THE SILENT PARTNER
As soon as Devons was out of bed and dressed and able to walk around
the house, Nichols found it quite impracticable to enforce hospital
rules of any sort. Give a man like Devons a pair of legs, and the only
thing to do, if you wish to keep him within certain bounds, is to put
him in chains. Nichols had neither the authority nor the chains.
In reply to Mrs. Fairburne’s rather pointed question as to when he
thought it possible for the patient to leave, he answered:
“Possible? To-day.”
“Then—”
Dr. Nichols shrugged his shoulders.
“Of course he is better off here than he would be wherever he lives.
As I understand it, he would not be likely to receive much care in his
apartments, while here he receives, if anything, too much.”
“I agree with you,” said Mrs. Fairburne. “Joan seems inclined to make
rather a hero of him.”
“It is a characteristic of girls of her age,” suggested Nichols.
“A dangerous characteristic,” snapped Mrs. Fairburne.
“The most common cure is to allow the patient to see as much as
possible of her hero,” smiled Dr. Nichols.
At any rate, there appeared to be no alternative. And, truth to tell,
neither Mrs. Fairburne nor Fairburne himself, after meeting the young
man on several occasions, could put a finger on anything objectionable
in him. Of course his past was decidedly hazy (one had only his word
for it), and he came absolutely unvouched for,—which was more or less
natural, considering the circumstances under which he arrived,—but
those details did not count for as much as they might in view of the
fact that he was by no means to be considered as a social guest, but
merely a sort of accident. In time he would depart, and that would be
the end of him. In the meanwhile it was a comforting thought that he
was not as unpleasant as he might have been. Considering how little
discrimination is generally exercised in running over people, he might
have been an extremely unpleasant character to have about. It was also
necessary to take into account the obvious truth that he served to
amuse Joan at a time when it appeared impossible for any one else to
amuse her.
So Devons no longer had to wait until half-past four arrived to stand
a chance of seeing Joan. He sallied forth at all hours,—sometimes as
early as mid-forenoon,—and wandered around downstairs until he found
her. It was curious how often he found her. Generally it was in the
library off the reception-room. There was always an open fire here, and
if he sat down in front of it a few minutes she would often appear. She
was always just as surprised to see him as he was to see her. He was
always just as glad to see her as the day before—perhaps even a little
gladder.
This would have been a natural development under ordinary
circumstances,—if one continued to meet her over a cup of tea in the
afternoon,—but coming upon her at the extraordinary hour of eleven in
the morning, and with no distraction even as simple as a cup of tea,
the result was to throw them back upon themselves for entertainment.
This led to a great deal of talk about themselves—just themselves
as they were; just two human beings who had started from different
corners of the nation and traversed different paths which had finally
intersected. The time of day had a great deal to do with it. A woman is
more herself and a man more himself and less a social creature before
noon. There are men and women who never get to know each other until
the opportunity arrives for them to meet after breakfast. Sometimes
this results one way; sometimes another.
It was wonderful to Devons that any one should be interested in his
affairs. It was something new to have a confidante—some one who really
liked to hear the details of the days he had worked out alone. At
first he doubted just how sincere she was. But as he took her with him
through those plugging years at Tech, and saw her leaning forward with
quick eyes and heightened color, he doubted no more. So he reached,
one morning, that period of his life which marked the beginning of the
dream that did not come true.
He had approached it before, but always he had stopped because it
seemed of too recent a date and of too intimate a nature for even her
ears. To tell her about it was in a way to involve her in it because it
extended into the present. The past, up to that point, was done with.
So it could be related like a tale that has been told. The other was
still of his life. More now than ever before because he was beginning
to dream anew and dream more steadily.
Yet at length he found himself telling her even about that—telling her
quite simply and unconsciously.
She had asked him what brought him to New York after he had mentioned
the fact that he had come knowing only one person—Sawyer, a classmate.
“An accident,” he answered. “My life seems to hinge upon accidents.”
“I hope the other was a happier one than this.”
“I don’t know,” he mused. “After all, an accident may be nothing but a
quick and unexpected turn toward a new beginning. It all depends on
how it comes out.”
Then he told her of his laboratory work on leather, and of the
different ways of preparing it for the market and finishing it for
shoes; and, finally, of his discovery of the process that was to make
his fortune.
“I felt at the time,” he said, “a good deal as one of the lucky
forty-niners must have felt. I was down to my last grubstake and had
stumbled upon pay dirt. I knew the value of what I had. At least, I
thought I knew, so that the effect was the same. For a week afterward I
had a regular orgy of spending imaginary dollars. You see, money meant
a lot to me. It meant being able to do a lot of things I wanted to do.
It meant not having to wait another ten years of hard, plugging work.
And I thought all I had to do was to come here to New York with my
invention and show it.”
He paused.
“Go on,” she begged.
“I worked all summer perfecting it and getting it patented. I had to
write to father for money in order to do that, and he mortgaged his
farm to get the cash for me. I’d have starved before I’d have allowed
him to take that risk if I hadn’t been sure. Then I came on. First
Forsythe turned me down, then I laid it before Sawyer, who was with an
investment house. He was just as enthusiastic over the possibilities as
I was.
“After that came the waiting period. The firm had to test the process
and look up the patent papers and all that. I didn’t care how long they
were about it, because I was absolutely sure of the result. So I took
a room at Mullen Court, and spent my days studying and reading and
waiting for the mails. That was in October, and I waited all through
that month. Then I waited through November. Then I waited through
December. That was almost a whole lifetime in itself. Because—well, my
funds were running pretty low by then.”
She looked up and met his eyes—her own brimming with sympathy and pity.
“Don’t think I minded,” he hastened to assure her. “I didn’t. It was
the period of dreams.”
“But—you didn’t have enough to eat!” she exclaimed.
“Not any too much,” he smiled. “Still, I kept alive, and after all that
was the important thing. And I knew that whatever I did not have then
was going to make all the more welcome the things I was sure to have
later. Besides, it was exciting. Just to hear the postman’s steps every
time he came was enough to make a man breathe quicker. It was all a
sort of fight—to hang on.”
She nodded as though she understood.
“Then came the end of it. Sawyer’s firm wrote that they could not
handle the process because—they were afraid of the old process. It
seems that one man held this particular market—a man they were afraid
to compete with. I’d never considered any such development as that. I
thought that any new thing which was better than the old would just
naturally take the place of the latter. I hadn’t taken into account the
business side of it. But the firm would not risk its capital, and I had
none of my own—so that was the end.”
“The end?” she exclaimed.
“Almost. I had a vague scheme of going to work on a salary. Sawyer
had offered me a job once, and I thought that in time I might save
enough out of it to start in a small way. But that took me so far into
the future that the prospect was hazy—compared with what I _had_ been
dreaming. I was on my way to see Sawyer when—”
“The accident happened,” she cut in, unwilling to be shielded from any
responsibility.
“Considering the fact it has meant so much to me, I—I don’t like to
speak of that as an accident,” he said.
“But you have paid so much for so little,” she protested.
He met her eyes again.
“It’s been worth the cost and more,” he answered.
“Oh!”
They were silent a few moments, but Devons roused himself. He felt
these silences to be dangerous.
“I didn’t mean to go into all those sorry details,” he apologized.
“But I asked you to,” she reminded him. “I wanted to hear. It makes me
feel as though I’d lived a little of that myself.”
“You?”
“I used to feel that way when I listened to Mildred. It’s something to
live a little, even at second hand.”
“But surely—”
“Let’s not talk about me,” she interrupted. “I want to hear more about
what you’re going to do next.”
“I must see Sawyer next,” he said simply. “I must go on from where I
left off. And I must start soon now. I’m eager to get back.”
“You see!” she exclaimed.
“See?”
“Even you—after just a few weeks here—find it stupid.”
His lips came together. He had allowed her to persuade him into telling
of the old dreams, but he must be very careful not to be enticed to
tell the new. Besides, he was not very clear about them himself. They
were only vague. He must keep them so, even though when he sat near her
like this they tended to become concrete. That, however, was against
his will. He was not here as her social equal. Even Mrs. Fairburne
herself could not have seen that more clearly than he. But what Mrs.
Fairburne could not have seen was the possibility he saw that in time
these conditions might be changed. Give him a few years as he felt at
moments like this and there need be no gulf between them. He rose from
his easy-chair before the fire.
“I ought to be back at work now!” he exclaimed. “I must write to Sawyer
to-day.”
Only his right hand was still bandaged to his side, and he could not so
much as sign his name with his left.
“You’ll let me write for you?” she asked quickly.
He did not like to call upon her for even as slight a service as
this, but without giving him time to reply, she stepped to a little
writing-desk in the corner, picked up a pen, and held it poised above
the paper.
“I’m ready,” she smiled.
* * * * *
It was not easy for him to dictate, because he was not accustomed to
it, and because every time he paused for the right word she met his
eyes—and then he thought of nothing else for a dizzy second but those
eyes. If, in trying to escape these, he turned his gaze to the letter
itself, he saw only her white hand. It was soft and tender; he could
think of nothing else then but that. When he turned away from her
altogether and stared out of the window, her presence so filled the
room that he thought of nothing but that. So it was rather a wobbly
letter. In it he said scarcely more than that he had been delayed from
coming up to see him, but hoped within a week to make it, and that if
in the meanwhile he saw any opening for him, he hoped he would write in
care of—
He paused, because he did not know his present address. Joan filled it
in for him herself and in a very businesslike way read over the letter.
Then he told her how to address the envelope, and she did that and put
on a stamp.
“It’s a chance, anyhow,” he concluded.
“For what?” she asked directly.
“To earn a living, at least.”
“But what of your invention?” she exclaimed.
“That must wait.”
“Again?”
“For some later date,” he smiled.
“Until you can save enough—”
“Or until Reed cares to furnish the capital,” he interrupted.
He did not like to discuss this with her. He wanted to sweep it all
aside now and talk of other things. With that letter written, his stay
here seemed for the first time to be coming to a definite end. He
realized it with a shock.
“If you could have that mailed, I—I could forget it for a little,” he
said.
But her thoughts were centered on something else—something that quite
took away her breath.
“Capital?” she repeated slowly. “That’s—just money?”
“That’s all,” he answered.
“Then if you had money—your invention would not have to wait?”
“I’d start manufacturing myself,” he explained simply.
“You need a great deal?”
“Not very much to begin in a small way. In a year or two I might save
enough—”
“But if you had the money now you could begin now!”
“Yes.”
“Oh,” she exclaimed impulsively, “if you’d only let me help!”
She paused abruptly—her cheeks scarlet. Then, before he had time to
catch his breath, she ran on:
“If you’d only let me get the money for you. I’m sure I could, and it
could be a loan.”
She saw his jaws come together. She was afraid of that.
“Or it could be just—a business arrangement. Isn’t there something
called a—a silent partner?”
She had risen to her feet and was standing before him now.
He saw nothing but her eyes again, and that made it difficult for him
to think.
Yet it was necessary, as never before in his life, for Devons to think
clearly. The girl before him had made her offer in all sincerity. To
dismiss it with a smile, as one does the impulsive suggestion of a
child, though it partook of that nature, was impossible. It would hurt
her. But he had only to repeat to himself the proposal to realize its
essential absurdity. She was to raise for him the capital to start his
business and act as his silent partner. She, who knew nothing whatever
about business, was to assume the risk refused by experienced business
men. Considered in cold blood, the proposition answered itself.
But here was the difficulty: it had not been made in that spirit, and
could not be handled in that spirit. In cold blood? Good Lord, no one
but a dead man could face Joan Fairburne so, as she stood within arm’s
reach, her face flushed with the excitement of the moment, every sense
alert.
“You are wonderful!” exclaimed Devons.
“No! No!” she protested, with a slight frown. “It isn’t—that. If
anything, I’m selfish about it. Don’t you see—it will give me a chance
to do something.”
“You?”
“It will give me an interest outside. My share in it would be small.
Money is such a little thing. All the work—all the fighting to make
the business a success—that would be yours. But it would be something
to know I’d helped that much. It would be something to be able to look
on with a personal interest in the outcome.”
“But if it failed?” said Devons.
“Failed?” she asked in astonishment.
And Devons felt ashamed of himself for the suggestion. It was as though
Reed had spoken through him. Worse. He doubted if even Reed could have
conceived such a possibility standing in his place. With her as a
partner, a man could not fail: and Devons knew it. It was not merely
money she would put into the firm. In one of those fantastic pictures
that flash before one at moments of high tension he saw a prospectus:
“The Devons Manufacturing Company; capital, Joan Fairburne, fully paid
in and non-assessable.” That was worth a million dollars and more. Even
now, at this moment, he felt his strength multiplied a thousand times.
“No; I would not fail!” he answered sharply.
“Then it’s all settled?” she said in relief.
“Only as dreams are settled,” he answered, getting a grip on himself.
“I wish I could make you understand—without hurting you. You don’t know
how much just the offer from you means to me. I can go back now with
all the enthusiasm of having a partner—even without having one.”
He saw her wince.
“Joan,” he broke out,—using the name unconsciously,—“Joan, all I can
say over and over again is that you’re wonderful. Even if you don’t
understand. But a man couldn’t do such a thing as you suggest. He’d be
a cad and worse. I’m here only by sufferance. You spoke once of the
cost. It’s been worth that many times over just to know you. I must
tell you that much. I’ll go back now able to do five years’ work in
one. If you’ll just keep on being—the sort of partner you are now, that
will be enough. Don’t you understand—a little?”
“I want to help,” she said simply. “I want something to do.”
“If you only knew—”
Devons cut himself short. He must be careful. His thoughts were running
wild. He saw clearly now the face of the woman of his dreams; it was
she; it was Joan; it was this girl who wanted to be his silent partner.
And the reason she could not be that was because he wanted more of her
than that—many, many times more.
He made for the door. He dared not stay longer with her.