President who had been the first to be convinced of

her ability. As time went on, Kipps and the other members of the

firm inclined to question her gradually allowed her to go her way.

It had taken nearly a decade to win their confidence but there was

satisfaction in the thought that at last it was hers, the victory was

complete. Of course old Mr. Kipps would always purse his lips and frown

dubiously about anything she proposed for he would never be completely

convinced of her ability until she followed in Miss Holland’s

footsteps, but Kipps was stooped and aged now and little attention was

paid to what he said or did. The Board of Directors was satisfied with

the generalship of Miss Sturgis whose monthly reports of sales and

profits confirmed their confidence. When some other department reported

a loss, or when business in general was poor, the Mail Order Department

could be depended upon to show a consoling profit.

§ 4

One section of the sixth floor was Jeannette’s domain. She had tried

for years to have her department walled off by partitions but the

best she had been able to obtain for herself and her girls was a line

of screens and bookcases. She had twenty-four clerks under her now,

although the number fluctuated, particularly during October when the

fall campaign was in progress. Then her force often swelled to over a

hundred and the extra help was quartered temporarily in neighboring

vacant lofts and offices, rented for a few weeks. She then had her

lieutenants to superintend the work, which for the most part consisted

merely of folding and inserting circulars in envelopes, sealing and

stamping.

Her department was well organized; the work had been so systematized

that it now moved with perfect smoothness. Old Sam Harris,--who

represented all that was left of Walt Chase’s régime,--supervised

the card catalogues; Miss Stenicke was in charge of the girls; the

“inquiries” were checked and answered by Mrs. M’Ardle, while orders

were entered and forwarded to the stock room for filling by little

Miss Lacy. Jeannette devoted herself to the preparation of copy for

letters, circulars and advertisement. This was the most important part

of the work, and she believed her time and brains could not be better

employed. She kept huge scrap-books in which she pasted circulars and

letters issued by other mail order houses and spent hours poring over

them.

§ 5