the Yacht Club,--and I saw two of the officers on shore one day.... I
don’t know what their names were, of course, but during the war I knew
several of the boys in the reserves. Asa Pulitzer was a boatswain’s
mate; ... I think that’s what he was.”
Jeannette turned an indulgent smile upon Miss Holland.
“Asa Pulitzer is the local grocer’s son.”
“Well, I don’t care if he is!” protested Etta. “He made good----”
Mrs. Sedgwick rustled downstairs at this moment, making a timely
entrance. She carried Etta off, with assurance of returning in time for
tea.
“Well-l,” said Jeannette comfortably, as the pleasant hour of
companionship and confidences began. “You don’t _look_ as if you’d been
ill!”
“Not ill exactly; it’s this wretched rheumatism that will not get
better.”
Miss Holland’s tone was not complaining; indeed she always spoke
with remarkable placidity. Jeannette regarded her with all her old
admiration. There was an unusual aristocratic quality about Miss
Holland that never failed to stir her. She was white-haired, now,
fragile and thin looking, and there was an uncertainty about her
movements, but she still bore herself with distinction,--a gentlewoman
to her finger-tips. Even more than the air of gentility that surrounded
her, Jeannette esteemed the shrewd brain, nimble wit and judgment of
this woman. It seemed a sad and sorry thing to her that so splendid a
personality, so fine an intellect should have had so little opportunity
for self-expression in the world, and that at sixty, Miss Holland
should be no more than what she seemed: an old maid, growing yearly
more and more crippled, passing what days remained to her with her
nephew and her nephew’s family, somewhat of a problem, somewhat in the
way! Of course they loved her; Jeannette knew that Commander Sedgwick
was devoted to his aunt and treated her with as much respect and
affection as ever son did his mother, but, after all, on the brink of
old age, Miss Holland’s course was run, and how little she had to show
for all her years of toil and faithfulness! She had spent her life at
an underling’s desk and given her wisdom and her strength to a business
that had paid her barely enough to support herself and make it possible
for her to give her nephew his profession!
“Miss Holland,” Jeannette asked impulsively, “what did the Corey
Company pay you towards the end of your employment there?”
“Fifty dollars a week for the last five years I was with them.”
“And altogether, you were there?”
“Twenty-five years.... Why do you ask?”
“I was thinking how little they appreciated you.”
“Mr. Kipps told me,” Miss Holland said with a reminiscent smile, “that
it would never do to pay women employees more than fifty a week; they
wouldn’t know what to do with the money.”
“He didn’t!”
“Oh, yes! He claimed it would demoralize them. He used to say they
would be sure to throw it away on ‘fripperies.’ ‘Fripperies,’ you
remember, was a great word of his.”
“It still is!”
“Mr. Kipps’ attitude is typical, I think, of the average employer of
women. This is a man-made world, as perhaps you’ve noticed, my dear.
Did you ever stop to consider the injustice to which working women are
subjected? Do you realize there are about twelve million working women
on pay-rolls in the United States, that twenty dollars a week is a very
high wage for any one of them to receive, and six million of them, or
half of the entire number, earn between ten and twelve a week? ...
I happen to have the statistics issued by the woman’s bureau of the
Department of Labor.”
Miss Holland pushed herself up erect from her chair, and her face
showed the pain the effort cost her.
“Can’t I get it for you?” offered Jeannette hastily.
“No--no; thanks very much; it’s right here. I can put my hand on it
in just a minute.” From a desk near at hand she produced a government
report.
“I came across this the other day, and I saved it because it proves
what I have always felt about the unfairness with which women are
treated in business. They may perform equal work with men but very few
of them are paid as well. The average annual earning power of the male
industrial worker now is at the rate of a thousand dollars a year;
that of the woman industrial worker five to six hundred. Among office
workers the disparity is much greater. When I was getting fifty dollars
a week as Mr. Kipps’ chief assistant, there was a youth helping me who
was being paid sixty.”
“I know,” agreed Jeannette. “When Tommy Livingston followed me as Mr.
Corey’s secretary, he did not do the work half as competently as I had
done,--Mr. Corey often told me so,--and yet he was paid more at the
very start, and asked for and received one raise after another, until
Mr. Corey was paying him nearly twice what he formerly had paid me; but
when I went back to work after I left Martin, Mr. Corey started me in
again at the old salary of thirty-five, and never suggested a higher
rate. Walt Chase was getting eighty-five dollars weekly as head of the
Mail Order Department, and when I took charge, I received only forty.
Although I have doubled the amount of business the Corey Publishing
Company does by mail, I am to-day being paid but fifty a week. Mr.
Allister told me when I asked for my last raise, that it was the last
he would ever give me.”
“Almost all employers underpay their women workers,” affirmed Miss
Holland. “In general women are receiving to-day from a half to
two-thirds what men are who do identically the same kind of work. I was
discussing this question once with Mr. Kipps, and he defended himself
by stating that the majority of girls who fill office positions only
work for ‘pin money.’ ... ‘Pin money?’ What is ‘pin money’? Dollars and
cents, I take it, with which to buy clothes and some amusement. Don’t
men need ‘pin money,’ too? Doesn’t everyone? When the Corey Publishing
Company employs a young man,--a High School or College graduate,--what
he is paid per week is never spoken of as ‘pin money,’ yet he spends
it for exactly the same things as girls do.... I’ve often wondered if
Mr. Kipps considered the salaries he paid you and me, Mrs. O’Brien, and
Miss Travers, Miss Whaley, Miss Foster, Miss Bixby, Miss Kate Smith,
old Mrs. Jewitt, Mrs. M’Ardle, and Miss Stenicke as ‘pin money!’ Most
of those women not only supported themselves but their old mothers and
fathers, their younger brothers and sisters or some helpless relative.
Mrs. O’Brien had two daughters she kept at Ladycliff for nine years;
Miss Travers has a bed-ridden sister; Miss Whaley, her mother; Mrs.
Jewitt, a tubercular husband; and Kate Smith is putting her young
brother through dental college----”
“Yes,” interrupted Jeannette, “Mrs. M’Ardle has two children of her own
she is taking care of, and one of her sister’s, and she’s getting only
forty dollars a week.”
“How does she _do_ it!” exclaimed Miss Holland.
“I’m sure I don’t know.... Beatrice Alexander has been sending thirty
dollars a month to her helpless old aunt in Albany for the past fifteen
years.”
“That’s where the ‘pin money’ goes!” declared Miss Holland with a note
of scorn in her voice. “These silent, uncomplaining, hard-working women
who give their lives to the grind of business! I feel keenly the rank
injustice that is being done them!”
There was a moment’s silence, and Miss Holland continued:
“Mr. Kipps’ great argument was always that girls who came seeking
employment did so with the intention of working only a year or two, and
then getting married. He argued that a concern could not regard these
women as permanent employees to be trained to fill important positions;
they could not be depended upon to remain with a business and grow up
with it----”
“I must say,” broke in Jeannette with fine sarcasm, “that great
inducements are offered them to do so! At the end of twenty and
twenty-five years’ faithful and efficient work in such positions as
you filled and as I fill to-day, they are paid fifty dollars a week!”
“I answered him,” Miss Holland went on, after an appreciative nod,
“that neither could the men he employed be considered as fixtures.
I reminded him of Van Alstyne, Max Oppenheim, Humphrey Stubbs, Walt
Chase, Tommy Livingston and Francis Holm. There are a hundred others.
How many boys starting in to business, do you suppose, stick for the
balance of their lives with the concern for which they first began to
work?”
“Not many.”
“Few indeed! It’s to keep and hold these same boys and young men that
the large corporations to-day are offering to sell them stock at
advantageous rates.”
“Of course, it is the girls living at home,” observed Jeannette,
“partially supported by their fathers and mothers or some relative,
willing to work for small salaries to buy themselves a few extra
clothes and a measure of amusement, that are keeping down the salaries
paid to women entirely dependent on their earnings.”
“During the war,” observed Miss Holland, “a hundred thousand women were
employed by the railroads to perform the work which the men formerly
did before they went into the army. Women cleaned locomotives, tended
stock-rooms of repair shops, sold tickets, took charge of signal
stations, worked as carpenters, machinists, and electricians; women
took the places of men in the steel mills, in the munition plants, in
the foundries and even in coal mines. The National War Labor Board,
headed by William H. Taft, undertook to protect the women workers, and
laid down the principle that women doing the work formerly performed
by men should receive the same pay. In other words, the pay was to
be fixed by the job and not by the sex of the employee. Employers
throughout the nation followed the ruling of the Labor Board.”
“But that was a war-time measure,” said Jeannette, “and we all did
things, then, that were altruistic and patriotic.”
“If women had the physical strength of men,” Miss Holland asserted,
“and could defend their principles by force, there would be a speedy
end of injustices. Why do male waiters in our restaurants get higher
wages than waitresses? Certainly they don’t work any harder, or give
better service. Suppose all the women workers in New York City formed
unions, and struck for what they decided adequate pay, a uniform scale
of salaries, and could use the same methods that men would use in
preventing women who had not joined the ranks from taking their places!
Think what would happen! The work in every office, every bank, every
corporation in this city would come promptly to a standstill; the
strike would last forty-eight, seventy-two hours, and then the demands
of the women would be conceded.... You want to remember one thing,
my dear: _women never banded together since history began, and asked
anything that was unfair or unjust_!”
“I was having a very interesting talk with my niece as we were coming
here,” broke in Jeannette; “Etta wants to go to work, wants a position
as stenographer in some office, not only to earn extra money with which
to help out at home, but to acquire an interest in life that will
fill her days. There are a hundred thousand young girls like her in
this city to-day. Consider what effect a job would have on an immature
character like Etta’s! I’ve been all through the bitter mill, and I
speak from experience. Financial independence is a dangerous thing for
such young girls. It makes them regard marriage with indifference.
There is many a girl who has declined to marry a young man to whom she
undoubtedly would have made a good wife merely because his income,
which would have to do for both of them, was no more, or perhaps only a
little more, than what she was earning herself.”
Jeannette’s lips closed firmly a moment and she stared out of the
window at the bleak prospect of the Yard’s quadrangle bordered by
closed and silent brick warehouses.
“But suppose the girl office-worker decides to give matrimony a trial,”
she continued, “as I did, her mind has been distorted by having known
what it means to be financially her own mistress. Instead of bringing
to her job of wifehood the resolute determination to make a success of
it, from the first she is critical, and on the constant lookout for
hardships in her new life, comparing them with the freedom of her old.
I should have made Martin a much better wife, Miss Holland, if I had
brought to my problem of being his partner the passionate determination
that was mine in wanting to make good as Mr. Corey’s secretary. I
always hugged to myself the thought that if the time came when I
wouldn’t like Martin any more or like being a wife, I could go back to
my job,--and that is exactly what this thought led me to do. Making any
marriage a success is the hardest work I know about both for men and
women, and there should be no avenue of easy escape from it for either
of them. I’d never have left Martin, I’d have endured his unkindness
and lack of consideration,--or at least what seemed his unkindness and
lack of consideration to me then,--if there hadn’t been an easy way out
for me, and we’d have gone on together and made a home for ourselves
and our children. All I had to do was to walk out of Martin’s house
and go back to my job. That’s what every wife who has once been a
self-supporting wage-earner says to herself from the day she marries.
She doesn’t even have the trouble of getting a divorce to deter her....
It’s wrong, I tell you, Miss Holland! It’s all _wrong_! The more I
live, the more I am convinced that women have no place in business.
No,--please let me finish,” she said earnestly as her friend started
to interrupt. “There’s one other angle to this question: the girl who
has once tasted independence but who decides to give matrimony a trial
may go so far as to consent to be a wife, but she stops at becoming a
mother! She dreads children. And why? Because she realizes that once
a baby is at her breast, she’s bound hand and foot to her husband and
her home. She can’t leave her child with the nonchalance she can her
husband. In the homes of women who have achieved economic independence
before they marry, you will find few children, and in the majority of
cases, none at all. I know a score of girls, at one time in office
jobs, who quit them to be married, but have drawn the line at babies.
“It seems to me this is of national significance. The country is being
deprived of homes and children because of this great invasion of women
into business during the last twenty or thirty years. When I went
to work twenty-four years ago, it was the exception for nice girls
to go into offices. I remember how my mother fretted over my wanting
to do it and how bitterly she opposed me. Now, every girl, rich or
poor, desires a year or two of business life. Women are devised by
Nature to be home-builders and mothers. Anything tending to deflect
them from fulfilling their destiny is contrary to Nature and is doomed
to failure or to have bound up in it its own punishment. When women
compete with men in fields in which they do not belong, they are
acting against Nature, and as surely as one gets hurt by leaning too
far out of a window, so surely do such women pay a penalty for their
deeds. Man was condemned in Genesis to ‘work by the sweat of his brow’;
there is nothing said about women having to work; she was given her
own punishment. And here is an obvious fact, Miss Holland: No man
likes to work under a woman boss. When I took charge of the Mail Order
Department, three men who had been with Walt Chase resigned rather than
work under me. I didn’t blame them. It was as repugnant to me to give
them orders as it was for them to take them.
“Now that is a biological obstruction in the way of woman’s progress
in business that you cannot get away from, and which you cannot lay to
man’s door. Men don’t like to work for women, and women don’t like to
have men assistants, and since man is intended by God and Nature to be
the worker, and woman is ordained to bear children, I say again that
women have no place in business.”
“But Miss Sturgis, Miss Sturgis!” cried Miss Holland. “Do you mean
to tell me that women have not the right to earn their own living? Do
you mean to tell me that you and I and all the women in the world must
always look to some man to support us? Do you mean to tell me that
widows with children to take care of, and women whose husbands are
incapacitated or who desert them or who turn out to be drunkards or
brutes, and women who are adrift in the world, and perhaps have never
married because they’ve never been wooed, haven’t a right to turn their
brains to account and earn their livelihoods?”
“Well, it might be a good plan to limit the women workers to just the
classes you mention,” Jeannette answered. “Certainly I won’t concede
to you that every eighteen-year-old flapper like my niece or your
sweet young college-graduate has the right to plunge into business
and unfit herself for wifehood and motherhood, driving at the same
time some needy soul of her own sex out of employment. Comeliness, a
fair complexion have much to do with securing a job for a woman and
with helping her to retain it. The plain girl or, more particularly,
the middle-aged woman with two children to support, whose beauty has
long since deserted her, has small chance against the pink-skinned
eighteen-year-old with the bobbed hair and the roguish eye who may only
have one-tenth of her ability. No employer ever hires a good-looking
young man in preference to a homely one whose years of experience and
ability are known. The more faded a woman becomes, the less she is
wanted about an office. Looks play an important part in the rôle of the
business woman. She should be judged, I think, not by her appeal to the
eye, but by her industry. This is one more reason why I believe women
under thirty should be debarred from going to work. If women workers
were limited, confined to thousands, let us say, instead of millions,
then those privileged to work could earn a proper living wage, and
dictate the terms under which they should be employed. There are
certain professions and callings to which women are recognizably better
suited than men; nursing and dressmaking are but two of them. If the
supply of women for these vocations were limited, the demand would soon
fix an adequate wage.
“It has occurred to me many times,” persevered Jeannette, “that it
would perhaps solve the problem,--or help solve it,--if certain
professions and certain kinds of work were restricted by law to women.
I’ve been told that in Japan only those who are blind may be embalmers
of the dead. It restricts this vocation to a class of unfortunates
which otherwise would have great difficulty in earning its living,
and as a consequence there are no blind mendicants in Japan. I would
advocate legislation in this country that would restrict certain
occupations solely to women, and then I would limit the women who were
eligible to fill them to widows or to those who could prove they must
support themselves.”
“There is little doubt that becoming wage-earners tends to keep women
out of matrimony,” Miss Holland said thoughtfully. “I know it did with
me. There was a young professor of archæology from Wesleyan who wanted
me very earnestly to marry him, and I should have liked to have done
so, but I was working then, and had taken Jerry to live with me,--he
was only eight,--and the professor’s salary was not large enough for
the three of us.”
“And think what a wonderful wife you would have made!”
“I don’t know about that,” smiled Miss Holland, “but I was interested
in his work and I should have enjoyed helping him.”
“Exactly!” cried Jeannette. “I have no doubt you would have helped him
very materially, whereas you gave your wits and your life in helping
Mr. Kipps over the rough parts of his business days for a consideration
of fifty dollars a week!”
“He could have found somebody else who could have helped him just as
well.”
“But that doesn’t make it any fairer,” insisted Jeannette. “What have
you got to show for your twenty-five years of helping Mr. Kipps? ...
This!” She spread out her hands significantly.
“Well, I have my old age provided for,” said Miss Holland, with an
indulgent smile. “I get my check for half-salary from the office
regularly the first of every month. I suppose I’ll continue to get that
until my rheumatism or my heart carries me off.”
“But is that any reward for twenty-five years of slavery and drudgery?
How many thousand and tens of thousands of dollars have your brains
saved the Corey Publishing Company?”
“That isn’t all of it. You must remember I have Jerry.”
§ 3
Yes, she had Jerry, said Jeannette to herself, lying awake that night
for long aching hours of whirling thoughts after she was in bed. Miss
Holland’s old age was rich in the love this nephew, his wife and
children bore her.
And it came to the sleepless woman in the bed that it was not the love
Miss Holland received that mattered; it was what she gave and had
given that made her life, in spite of old age, rheumatism and growing
helplessness, glorious with complete and satisfying happiness.
CHAPTER IV
§ 1
“Dent--Department--Derrick--Desmond--Deutsch--Deveraux--Deverley--De
Vinne--Devlin....”
There it was: “Martin Devlin, Motor Cars,--North Broad Street.”
Jeannette’s polished finger-nail rested beneath the name and her
lips formed the words without a sound. She closed the Philadelphia
Directory, turned from the telephone desk in the big New York hotel,
and walked slowly out into the bright autumn glare of the street.
Thanksgiving was next week; there would be no difficulty in securing
leave at the office to be absent from Wednesday night until Monday
morning.
“I’d just like to see,” she kept repeating to herself. “There’d be no
harm in _seeing_ what kind of a place he has. I could learn so much
just walking by.”
An odd excitement took possession of her. She saw herself in the train,
she saw herself in a large, comfortable room at the Bellevue-Stratford,
saw herself in her smartest costume, sauntering up Broad Street.
“I’ve a good mind to do it,” she whispered. “It could do no possible
harm. I’d just like to see.”
She was unable to reach any definite conclusion, but she inspected
her wardrobe carefully, deciding exactly what she would wear if she
went to Philadelphia, and then did a very reckless thing: she bought
herself a sumptuous garment, a short outer jacket of broadtail and
kolinsky, a regal mantle fit for a millionaire’s wife. A giddy madness
seemed to settle upon her after this; her savings in the bank,--the
savings which were to buy another bond,--were almost wiped out, and
she deliberately drew a check for what remained. Some power outside of
herself seemed to take charge of her actions; she moved from one step
to another as if hypnotized; she spoke to Mr. Allister about two extra
days at Thanksgiving, she bought her ticket and chair-car reservation
at the Pennsylvania Station, she wrote the Bellevue-Stratford to hold
one of their best outside rooms for her, she explained with simulated
carelessness to Beatrice Alexander that there was a Book-Dealers’
Convention in Philadelphia which the firm had requested her to attend,
and the four o’clock train on the afternoon of the holiday found her
bound for the Quaker city.
As she sat stiffly upright in her luxurious armchair, staring out upon
the dreary New Jersey marshes, panic suddenly came upon her.
What was she doing? Was she _crazy_? Was Miss Sturgis of the Mail Order
Department this woman, so elegantly clad, speeding toward Philadelphia?
And on what mad errand? After years of careful living, after years
of prudent saving, was it actually she, Jeannette Sturgis, who had
recklessly flung to the four winds the bank account of which she had
been so proud? Oh, she must be mad, indeed!
She grasped the arms of her chair and instinctively glanced from one
end to the other of the palatial car. She was seized with a violent
impulse to get off. There was Manhattan Transfer; she could take a
train back to the city from there. Determinedly, she gazed out upon the
empty, cold-looking platform when the train reached the station, but
she made no move, and as the wheels commenced to rumble beneath her
once more, she sank back resignedly into her seat, and a measure of
calmness returned.
She was not committing herself merely by going to Philadelphia and
walking past Martin’s place of business! Suppose she _did_ meet him!
Suppose they actually encountered one another, face to face! What then?
There was nothing compromising in that! She could explain her presence
in Philadelphia in a thousand ways should he be interested. She blessed
the judgment that had prompted her to confide in no one; Beatrice
believed she was attending a Book-Dealers’ Convention, Alice that she
was having her Thanksgiving dinner with Miss Holland.
§ 2
As she left the overheated parlor car at Broad Street Station her
composure was thoroughly restored. There was a tingling nimbleness in
the air; the clear, November day was bright with metallic sunshine.
Jeannette tipped the “red-cap” for carrying her bags, climbed into a
taxi-cab and with a casual air that seemed to spring from familiarity
with such proceedings, directed to be driven to her hotel.
The cold bare streets, deserted on account of the holiday, the
brilliant foyer of the Bellevue, the urbane room-clerk, the gilded
elevator cage, the large high-ceilinged bedroom with its trim, orderly
furniture, its double-bed, glistening with white linen, its discreet
engravings of Watteau ladies in the gardens of Versailles, followed
in quick succession. Then she was standing at the window looking down
into the wide, dismal gray street far below, and the departing bell-boy
softly closed the door behind him.
She was here; she was in Philadelphia; she would have that to remember
always. If nothing else happened, she could never forget she had come
this far.... Somewhere in the city was Martin; he was preparing to eat
his Thanksgiving Dinner; it was a quarter past six, he was probably
dressing! ... Suppose he elected to eat the meal with friends in the
main dining-room of her hotel! Her throat tightened convulsively and
her fingers twitched. Well, she would be equal to facing him if he saw
her; she would not be frightened into abandoning the course that was
natural for her to follow. If it had been actually the case that she
was here in Philadelphia to attend a Book-Dealers’ Convention, she
would put on her black satin dinner frock and go down to dinner with
her book; she did not propose to allow herself to do differently....
It would be ridiculous to eat her Thanksgiving dinner upstairs in her
rooms!
She bathed, she did her hair with unusual success, she powdered her
neck and arms, she donned the black satin with the square neck and
jet trimming, and with her book beneath her arm, mesh bag in her
hand, descended to the dining-room at half past seven. There was
an instant’s terror as she stood in the curtained doorway of the
brilliantly-lit dining-room. There rushed upon her impressions of
flowers, music, the odor of food, a wave of heat, the flash of napery,
the gleam of cutlery, faces, faces everywhere,--heads turning,--eyes
following,--whispers,--a hush as she made her way in the wake of the
obsequious head-waiter.
Steeling her nerves, measuring every movement, she seated herself with
deliberation, deliberately set her bag and book at her right hand,
deliberately turned her attention to the menu, deliberately raised her
eyes, and gazed about the room as she deliberately ordered.
But there was nothing! There was nobody! No one was looking at her; no
one had noticed her entrance! The music was wailing in waltz measure,
the diners were talking and laughing, attendants hurrying to and fro.
He was not there; there was no one faintly resembling him in the room.
She cleared her throat and raised a tumbler of water to her lips, but
as she did so, her teeth chattered an instant against the thin glass.
§ 3
Philadelphia awoke the next day with the bustle of business. Feet
clip-clipped on the pavements, taxies chugged and honked, trucks
bumped and rattled, street-cars rumbled and clanged their bells. Life,
teeming, bustling, rushing, burst from every corner and doorway.
Mechanically Jeannette moved through her early morning routine; she
dressed, breakfasted, read her newspapers; she drew upon her shoulders
the handsome fur jacket, as, gloved, hatted and gaitered, she stepped
out on the street.
“Taxi, lady?” No, she preferred to walk. Her number was only a few
squares away.
An intent and hurrying tide of pedestrians set against her, congested
traffic choked the street. She was an interested observer, and made
but a leisurely progress, stopping at the shop windows, studying their
displays. Nothing unusual in any of them attracted her; New York
was more up-to-the minute in fads and fancies; the merchants there
were more enterprising; they knew what was what; these Philadelphia
shop-keepers merely aped their ways and followed their leads. There
was no city in the world, she thought with pride, where merchandising
was such a fine art and where novelties so quickly caught on as in
New York. She wondered why people lived in Philadelphia when they
could just as well live in New York. She passed a theatre and read
the announcement on the bill-board; the play had been in New York six
months ago!
She captured her wandering thoughts and looked about her, wondering how
far she had walked.
“Vine Garden?”
“The next cross-street, Madam.”
Her pulses stirred and unconsciously she quickened her pace. She was
presently in the neighborhood of the number she sought. It ought to be
right here.... She edged her way towards the curb and gazed up at the
façades of stores and buildings. Strange,--there was nothing here that
resembled an automobile agency! That building was a piano store, and in
the next sewing machines were sold.... Suddenly the name leaped at her
in a window’s reflection. It was across the street! She wheeled about
and there it was: Martin Devlin--Motor Cars. The name was in flowing
script, the letters rounded and bright with gold, and the sign tilted
out slightly over the sidewalk. Her heart plunged and stood still. That
was her husband’s place of business! There it was: Martin Devlin--Motor
Cars!
The appearance of the agency impressed her. Across its front were four
large plate-glass windows, two on each side of the entrance. On these
also appeared Martin’s name in the same style of flowing script, and
beneath, in Roman type, the name of the automobile he handled. The
show-room was spacious and softly illuminated with reflected light
from alabaster bowls hung from the ceiling by brass chains. There were
a half dozen models of the motor car, ranged within, three on a side,
their noses pointing toward one another obliquely. The high polish
of nickel and varnish, here and there, reflected the bright electric
radiance above. The place had the air of elegance.
Curious, but with galloping pulses, Jeannette picked her way across the
street, and slowly strolled past. Through the plate-glass windows she
could see two young men standing, their arms folded, talking. Neither
was Martin. She turned and retraced her steps, swiftly inspecting.
Every moment her confidence increased. She noted the walls of the
show-room were of cream-tinted terra-cotta brick, the floor of smooth
cement with rich rugs defining the aisles; in the rear was a balcony
where she could see yellow electric lights burning over desks, and make
out the faces and figures of two or three girls. That was where the
offices were located, no doubt, where Martin would have his desk.
Was he in? Would she risk a meeting? Did she have nerve enough to go
inside and say: “Miss Sturgis would like to see Mr. Devlin!” ... It was
extraordinary, amazing! ... How utterly overcome he would be! ... To
have his wife, whom he hadn’t seen for fourteen years, walk in upon him
that way! ... It wasn’t fair to him, after all. She had better go back
to the hotel and write him,--or perhaps it would be better to telephone.
Emotions, impulses, strange and contradictory, pulled her one way and
another. The apprehension, the misgivings of yesterday were absent
now. There was no longer any question in her mind as to whether or
not she wanted to see Martin; she knew she wanted to see him very
much; in fact, her mind was made up, she must see him. It would be
a thrilling experience, after so many years.... When they parted,
it had not been because they had ceased to be fond of one another.
They had liked,--yes, even loved each other, at the very moment of
separation.... How was it to be managed? How could she arrange to
meet him with propriety? Her appearance, she was aware, would make
an impression upon him; that effect would be lost in writing or
telephoning.... Perhaps she had better go back to the hotel and think
it over, but then she might never again find the courage which was hers
at that moment.... She must do something; she could not stand there
indefinitely gazing through the window at the motor cars inside! The
young men within, she observed, had noticed her.
With heart that hammered at her throat, she stepped to the heavy door;
it swung back at her touch. There was a pleasant warmth within. One of
the young men came hurrying forward, rubbing his hands, one over the
other, bowing politely, a beaming smile upon his face.
“Good morning, Madam. Interested in the _Parrott_?”
Jeannette swept the show-room with a quick look before answering. There
was no one there remotely like Martin.
“I was thinking about one,” she admitted.
“Most happy to arrange a demonstration at any time.... What model did
you fancy?”
Jeannette moved about the cars, peering into the interiors of their
tonneaus, commenting upon the upholstery and finish, pretending an
attention to the young salesman’s glib explanations.
“Shift here is automatic ... cylinders ... compression ...
hundred-and-eighteen-inch wheel-base, ... equipment just as you see
it, ... rear tire extra, of course, ... lovely car for a lady to drive
... rides like a gazelle ... just like a gazelle ... you wouldn’t know
you were moving.... Lovely engine, isn’t it, Madam? ... A child could
easily take it apart.”
Jeannette nodded and appeared interested. All the time she was
thinking: “I wonder if he’s up there--I wonder if he’s up there.”
“Mr. Devlin ...?” she hazarded.
“Oh, you know Mr. Devlin?” The possibility seemed to fill the salesman
with rare pleasure; it was a discovery, unexpected, delightful.
“I--I used to know him years ago,” Jeannette faltered.
“He’s a splendid man, isn’t he?” glowed the youth. “Wonderful
personality,--a regular ‘good fellow.’ He’s made quite a record with
the _Parrott_, you know. Unfortunately he’s out just now, but he’s
expected. I’m sure he’ll be glad to know you called, and I’ll be very
pleased to tell him. You didn’t mention.... May I ask the name?”
Jeannette hesitated. This was not the way she would have him hear of
her.
“No,--I’ll call again; I’ll come in later. I’m--- I’m stopping at the
Bellevue; it isn’t far.”
“Couldn’t I arrange a demonstration for you this afternoon? At any hour
you say. I’d like to show you the way the _Parrott_ rides,--just like a
gazelle. I’ll have our driver come with the limousine, or perhaps you’d
prefer the landaulet model.... You might like to pay some calls this
afternoon; it would give you a chance to test the _Parrott_ and see how
you like it.... Ah, here’s Mr. Devlin!”
The heavy glass front door opened. Jeannette felt the cold air from
the street. She gave a quick glance as she turned her back, her heart
plunging. It was Martin all right, but what a changed and different
Martin! So much older, so much larger than she remembered him! He wore
a Derby hat and had a cigar.
The salesman had left her side and was communicating her presence to
his employer. Jeannette stood with both hands pressed tightly against
her heart and fought for self-possession.
She heard Martin speak. That voice ...! That voice ...! It suffocated
her. An avalanche of memories and forgotten emotions swept down upon
her.... He was coming! She even recognized his step!
“’Morning, Madam,”--there was the old briskness, and alertness in his
tone!--“what can I----”
She straightened herself and turned regally.
“Good morning, Martin,” she said smiling. Her color was high, she was
trembling, her pulses racing.
There was a quick jerk of his head,--a well-remembered mannerism,--and
a lightning survey of her features.
“Good God! ... _Jan!_”
Emotions played in his face, his eyes darted about her, his color faded
and flamed darkly. His confusion gave her composure. He was handsome
still, smooth-shaven and clean; his cheeks were fuller, a trifle
florid, he had a well-defined double-chin, his black, thick hair was
streaked with wiry, white threads; he had grown stouter, had acquired
a girth, but his fatness was robust and healthy. He had gained in
presence, in firmness of feature, in polish,--a man of business and
affairs, energetic, a leader.
“Are you surprised to see me, Martin?”
“Well, of course, ... well, ... I should say!”
She was conscious that her beauty and stateliness, her costume, her
fashionableness overwhelmed him.
“I’ll be ... I’ll be damned!” he enunciated. “Excuse me, Jan,--but I’ll
be ... I’ll be damned!”
An amused sound escaped Jeannette. She was smiling broadly; she felt
she had the situation well in hand.
“I’m sorry I startled you, Martin. I happened to be passing and I saw
your name and thought I’d drop in.... How’ve you been after all these
years?”
“Oh,--all right, I guess. Sure, I’ve been fine.... And you? I guess
there’s no need of asking.”
“I’ve been quite well. I’m never sick. I came down to Philadelphia to
attend a Book-Dealers’ Convention.... I’m stopping at the Bellevue.”
“Well--er, you going to be in town long?”
“Oh,--two or three days. I’m going back to New York Sunday, I guess. I
think I can get away by that time.... This is a fine car you handle;
its lines are really very beautiful.”
“It’s a good car, all right. I had a big year this year,--and last
year, too.”
“Well, that’s good; I’m glad to hear it.... I never heard of the
_Parrott_ before.”
“You _didn’t_? ... Well, we think we advertise a good deal. It ranks up
among the best.... Are you--are you married or anything like that?”
Jeannette laughed richly.
“Not since an experience I had some fourteen years ago that didn’t
take!”
Martin echoed her amusement. He was regaining his ease; she could see
he was beginning to enjoy himself.
“You know I took my maiden name when I went back to work; everybody
knew me there as ‘Miss Sturgis’; it seemed easier.”
“Yes, I see,” Martin agreed.
“I’m still with the old company.”
“What,--the same old publishing outfit?”
“Yes; I’m in charge of the Mail Order Department now.... We do quite a
business.”
“Is that so? And how do you like it?”
“Oh, I like it all right. They think a lot of me there, and I do about
as I please.... I’m thinking of resigning though; one of these days,
pretty soon, I’ll quit. It gets on your nerves after awhile, you know.”
“Yes, I guess it does.”
A momentary embarrassment came upon them.
“Well, it was pleasant to catch a glimpse of you, again, Martin. If
you’re ever in New York, ring me up. You know the office----”
“Well, say,--I don’t like to have you go away like this! I’d like to
see something of you while you’re in town,--and talk over old times.
There’s a lot of things I’ll bet we’d find interesting to tell one
another.”
“I shouldn’t wonder,” she said lightly.
“I got a business engagement for lunch unfortunately”; he scowled in
troubled fashion. “I can’t very well get out of it.... You’re at the
Bellevue? ... Well, how about dinner? Couldn’t we get together for
dinner?”
“Why, I guess so. Yes,--that would be lovely,” said Jeannette with an
air of careful consideration.
“I’ll bring my wife; Ruthie will be glad to meet you. You knew I
married again, didn’t you?”
Jeannette’s expression did not alter by the quiver of an eyelash; she
continued to regard Martin with smiling eyes.
“No, I hadn’t heard.... I didn’t suppose.... So you married, again?”
“Yes, I married a widow,--a widow with two kids: girl and a
boy,--splendid youngsters.... Say, you _got_ to see those kids; they’re
Jim-dandies!”
“That’s ... that’s fine.”
“And I think you’ll like Ruthie, too, Jan. She isn’t your style
exactly, but she’s all right. There’s no side to Ruthie. I think you’ll
like her; she’s a fine little woman and a great little mother. You’ll
like her, I’ll bet a hat.”
“I’m sure I shall.”
“Then it’s all right for to-night? Ruthie’ll join me downtown and we’ll
come over to the hotel, and the three of us will have a great little
dinner together and chew the rag about old times.... Say, d’you ever
see that old ragamuffin, Zeb Kline?”
“Oh, yes, indeed. I saw him two or three weeks ago. He’s quite
successful, now, you know; he’s made a great deal of money; married
Nick Birdsell’s daughter.”
“Is _that_ so! Well, is _that_ so! He was a card all right, a great old
scout.... And d’you ever see any of the rest of the old gang: Adolph
Kuntz, an’ Fritz Wiggens, an’ Steve Teschemacher an’ old Gibbsy?”
“Oh, yes, occasionally.”
“Say, what’s old Gibbsy doing? He was a wormy little rat, all right,
wasn’t he?”
“He’s got a very fine place, now, down on the Point,--quite an estate.”
“Well, wouldn’t you know it! He’d be just the kind of a little tightwad
that would build himself a swell house! ... And what happened to old
Doc French?”
Jeannette’s countenance changed and she shook her head.
“Don’t bother to tell me now. Save it up for to-night. We’ll have a
great talk-fest.... Ruthie and I will show up at the hotel,--what time?
Let’s make it early so we can have all evening. Six-thirty? How’s
that?”
Jeannette smiled assent.
“We’ll be there at six-thirty, and say, Jan, you know this is going to
be my party all right--all right.”
He accompanied her to the door, knocking the Derby hat nervously
against his knee, his cigar gone out.
“Then we’ll see you to-night, Jan. Six-thirty, hey? ... Gee, I’m glad
you dropped in! We’ll have a great little old talk-fest.”
“To-night, then.”
“Sure. At the Bellevue. We’ll be there. Six-thirty.”
§ 4
Married? Married? It couldn’t be possible! Why, they had never been
divorced! ... How could he be married again?
A great weariness came over Jeannette. It was disgusting! What had he
wanted to get married again for? Pugh! It was most disappointing....
Another woman! ... She had never imagined anything like this.... Was
he living with her without a ceremony? Probably. She must be a cheap
sort of creature.... But it didn’t make any difference whether she was
legally his wife or not; it was the same thing. The fact remained he
had taken up with someone else. No doubt she was known as “Mrs. Devlin.”
Jeannette went back to the hotel and upstairs to her room, laid aside
her beautiful fur jacket, her hat, took off her dress, put on her
kimona. Her mind, like a squirrel in a cage, went around and around
over the same ground. How _could_ he be married? Why, they had never
been divorced!
The prospect of the evening suddenly palled upon her. Even though he
_had_ married, a dinner and chat alone with Martin would have had
some piquancy; it would have been quite exciting and amusing to have
recalled old friends, old memories. But there would be no spontaneity
in their talk with another woman beside them, a bored and critical
listener! It would be dreadful! An intolerable situation! ... She
thought of a hurried return to New York, a telephone to Martin that
she had been unexpectedly called home. Yet that seemed undignified; he
would be sure to guess her reason, or if he did not, “Ruthie” could be
depended upon to enlighten him. She shook her head in distaste. She was
committed to this unpalatable program, now; she would be obliged to see
it through,--but oh, how she was going to hate it! How she was going to
despise every moment of it!
She considered the other woman, trying to imagine what she would be
like.... Well, Ruthie might be comfortably established in her place,
but she should have no ground for believing she was envied!
A reflection of herself at this moment in the mirror forced a smile
from Jeannette’s lips as she detected upon her face a look of haughty
condescension. She had been fancying the encounter with Ruthie and had
unconsciously assumed the expression that would suit that moment....
Well, Ruthie would have the benefit of that withering, imperious
glance; she would realize the minute she saw Jeannette Sturgis that
here was a woman that would brook no patronizing airs from her, and in
the course of the evening she would have it pointed out to her, in a
manner which would leave no room for misunderstanding, that it was she,
Jeannette, who had left Martin; hers had never been the rôle of the
deserted wife; as far as “leavings” were concerned, Ruthie had them and
welcome! ... Ah! She _hated_ her!
The telephone trilled. Jeannette’s heart plunged as she heard Martin’s
voice.
“Hello, Jan! Say,--I ’phoned Ruthie and she says for me to bring you
out to our house to-night; she says it will be much pleasanter there
and we can talk a whole lot better. I rang her up and explained about
our having dinner with you at the Bellevue, but she insists that you
come on out to our house. She said by all manner of means to bring you.
She said she’d ’phone you, herself, but I said I didn’t think that was
necessary.”
“Why-y,--I’m afraid----”
“You know we live out at Jenkintown; it’s an awful pretty suburb. I’d
like you to see it and I’m crazy to have you see the kids. They’ll
still be up by the time we get there. I’ll call for you a little after
six and drive you out.”
Jeannette’s mind worked rapidly. There was nothing for her to do but to
accept, and to accept graciously.
“That will be lovely, Mart. As you say it will be much nicer in the
country. I shall really like to see your home and to meet--” she
cleared her throat,--“Mrs. Devlin.”
“Well, that’ll be fine, Jan,--that will be great. Say, you couldn’t
make that five-thirty just as well, could you? You see the office
closes at five, and I’ll just have to bum ’round here doing nothing
until it’s time to call for you,--and then besides you’ll have a little
light left so you c’n see something of the country, and I want to tell
you, Jan, Jenkintown’s a swell little suburb.”
“Why, yes, Martin. Five-thirty will be perfectly all right for me.”
“That’s fine then; I call for you at five-thirty.”
She hung up the receiver and bent forward so that her brow rested
lightly against the mouthpiece of the instrument, her eyes closed, and
after a moment she squeezed them tight shut.... Ah, what pain! ... What
heart stabs! ... The prick of tears stung her eyeballs like needle
points.
§ 5
She powdered her shoulders and did her hair; she red-lipped her mouth;
she hooked the black satin dress about her; she hung her generous
string of artificial pearls around her neck and screwed the large
artificial pearl ear-rings upon her ears. At five o’clock she was
ready, and for the ensuing thirty minutes she studied her reflection in
the glass, turning first to one side, then to the other, noting various
effects. She wore no hat, but to-night her hair, with its distinguished
touch of white, was dressed high, and thrust into its thick coil at the
back of her head were three large brilliant, rhinestone combs.
Promptly at the half-hour, Martin was announced, and slipping on the
marvellous jacket, rolling the fur luxuriously against her neck,
Jeannette descended in the elevator and met him in the foyer. The
glance he gave her satisfied her; she knew Martin; he had not changed.
There remained only Ruthie, and in that instant it came to Jeannette
a cold, disdainful manner would put herself, bound and helpless, at
Ruthie’s mercy. They were two shrewd and clever women,--she assumed
Ruthie would be shrewd and clever,--meeting one another under strange
and difficult circumstances; any hint of condescension, any suggestion
of a patronizing air, and Ruthie would be laughing at her. No, the part
for her to play was one of all sweetness and amiability; graciousness
was her only salvation.
Martin guided her out of the hotel, his fingers at her elbow. A
limousine swept up to the door. It was a _Parrott_, and there was a
liveried chauffeur at the wheel.
“Get right in, Jan.”
He stooped through the doorway and sank heavily against the upholstered
cushions beside her. The “starter” touched his cap, and banged
the door. Memories swept back upon Jeannette, memories of another
motor-car, a taxi-cab, and another “starter” who had banged shut an
automobile door upon the two of them, and of a night pulsing with high
emotions, hopes and young love. Her little excited mother with her
pendent, trembling cheeks, dressed in her lavender velvet, had been
with them on that other night, and she had sat beside her daughter
where Martin now was sitting, and Martin had occupied the small
collapsible seat opposite, and had balanced himself there with his
knees uncomfortably hunched up, to keep his feet out of the way!
“... what we call the _Parrott_ Convertible; it’s just out this year,”
Martin was explaining. “You see with a little manipulation of the glass
windows and seats you can turn it from a limousine into a Sedan and
drive it yourself.”
“How clever!” she said. “You know, Martin, it delights me to think of
your being so successful. It was coming to you. You were born to be a
good salesman, and I’m glad you’ve gotten into a line of business where
your talents count for something. You were entirely out of your element
with that Engraving Company; they didn’t begin to appreciate you.”
“They didn’t, did they? That younger Gibbs,--Herbert Gibbs,--he was
certainly a little rat, if there ever was one. You know I had a
terrible row with him after--after....”
“And I’m glad, too,” proceeded Jeannette hastily, “that you’ve married
again and ’ve got your son and daughter. You were always crazy about
children. Remember how you used to rave about Alice’s Etta and Ralph
when they were babies?”
“You bet you. How are----?”
“And then you were much too fine and too good for that Cohasset Beach
crowd----”
“They were a bunch of good scouts, all right.”
“Weren’t they?” Jeannette said veering quickly. “Every one of them has
made good. Steve Teschemacher’s quite wealthy.”
“Tell me about him,--tell me about ’em all. Say, do you ever go down to
Cohasset Beach any more?”
“Oh, yes; frequently. Alice and Roy bought there, you know.”
“The deuce they did! You don’t mean to say so? Well, say, Jan, who’s
living in the bungalow? ... Say, Janny, I often think....”
They were busy in reminiscences, interrupting one another, laughing,
ejaculating, now and then arrested by a memory that was not altogether
mirth-provoking and unexpectedly stirred them. At times Martin swayed
in his seat and pounded his knee.
“By God!” he would shout gleefully, “by God, I’d forgotten that!--by
God, that was a hot one, all right! Say,--that had gone completely out
of my mind. You’re a wonder for remembering little things, Jan! ... By
golly!”
The car rolled smoothly out over the paved highway that circled through
the hills. Large, handsome houses with lights shining here and there
from windows, and surrounded by tall, gaunt, leafless trees, alternated
on either side of the road and fled past. Their own vehicle was but one
link in a long chain of nimble bugs with glowing antennæ which crawled
hard upon one another along the winding course.
There came an abrupt turn, the motor car swung up a steep driveway,
slid on to crunching gravel, and stopped.
“Here we are!” exclaimed Martin. The chauffeur leaped from his seat and
attentively opened the car door.
A large frame house of gracious lines, with exterior stone chimneys,
many windows, and a precipitous lawn that swept down to the roadway a
hundred feet or more below.
“We get a splendid view of the valley here,” said Martin, coming to
stand beside Jeannette as she looked out across the country. The
landscape was shrouded in dusk, pricked with a myriad of lights;
there was a jagged silhouette of distant tree-tops and beyond a pale,
mother-of-pearl sky touched faintly with dying pink.
They turned to the house and as Martin stooped to insert his latch-key
there was the quick run of small feet within, the door was flung open
and a little girl hurled herself upon him with a violent silent hug.
“Well, well,” said Martin, “how’s my darling?” He kissed her with equal
vigor, his hat knocked at an angle upon his head.
“This is ‘Tinker,’” he said, smiling at Jeannette. “Everybody calls
her ‘Tinker,’ but her real name’s ‘Elizabeth.’ Where’s your brother,
Tinker?”
An answering clatter and rush came from an interior region, and a small
boy flung himself upon the man.
“And this is Joe, Janny. He has a nickname, too; sometimes we call him
‘Josephus,’--don’t we, old blunderbuss?”
There was another vigorous embrace.
The two children regarded Jeannette with shy but friendly glances. The
little girl was about nine, the boy two or three years younger. Tinker
was brown of skin and brown of eye; her hair was short and tawny and
swept off her face in an old-fashioned way, held back by an encircling
comb that reached from one temple to the other. She was freckled and
had an alert, engaging expression, while her brown eyes were sharp as
shoe buttons, and twinkled between long tawny eyelashes. Simply, she
approached Jeannette and held up her brown arms as she offered her
lips. The boy was diminutive and wiry with furtive glance and grinning
mouth that displayed a gaping hole left by two missing front teeth.
He hung his head as he held out his small hand, but as Jeannette took
it, he darted a quick upward look into her face and gave her a friendly
elfish grin.
Jeannette was moved, captivated at once by the charm of both.
“They’re darlings!” came involuntarily from her, and then there was the
sound of descending feet upon the stairs and Jeannette straightened
herself from the crouching position in which she had greeted the
children to face their mother.
“A pretty woman--and sweet--younger than I expected,” went Jeannette’s
thoughts; “nothing to fear here.”
Ruthie was in truth a pretty woman, pretty without being either
beautiful or handsome. Her expression was bright, alert, eager, her
manner friendly and effusive. She resembled her small son.
“This is Ruthie, Jeannette----” began Martin.
“How do you do?” said Ruthie, hurrying forward, leaving no doubt of her
cordiality. “It was very nice of you to come to us to-night.”
“Not at all,” Jeannette responded with her best smile. “It was nice of
you to want me.”
“I was anxious to know you,” said Ruthie.
She could afford to be gracious thought Jeannette. She had everything:
the home, the children, money, position,--she had Martin! ... Was it
possible they were really married? Or did Ruthie merely _think_ she was
his wife?
Jeannette was piloted upstairs to a large, pleasant bedroom. The
chairs, the tables, the bureau and chiffonier, the twin beds were all
of bright bird’s-eye maple; rose hangings were at the windows, rose
silk comforters were neatly folded at the foot of each bed, rose shades
on the wall lights diffused a soft rosy radiance. The dressing-table
glittered with silver toilet articles, and Jeannette noticed they
were all monogramed “R.T.D.” Flanking them were large silver-framed
photographs, one of Martin,--a handsome, fierce-looking Martin in
evening dress,--the other of the two children, Tinker with her arm
about her brother. Domesticity radiated everywhere.
“I never looked better,” Jeannette thought consolingly as she caught a
full-length reflection of herself in the long mirror impanelled in the
bathroom door. Her hair pleased her; her high color was most becoming;
she knew herself to be beautiful. She went downstairs, serene and
confident, sure of being able to carry off the evening with lightness
and ease.
“I thought it would be quieter and perhaps a little pleasanter without
the children at table,” said Ruthie brightly as Jeannette joined her,
“so I arranged to give them an early supper, and now Martin’s been
scolding me. He thinks you’ll be disappointed.”
“Oh, it doesn’t matter,” Jeannette murmured.
“Martin’s almost unreasonable about them; he wants them all the time,”
continued Ruthie. “I tell him if he had them on his hands all day,
perhaps he wouldn’t be quite so enthusiastic!” She laughed an amused
little laugh like the twittering of a bird. “He couldn’t be fonder of
them if they were his own,” she added.
There was a moment’s pause.
“You see, I’d lost my first husband before I met Martin,” Ruthie
continued thoughtfully. “My first marriage wasn’t very successful.”
She _did_ think she was married then!
“You were divorced?” asked Jeannette. If there was a barb to the
question it failed in effect.
“No; Mr. Mason was killed. He was--was rather intemperate, and there
was an accident. I met Martin some time afterwards and he was wonderful
to me.”
“You’ve known him long?”
“Let me see. About seven years. Joe was only a baby, and we were living
in Scranton. Martin and I married about a year after my husband’s
death. I was having a very hard time of it; Mr. Mason carried but very
little life insurance and I took up manicuring; I had to; there was no
other way for us to get along.”
She smiled at the last.
He was sorry for her, thought Jeannette; that was the way of it.
“That had been your--your profession formerly?” Jeannette asked with an
innocent air.
“No, I had to learn it,” Ruthie said, unruffled. “I had to do
something. I only did private work, you know.” She cast a quick glance
at Jeannette’s face. “Martin and I didn’t meet in a barber shop!” she
added with a bright laugh.
Jeannette could think of nothing to say to this, so she nodded, and
gazed into the red coals of the grate-fire before which the two women
were standing.
“Here he is!” Ruthie said, suddenly.
Martin’s step could be heard approaching and in a moment he entered the
living-room. Jeannette noticed he had changed into dinner clothes.
“Well, Jan, it’s mighty darned nice to see you here,” he said
advancing, rubbing his hands. He appeared well-groomed, was freshly
shaved, his clothes fitted him to perfection, his thick neck and
swarthy skin seemed clean and wholesome.
“Have a little cocktail?” he suggested. “I’ve got a cracker-jack
bootlegger that brings me the stuff direct from New York,--real old
Gordon! If this damned governor of ours has his way, we’re not likely
to get any more of it. This prohibition stuff makes me sick, doesn’t it
you?”
“It doesn’t bother me, Martin,” Jeannette answered lightly. “I never
drink anything.”
“Well, how about having a little cocktail to-night? Just by way of
celebration? Huh? What d’you say?”
“No-o, thank you, Martin; not to-night. I really never touch it, but
don’t let me stop you two.”
“Ruthie doesn’t drink either. She’s a plumb tee-totaler,--believes in
it! What do you know about that?”
Martin laughed good-naturedly. His mirth had the old-time extraordinary
infectious quality.
“Don’t bother about mixing a cocktail to-night, Martin dear,” Ruthie
said in a persuasive voice. “It takes you so long with the ice and
everything, and dinner’s late, now.”
“I’ll have a little of the straight stuff, then,” he said, still
rubbing his hands in high good humor.
They went together into the dining-room through the double glass doors,
curtained in shirred folds of pink silk. The table was glittering with
polished silverware and sparkling glass; in the center was a low fern
in a metal fern-dish. Martin unlocked a door in the sideboard, took
out a whisky bottle, held it up a moment to the light to inspect the
measure of its contents, and poured himself an inch into a tumbler.
“D’you remember that guy who used always to say ‘Saloon’ when he was
taking a drink?” asked Martin, grinning at Jeannette. “He was a card
all right? ... Well, ‘saloon!’”
He drained the drink in two gulps, followed it with a draught of water,
and sat down, smacking his lips.
A maid appeared, bearing a tureen of soup, and presently passed cheese
straws. Jeannette observed her spotless white bibbed apron and black
dress, and she took note of the fine sprays of celery and olives in
side dishes on the table, twinkling with ice. The dinner proceeded
comfortably,--well-served, well-cooked, stereotyped: a roast of beef,
with potatoes browned in the pan, canned French peas, a salad of
chopped apples and nuts, a dessert of cake and ice-cream. She recalled
with a sharp twinge the “company” dinners she had struggled so hard
to prepare for Martin and his friends, and the effort she had made to
serve him things he liked so as to make him want to stay at home....
Ah, she had tried, she reminded herself, she had really tried hard
to be a good wife to him! ... It was all so much easier for Ruthie;
she had her cook, her waitress, and there was even the chauffeur. So
easy to sit still and merely tell them what to do! ... And Martin? ...
Well, he had matured, he had settled down, was more seasoned, more
reasonable, more disciplined.... She noticed for the first time a
jagged white scar on his right temple; it had not been there when she
had known him!
Throughout dinner he was in the gayest of spirits; Ruthie turned
bright alert eyes from one face to the other; Jeannette felt the last
vestige of constraint slip from her. The talk was all of Tinker and
Josephus, of the good schools of Jenkintown, of motor cars and the
future of the automobile industry, of traffic laws and Philadelphia and
things in general. Every once in awhile a chance remark would sound a
personal note, but the three with one accord would veer away from it
and pursue another topic. There was no telling where rocks of disaster
might be hidden.
But after dinner, when Martin stood before the sucking coal fire in the
living-room, stirring his coffee, a fresh cigar tilted up in the corner
of his mouth, his head twisted to one side to avoid the smoke, it was
evident the moment had arrived when he wanted to hear news of his old
friends and start recalling old times. Tinker and her brother presented
themselves to say good-night and their mother made them an excuse for
leaving her husband and her guest together.
“She’s far smarter than one would ever suspect from that affected
bright expression,” thought Jeannette smiling at the children as they
tumbled themselves out of the room.
Ruthie did not reappear until nearly ten o’clock, and then came in with
many apologies for having been detained. Martin, by that time, had
heard all the news, had heard of Roy and Alice, of poor unfortunate Doc
French, of ’Dolph Kuntz, and Fritz and Steve, and even of some of the
changes in the publishing company which interested him. He was far from
satisfied, however, and wanted to go over it all once more.
“Say, do you remember that night, Jan, you and I and that Scotch friend
of yours and that awful fright he took along with him had dinner up on
the Astor roof? What became of that guy?”
And----
“D’you ’member that time we got stuck out in the Sound aboard the
Websters’ yacht? ... Say, do they have any more racing down there? ...
What’s become of all the little A-boats?”
But Jeannette knew the time for leave-taking had come. She rose smiling.
“I’m sorry, Martin; I shall have to say good-night. I really must be
going. My day’s very full to-morrow.”
He was loud in protest, a little unnecessarily loud, Jeannette thought.
She tried to dissuade him from accompanying her back to the hotel, but
he insisted.
“I wouldn’t _think_ of you riding back all by yourself, Jan! That
wouldn’t do at all. The car’s right here; the man’s waiting. He’ll run
me in and run me out again in less than an hour; I’ll be home again in
no time.”
Ruthie urged, too.
“Oh, yes,” she insisted brightly. “You must let Martin take you back to
town; it won’t hurt him a bit, and you two have such a lot to talk over
together about old times and everything.”
The little woman’s face was wreathed with smiles; she was confident,
solicitous. She was sure of herself; sure of Martin; her concern had
every semblance of sincerity. Jeannette felt baffled, vaguely irritated.
The two women said good-night to one another with appropriate phrases
and amiability. Ruthie stood in the shining arch of the doorway as the
motor car swept up to the steps, crunching on the fine gravel of the
drive, and Jeannette and Martin got in. She even managed a little wave
of the hand as its door slammed and the car started.
Jeannette hated her. It was impossible to guess what thoughts were
behind that alert expression of innocent pleasure.
“You’ve come on in the world, Martin,” she observed.
“Yes, I’ve made a little money, but I’m going to make more,--a good
deal more. You know, I often think of the old man and the old woman up
there in Watertown settling down forty, or I guess it’s fifty, years
ago, to running that little grocery business of theirs, and I can’t
help wishing sometimes they were round to see how good I’ve made.
They’d get an eyefull, all right! But I’ve worked for my success,
Jan,--that is, I’ve worked hard the last five years. You know I was
down and out for awhile?”
“Were you? I didn’t know that. How did that happen?”
Martin cleared his throat and twisted a little in his seat so as to
talk more directly at her.
“I was pretty badly cut-up, Jan, when you ran out on me!”
“Were you?”
“You bet I was, and I began hitting her up there for awhile; I let
things go to the devil and I was boozing a good deal. There were two or
three years there when I wasn’t much better than a bum.”
“Martin!”
“Well, I was sore at the world,--and sore, I guess, at you. Yes, pretty
damn sore. You know, Jan, I didn’t think you treated me quite right,
and then I blamed myself an awful lot for the way I treated you.”
“It was too bad,” Jeannette said slowly. “I think maybe we were both
wrong. We were very young and inexperienced, Mart.”
“Yes, that’s right. We pulled the wrong way.”
“I’m sorry you took it so badly. I didn’t feel extra good about it
myself. I’ve often wished since....”
“Oh, there’s no use going over the old ground now. It’s all over and
done with, but I was mighty fond of you, Janny.”
“Don’t, Martin.”
“You bet I was. I took it pretty hard when you left me; I didn’t care
what happened to me.”
“I’m sorry. It wasn’t easy for me either. If you’d only come back,--or
sent word....”
“You don’t understand, Jan. I was down and out then. I had nothing to
offer you. I’d punched Gibbsy’s face and I’d lost my job and I was
driving a truck,--that is, when I was working at all.”
“Martin!”
“Oh, what’s the use of going back over old times!” he said with sudden
harshness. “You’ve changed and I’ve changed. I’m married now,--got a
home and family,--and I’m happy, Jan. Ruthie’s a good little woman.”
“When did you marry, Mart?”
“In--let’s see!--in 1917; just before we got into the war. I got a
job as a salesman in an automobile agency in Scranton. Tinker and her
mother were living next door to my boarding-house; it was Tinker that
caught my eye first; she and I used to have great times together; I was
crazy about that kid, and then I met Ruthie.”
“And after that you were married?”
“Well, not right away. I had to get free first. You were awfully decent
about not contesting the suit, Jan, but then I was pretty sure you
wouldn’t.”
“And was there a suit?”
“Why, sure. I got a decree in New York. They gave it to me. You never
showed up.”
“I don’t remember,” said Jeannette vaguely.
“You were served with a summons; we had the testimony of the process
server! You let the case go by default.”
“Did I? ... I can’t ... I don’t seem to remember. What were the
grounds? I thought in New York State you had to prove----”
Martin leaned forward in his seat and stared at her through the dimness
in the car, trying to see her face.
“Say, what is this?” he asked. “Are you trying to kid me,--rub it in,
or something like that?”
“No, Martin,” she answered earnestly. “I don’t know what you’re talking
about. I never supposed we’d been divorced.”
“Good God! Did you think we were still married?”
“Why, certainly.”
The man dropped back against the upholstery with a short explosion of
breath.
“Tell me about it, Martin.”
“You make it damned hard, Jan. If you’re trying to rub it in, you’re
certainly doing a nifty job.”
“No, Martin, truly. I’m quite honest.”
He was silent and Jeannette had to plead again for enlightenment.
“I don’t understand this,” he said, troubled.
“But tell me. I want to know.”
“Well, you know I was damned sore at you,” he began at length. “I
wanted to get married; Ruthie, Tinker and the baby needed me. She was
up against it and was having a tough time trying to make ends meet. I
wanted to help out but she wouldn’t let me and the only thing for it
was to get married. So I went to a lawyer there in Scranton and asked
him if he’d fix it so I could get a divorce from you. He got in touch
with a firm in New York and they dug up all that rot about you and
Corey----”
“Oh, my God!” gasped Jeannette in a whisper.
“Oh, I knew it was the bunk; you’d told me the story and I knew you’d
given me the straight dope. But there was the evidence and the sworn
affidavits of the hotel employees that Corey’s wife had secured. It
made enough of a case. I’m damned ashamed of it now, Jan. I wish to
God, I’d never done it, but I was sore, remember, and I wanted to get
married to Ruthie.”
There was painful silence in the swaying car. Jeannette sat very still,
two fingers of each hand pressed against either cheek.
“I was pretty certain you’d let it go by default,” Martin went on after
awhile in a distressed voice. “It was no case you’d want to contest,
and I thought you probably wanted your freedom as much as I did.... I
thought surely you’d married long ago.”
Silence reigned again, Jeannette struggling with herself, Martin
concerned at her voicelessness.
“By God, Jan, I thought you knew all about it,--I swear to God I did!
The process server stated in court he’d handed you the summons, and
saw you pick it up; I heard him say it with my own ears. The referee
warned him about perjury, thought he smelled collusion, or something of
that sort; he ragged me something fierce.... It was rotten the way it
turned out, for the case came up right after your friend Corey died,
and I felt pretty mean blackening a man’s character when he wasn’t more
’an cold in his grave, ’specially as I knew it was a frame-up.”
A pent-up breath escaped Jeannette like a moan. A scene flashed before
her mind: a dark street,--the street just in front of the office--it
was late and the crowd of clerks and workers was pouring out of the
doorway, hurrying homeward with gravity in their hearts and the news
on their lips that Chandler B. Corey, the president of the company,
had that day dropped dead at his desk. And among these sobered men
and women walked herself, shocked and shaken, trying to realize that
the best friend she had in the world was gone, and would never be at
hand again to advise her nor be interested in what befell her. As she
stepped into the street a man in a slouch hat confronted her, demanding
to know if she was Mrs. Martin Devlin, thrust a folded paper at her,
and disappeared. She remembered drawing back, frightened and affronted,
and after the man had made off, rescuing the paper from the sidewalk at
her feet where it had fallen. It was dark in the street,--too dark to
read. She recalled holding the paper up to decipher what was printed on
the first page, and then, indifferent, her heart and mind heavy with
the tragedy of the day, had thrust it into her muff and sorrowfully
made her way homeward. Days later, when she remembered the incident
and searched her muff, the paper had disappeared. It had fallen out; it
was gone; and she dismissed the matter from her mind.
Now she realized the folded paper had been the summons bidding her come
to court to defend herself against calumny, and to show reason why
Martin Devlin should not be free to take unto himself another wife!
Suddenly something very precious died within her dismally. The
excitement of the night dwindled and departed; the piquancy of her
adventure drooped and faded; her interest in a situation that had up to
that minute stirred pulse and imagination, shrivelled and evaporated.
She was weary and bored; she felt disgusted and sick; she wanted to
be quit of the whole affair, of smiling, alert, complacent Ruthie, of
the homely, clumsy children, of this sleek, fat, selfish man beside
her! ... Ah, she had been a fool ever to think ... ever to imagine....
A woman of her position, sensible, capable, independent,--stout,
settled, middle-aged and gray! ... Oh, it was detestable,--it was
humiliating,--_insufferable_!
They were at the hotel.
“You don’t want to let what I told you bother you, Jan. I never stopped
to think how you’d feel about it. And you want to remember that those
things never get out; they’re all kept strictly Q.T. It happened six or
seven years ago and there isn’t a soul--Here, I’m coming in with you.”
“You needn’t bother, Martin.”
“That’s all right. I’ll see you inside.”
They moved through the revolving glass doors and mounted the steps into
the brilliant lobby.
“Well, it’s been great to see you, and I surely have enjoyed talking
over old times. By God, it’s been a great evening.”
“Yes, indeed. It’s been very amusing.”
“I’m awfully glad you looked me up.... And say, Jan, you like Ruthie,
don’t you? Don’t you think she’s a nice little woman? Not your style
exactly,--no side, or anything like that,--but she’s a damned agreeable
little person, hey? ... You’re not sore at me now, are you, for that
rotten trick I played on you? I’d never have done it if it had been
up to me. It was the lawyers, you know. They dug up the story and put
it over. I’d never have done it,--I swear to God, Jan, I wouldn’t!
I’m--I’m sorry as the devil, now; by God, I am!”
“Let’s not talk about it, Martin; it’s all past and forgotten.”
“Well, that’s damned white of you, Jan,--damned white! I always said
you were a sensible woman.”
Jeannette turned and held out her hand.
“Aw, say,” Martin protested, “aren’t you going in to the café with me
and have some ginger ale or something? I hate to say good-night so
soon. There’s a lot of things I want to ask you. I’d like to keep this
evening going forever.”
But Jeannette’s one desire was to end it. She wanted her room, to have
the door shut and locked behind her, to be alone.
“I’m sorry, Martin----”
“Just a small glass of ginger ale?” he pleaded.
“Thank you, no, Martin; I think I’d better go up.”
“Well, am I not to see you again? You’re not going, until Sunday, are
you?”
“I shall be busy to-morrow; I’m engaged all day.”
“How about to-morrow night?”
“I’m not free then either.”
A frown settled on the man’s face.
“Damn it ...” he began disgustedly. She continued to smile pleasantly
but offered no suggestion.
“Well, I’ll see you in New York some time soon,” he asserted finally;
“I have to go up there once in awhile.”
“Yes, do that,” Jeannette said without enthusiasm.
“I’ll ’phone you? I’ll give you a ring at the office.”
“Yes, do that,” she repeated.
“Well, then, I guess I’d better say good-night.”
“Good-night, Martin.”
She turned toward the elevators, giving him a nod and a brief smile
over her shoulder. As the gate of the cage slid shut, she caught
another glimpse of him, standing where she had left him, perplexed,
frowning, disconsolate,--staring after her.
§ 6
The train was crowded. Jeannette had chosen one at midday, thinking
to have her lunch in the dining-car and so beguile away part of the
tedium of the trip. It was Saturday; she had decided to return home at
once rather than wait until Sunday; there was nothing to hold her in
Philadelphia and she was anxious to get back to the little apartment in
Waverly Place. Many other travellers had apparently conceived the same
idea of having the noon meal on the way, and Jeannette discovered there
were no seats left in the chair-car, so she was obliged to share one
in a day coach with a short, plump lady with a prominent bust and short
fat arms who sat up very straight beside her and wheezed audibly at
every breath. Jeannette’s heavy suit-case was stowed in front of her,
and pressed uncomfortably against her knees, while there was no place
for her hat-box except in the aisle where it was stumbled over and
cursed by every passing passenger. There were cinders embedded in the
plush covering of the seat, the car was badly ventilated and smelled
of warm, crowded humanity. At Trenton, feeling dirty and dishevelled,
she made a swaying progress toward the dining-car only to find twenty
people ahead of her. Disheartened, she returned to her seat, concluding
to wait until she reached the city before she lunched. Perhaps she
would go directly home and persuade Beatrice to make her some tea and
toast.
The day was leaden, the country forlorn and dreary; the trees stood
bare and black upon bare and blackened ground; the houses seemed
cold, desolate and grimy. It began to rain as the train slowed down
through smoky Newark, and long diagonal streaks of water slashed the
dirty window-panes. Waiting travellers on platforms huddled under
station sheds or bent their heads and umbrellas against the sharp
wind and driving drops as they struggled toward the cars. The train
grew steadily more crowded; people stood in the aisles, swayed and
were pitched against those in the seats. Jeannette’s head began to
ache dully and at every knock or kick her offending hat-box received
she winced as though struck. In the tube beneath the Hudson River,
the train came to a standstill and there was a long wait; women grew
nervous, and a man said in a loud, laughing voice to a neighbor:
“Say, Bill, it’d be some pickings, all right, if the river came in on
us while we were stuck here.”
“Oh, Jesus Mary!” gasped the woman next to Jeannette, and for some
minutes the wheeze of her breathing rose to a higher key.
Finally, with much whirring, jerking and dancing of lights, the train
rolled into the Pennsylvania Station.
“I’ll go home and get into bed, and Beatrice will bring me some tea and
toast,” Jeannette whispered to herself, cramped and weary, fighting the
pain in her head that grew steadily worse. She stumbled into a taxi-cab
and went bumping and racketing down Seventh Avenue. The rain was now
coming down in a forest of lances, and was driven in through the
three-inch opening at the top of one of the windows. Jeannette tried
to close it; her attempt was pitiful. The taxi skidded violently into
Eighth Street and she was thrown to her knees, her hat jammed against
the opposite side of the car.
“That’s all right, lady; nothin’ happened!” yelled the driver.
“In five minutes!” breathed Jeannette, one hand pressed hard against
her breast.
Ah, here she was! Here she was, at last!
Her fingers shook as she fumbled with the key to the street door.
“Thank you, so much,” she said to the taxi-driver who brought her bags
up to the landing. She handed him his fare. “Keep the change; I can
manage the rest.”
Inside, she grasped her luggage with either hand, and resolutely
mounted the two long flights of stairs, forcing herself to go to the
top without pausing. She was panting, then, her head splitting.
She tried the apartment door; it was locked.
“Beatrice! Beatrice!” she called, rapping impatiently upon the panels.
A faint mewing came to her ears. There was no other answer.
“Oh, God,--she’s out!” Her cry was almost a sob. Of course! it was
still the Thanksgiving vacation; Beatrice would be with her cousins in
Plainfield; she wouldn’t be home until Sunday night!
Jeannette fumbled for her door-key. There was little light and she was
obliged to kneel before she could find the hole in the lock. With a
gasp she finally threw open the door and stumbled into the flat. It was
cold, unaired, deserted. Mitzi, tail on end, welcomed her with shrill,
complaining cries.
“Oh, you baby you,” Jeannette said aloud, blinking through her own
distress and eyeing the cat. “You’ve been shut up in here since the day
before yesterday and you’re just about starving.”
Mitzi confirmed this with a wail. Jeannette scooped the animal up with
a long arm and carried her into the kitchen. It was cold and bleak in
here, too, smelling foully of Mitzi’s incarceration.
A groan was wrung from Jeannette’s lips.
In the ice-box she found only a bowl half full of pickled beets, a
plate of butter, two rather shrivelled bananas, and a few pieces of
dried toast. She clapped the kettle on the stove, lighted the gas, and
stood caressing the cat until the water had warmed; then she moistened
the toast and set it in a soup plate on the floor.
“Here, you poor critter, eat that until I get you something decent.”
Mitzi leaped at the meal, jerking the food into her mouth, growling
gluttonously.
Jeannette put her fingers to her head and watched the performance,
breathing hard.
“I must,” she said aloud. “It won’t kill me.”
She went into her own room, laid aside her fur coat, put on an old
mackintosh and felt hat, once more went out into the rain, and
presently dragged herself up the stairs again with a bottle of milk and
a bag of provisions.
Her temples throbbing and little streaks of pain darting through her
eyeballs, she moved resolutely through the next few minutes. While the
kettle was heating, she got herself into her kimona, and braided her
hair. Then she returned to the kitchen, mixed a large bowl of bread
and milk for the cat, and dutifully made herself tea which she drank,
munching between sips some saltine crackers warmed in the oven.
Peace gradually descended upon her. Mitzi, replete and satisfied,
licked milk-stained whiskers, and eyed her comfortably from the floor.
The pain in Jeannette’s head was less violent, but she was very cold.
“I’ll get a hot-water bottle and go to bed,” she said. “I think I’ll go
crazy if I keep on this way.”
She proceeded to her room, made her bed, then commenced to unpack her
bags and put away her things. When she was about finished, she came
upon the fur coat where she had left it on a chair. She picked it up
and stared at it, observing its brilliant silk lining, its smooth,
plushy surface, the soft texture of its fur collar. Suddenly she flung
it from her into a far corner on the floor, and for a moment stood a
tragic figure with clenched hands, flashing eyes and heaving breast.
There was a diversion,--a sound close at hand that startled her. Mitzi
had jumped on the bed, and was gazing up at her with head twisted to
one side, glassy eyes fixed inquiringly upon her face, long tail alert,
the tip waving gently. The cat opened her mouth and mewed plaintively.
Jeannette relaxed, gathered the animal into her arms, and slowly sank
down upon the bed. Mitzi, nestling comfortably against her, began
to purr rhythmically. A slow trembling came to the woman, and her
fingers shook as they stroked Mitzi’s back. She fought desperately to
check the gathering tempest within her, and for a moment struggled
with firm pressed lips and shut teeth as the tears welled up into
her eyes, rolled down her cheeks, and splashed upon her hand. Then
suddenly the floodgates of her heart burst, grief overwhelmed her, and
she sank sideways on the bed, carrying the cat to her neck, cuddling
and stroking it, while burying her face against the soft fur, and
passionately sobbing:
“Oh, Mitzi--Mitzi! I love you so--I love you so!”
THE END
Transcriber's Notes:
A number of typographical errors have been corrected silently.
Second section numbered 11 of Chapter II of Book II renumbered to
section 12.
Table of Contents was augmented with chapter numbers.