Bread

by Charles G. Norris

BREAD

CHAPTER I

§ 1

The Chandler P. Corey Company was moving its offices. A twenty-year lease had been taken on a building especially designed to fit its needs in the East Thirties. The new home was a great cavernous concrete structure of eight spacious floors. On the ground floor were to be the new presses destined to print the magazines, and perhaps some of the books in the future; the next two floors were to house the bindery, the composing room and typesetting machines; the editorial rooms were to be located on the fourth floor, and above these would come in order the advertising, circulation and pattern departments, each with a stratum in the great concrete block to itself. The eighth floor was to be given over to surplus stock, and it would also serve as a store-room for paper and supplies.

Both Corey’s Commentary and The Wheel of Fortune had made money for their owners during the past three years. It was the day of the “muck-raking” magazine, and Cavendish had unearthed a Wall Street scandal that sent the circulation of Corey’s Commentary climbing by leaps and bounds. The Wheel of Fortune had been rechristened The Ladies’ Fortune, and its contents were now devoted to women’s interests and fashions. The pattern business, that had been launched in connection with it, had proven from the outset immensely successful. Horatio Stephens was now its editor, and Miss Reubens conducted the special departments appearing among the advertising in its back pages, always referred to in the office as “contaminated matter.” The circulation of both periodicals had increased so rapidly that Mr. Featherstone had been obliged to announce an advance in their advertising rates every three months.

Other branches of the business, too, had grown and shown a profit. Francis Holme, who was head of the Book Sales Department, and now a member of the firm, had developed the manufacture and sale of book premiums and school books. He sold large quantities of the former to the publishers of other magazines, for use in their subscription campaigns, and was even more successful with the latter among private schools and some public ones throughout the country. One or two recent novels had sold over the hundred thousand mark, and the general standing of the Chandler B. Corey publications had improved. It was conceded in the trade they had now a better “line.” Something was being done, too, in the Mail Order Department, in charge of Walt Chase, and more and more sets of standard works were being sold by circularizing methods.

The installation and operation of their own presses had been a grave undertaking. Mr. Kipps had strenuously opposed it, arguing that the new building was enough of a responsibility, and that they should mark time for awhile and see how they stood, rather than incur a new loan of half a million dollars which the new presses involved. Mr. Corey was convinced, however, that a tide had arrived in their affairs which demanded a rapid expansion of the business, and if he and his partners were to make the most of the opportunity thus presented, they must rise to the occasion, and show themselves able to expand with it.

“There’s no use of our trying to crowd back into our shells after we’ve outgrown them, is there, Miss Sturgis?” he said to his secretary, with an amused twinkle in his eye, after a heated conference with the other members of the firm, during which Kipps in high dudgeon had left the room.

Jeannette smiled wisely. She believed that her chief was one of those few men who had far-seeing vision, and could look with keen perception and unfaltering eye into the future, and that he would carry Mr. Kipps, Mr. Featherstone, the office, his family, herself, everybody who attached themselves to him, to fame and fortune in spite of anything any one of them might do. When he was right, he knew it, and knew it with conviction, and nothing could shake him.

He had only one weakness, his secretary felt, and that was his attitude toward his son, Willis, who, two years before, had been withdrawn from the intellectual atmosphere of Cambridge, and put into the business, presumably that his father might watch him. He was one of the sub-editors of Corey’s Commentary and demoralized the office by his late hours, his disregard of office rules against smoking, and his condescending attitude toward everyone in his father’s employ.

The three years that Jeannette Sturgis had been Mr. Corey’s secretary had seen many changes. Poor Mrs. Inness had turned out to be a dipsomaniac. Jeannette guessed her secret long before it was discovered by anyone else, and she had been full of pity and sorrow when this gray-haired, regal woman had to be dismissed. Van Alstyne was gone, and Humphrey Stubbs as well; Max Oppenheim likewise had departed. The new Circulation Manager was a shrewd, keen-eyed, spectacled young Scotchman, named MacGregor, whom everyone familiarly spoke to and of as “Sandy.” Miss Holland was still Mr. Kipps’ assistant, and now most of the routine affairs of the business were administered by her. Besides Mr. Holme, there was another new member of the firm, Sidney Frank Allister, who had come into the Chandler B. Corey Company from a rival house, and was now entrusted with the book-publishing end of the business. It was usually his opinion that decided the fate of a manuscript. He had his assistants: a haughty Radcliffe graduate, named Miss Peckenbaugh, whom Jeannette heartily disliked, and old Major Ticknor, who had a stiff leg since his Civil War days, and who stumped into the office two or three times a week with his bundle of manuscripts and stumped out again with a fresh supply. Very rarely Mr. Corey was consulted; he frankly declared he hated to read a book, and would only do so under the most vigorous pressure.

“Do I have to read this, Frank?” Jeannette would often hear him ask Allister, when the latter brought him a bulky manuscript and laid it on his desk. “You know, I don’t know anything about literature,” he would add, smilingly, with his favorite assumption of being only a plain business man and lacking in appreciation of the arts.

“Well, Mr. Corey, this is really important,” Allister would say. “We don’t agree about it in my department.”

“Has Holme read it? He can tell you whether it will sell or not.”

“Mr. Holme doesn’t think it will, but I believe this is a very important book, and one we most assuredly ought to have on our list.”

Frequently Mr. Corey would hand the manuscript over to Jeannette after Mr. Allister had left the room, and beg her to take it home with her, read it, and give him a careful synopsis and her opinion. She used to smile to herself when she would hear him quoting her, and once when he repeated a phrase she had used in her report, he winked at her in a most undignified fashion.

“I’m nothing but a hard-headed business man, you know,” he would say, justifying himself to his secretary when they were alone together. “I haven’t any time to read books. I can hire men to do that,—men with much keener judgment about such things than I have. I’m watching the circulation of our magazines, the advertising revenues, our daily sales report, and seeing that our presses are being worked to their maximum capacity. I’m negotiating with a mill for a year’s supply of paper, and buying fifty thousand pounds of ink, and at the same time arranging for a loan from the bank. I haven’t got time for books. Anyhow I never went to college,”—this with a humorous twinkle as he had a general contempt for college men,—“and I don’t know anything about ‘liter-a-choor.’”

§ 2

Jeannette took a tremendous pride in the new building. She had an office to herself, now,—one adjoining Mr. Corey’s. He left the details of equipping both to her. She took the greatest delight in doing so. She bought some very handsome furniture,—a great mahogany desk covered with a sheet of plate glass for Mr. Corey; some finely upholstered leather armchairs, a rich moquette rug, and she had the walls distempered, and lined on three sides with tall mahogany bookcases with diamond-paned glass doors. She had all the authors’ autographed photographs reframed in a uniform narrow black molding, and hung them herself. She arranged to have some greens always on the bookcases, and a great bunch of feathery pine boughs in a large round earthenware jar on the floor in one corner.

There had come to exist a very warm and affectionate companionship between the president of the publishing house and his secretary. Jeannette thought him the finest man she knew. She admired him tremendously, admired his shrewdness, his cleverness, his extraordinary capacity for work. He was impatient beyond all reason, sometimes. She had often seen him jump up with a bang of a fist on his desk and an angry exclamation on his lips when an office boy had dallied over an errand, or had heard these things when it was she who was keeping him waiting, and he would come himself after the carbon of the letter, or the report, or the book he had asked for. He would stride through the aisles between the desks, or across the floor to somebody’s office with great long steps, his fists swinging, his brows knit, intent upon putting his hands at once upon what he wanted. He could be brutally rude, when annoyed, and he gave small consideration to anyone else’s opinion when he had a definite one of his own. But she could forgive these shortcomings. She saw the odds against which he contended, she saw the ultimate goal at which he aimed, and she saw the vigorous battle he was waging toward this end,—and her esteem for him knew no bounds.

She felt herself to be his only real ally though she did not overestimate her services. Among those who came close to him—his business associates and family—she was the only one not an actual drag upon him. Mr. Featherstone and Mr. Kipps were of no more assistance to him in conducting the affairs of the company than any two of the salaried clerks. Frequently they hampered him, rubbing their chins or hemming and hawing over one of his brilliant flashes of wisdom, to rob him of his enthusiasm. As the business increased, they were more and more inclined to demur at any new scheme he proposed. His family were so much dead weight about his neck. The boy had proved himself of small account, the daughter was epileptic, Mrs. Corey an exacting, extravagant, capricious wife.

Jeannette’s surmise upon their first meeting that her employer’s wife was already unaccountably jealous of her soon found ample confirmation. Mrs. Corey grew more and more resentful of Jeannette’s intimate knowledge of her personal affairs, the complete confidence of her husband which she enjoyed, the close daily association with him. Jeannette was aware there had been several violent quarrels over her between husband and wife, Mrs. Corey demanding that she be dismissed, Mr. Corey firmly declining to agree. It did not make matters any too pleasant for the girl. Whenever Mrs. Corey encountered her, she was effusively sweet, but her manner suggested: “You and I, my dear, we know about him,” or “We women,—his secretary and his wife,—must stand together for his protection.” Jeannette was keenly conscious of the utter falseness and insincerity of this attitude. She knew that Mrs. Corey hated her, and would gladly see her summarily dismissed. She would smile with equally apparent sweetness in return, and fume in silence. She considered she was often doing for Mr. Corey what his wife should have been doing, that she filled the place of assistant, philosopher and friend only because Mrs. Corey was utterly incompetent to fill any of these rôles. If her relation to her employer had grown to be that of companion and helpmate, if she had been obliged to assume part of the province of a wife, none of the compensations were hers, she reflected indignantly. Mrs. Corey lived in luxury, came and went as she pleased, observed no hours, exercised no self-restraint, posed as her husband’s partner in life, his guide and counsellor, spent his money extravagantly, and enjoyed the satisfaction of being the wife of the president of what had now become one of the big publishing houses in New York, while she, Jeannette, who worked beside him eight, nine, sometimes eleven or twelve hours out of every twenty-four, got thirty-five dollars a week!

But in moments of fairer judgment she realized she received much more than merely the contents of her pay envelope. She had an affection and a regard from Mr. Corey that he never had given his wife. She was closer to him than anyone else in the world; she was what both wife and daughter should have meant to him; he loved her with a warm paternal feeling, and her love for him in return was equally sincere, deep and devoted. She sometimes felt that she and this man for whom she slaved and whom she served and helped could conquer the world. There existed no sex attraction between them; each recognized in the other the half of an excellent team of indefatigable workers; their relation was always that of father and daughter, but their feelings could only be measured in terms of love,—staunch, enduring, unswerving loyalty.

§ 3

There was nothing in Jeannette’s life from which she derived more satisfaction than the way in which she had deflected Roy Beardsley’s interest in herself to her sister. There was a time after she had made up her mind she could not marry him, when dark hours and aching thoughts assailed her, when she felt she was sacrificing all her happiness in life to a mere idea. But she had fought against these disturbing reflections, resolutely banishing Roy from her mind, and making herself think of ways in which their relationship could be put upon a platonic basis. She took walks with him, made him read aloud to her when he came in the evenings, persuaded him to take her to lectures, and formed the habit of going with him once a week to a vaudeville show in a neighboring theatre on upper Broadway. Her policy was always to be doing things with him, never to be idle or to sit alone with him, for this always led to intimate talk and love-making. She strove to keep the conversation impersonal. Roy was so easily managed, she sometimes smiled over it. And yet there came times when it was hard to deny herself the firm hold of his young arms.

What proved an immediate and tremendous help in conquering herself was a discovery she made from a chance glimpse of her sister’s earnest, brown eyes fixed upon Roy’s face. The three of them were in the studio one evening, and happened to be discussing religion. Roy delivered himself sententiously of a trite truism, something like: “It should be part of everyone’s religion to respect the religion of others.” As Jeannette was considering him rather than his words at the moment, her gaze happened to light upon her sister’s face, and little Alice’s secret stood revealed. The girl sat with her mouth half-open, staring at Roy with wide eyes, and an adoring look, eloquent of her thoughts. Jeannette was staggered. She was instantly aware of a great pain in her own heart, a great longing and hurt. It was clear Alice did not understand herself, had no suspicion that she was in love.

At once the elder sister began to readjust herself, “clean house,” as she expressed it. She marvelled again and again about Alice; it was hard to accept the idea that love had come to her little sister, yet the look in the rapt face had been unmistakable, and as the days went by Jeannette found plenty of evidence to confirm her suspicions. It was surprising how much the knowledge of her sister’s secret helped her to overcome any weakness for Roy that remained in her own heart. She saw at once the suitableness of a match between them; Alice and Roy were ideally suited to each other, and their coming to care for one another would surely be the best possible solution to her own problem. She could not, would not, marry him; the next best thing, of course, would be for him to marry her sister.

She set about her schemes at once. The very next evening it had been arranged Roy was to go with her to the theatre. They usually sat in one of the back rows of the balcony. That afternoon she left a little note on his desk to say she wanted to see him when he came in, and when he appeared, told him she would be obliged to work with Mr. Corey that evening, and suggested he take her sister to the show in her place. When he came of an evening to see her at her home, she would send Alice out to talk to him, while she dallied over her dressing. Whenever Alice happened to join her and Roy, she found an excuse to leave them together. She persuaded the young man frequently to include her sister in their jaunts or walks, and in the evenings, more and more often she complained of a headache, took herself to bed, and left Alice to entertain him. Poor little Alice was blindly unconscious of the strings that were being pulled about her, but she came to a full and terrifying realization at last of where her heart was leading her. She began to mope and weep, to talk of going away. She spoke of wanting to be a trained nurse.

Roy was still placidly indifferent to her interest in him. His ardor for Jeannette had cooled, but he still fancied himself in love with her, and expected that some day they would be married. He no longer fretted her, however, with demands or troubled her with love-making. His days were full of interests: he had his friends, his work at the office, his companionship with the two Sturgis girls,—all of which was very agreeable and entertaining. Jeannette and he would be married some day before long; he was content to let matters drift until she was ready to name the day.... Alice? Oh, Alice was a lovely girl,—a deuce of a lovely girl. She was going to be his sister-in-law soon.

Before long Mrs. Sturgis came fluttering in great agitation to her oldest daughter. By various circumlocutions, she approached the subject which was causing her so much distress. It was quite evident that Alice was not well; she was run down and getting terribly nervous. Had Jeannette noticed anything wrong with her? Jeannette didn’t suppose it could be a man, did she? The little brown bird was still her mother’s baby after all, but you never could tell about girls. Alice was,—well, Alice was nineteen! And if it was a man,—the dear child acted exactly as if there was one,—who could it possibly be? She didn’t see anybody but Roy; she didn’t go any place with anybody else. Now her mother didn’t want to say one word to distress Jeannette, or to say anything that would—would upset her.... Perhaps she was all wrong about it anyway, but—but did Jeannette think it was possible that Alice and Roy,—that Alice,—that Alice....

Amused, Jeannette watched her anxious little mother floundering on helplessly. Then she suddenly took the plump and worried figure in her arms, hugged her, and told her all about it.

Mrs. Sturgis could only stare in amazement and interject breathless exclamations of “But, dearie!” “Why, dearie!” “Well, I don’t know what to make of you!”

But the question now remaining was how to jog Roy’s consciousness awake, make him see the little brown flower at his feet that looked up at him so adoringly, only waiting to be plucked. Jeannette said nothing to her mother, but she went to Roy direct. She felt sure of her touch with him.

First she made him realize that she could never be satisfied with being his wife. She explained carefully and convincingly why it could never be, and then while he gazed tragically at the ground, twisting his lean white fingers, she spoke to him frankly of Alice.

As she talked it came over her with fresh conviction that, had she married him, she could have done as she liked with Roy; he was putty in her hands. But her husband must be a man who would mold her, make her do what he wished, bend her to his will. Only such a man would awaken her love and keep it. She despised Roy for his amiability.

He looked very boyish and silly to her now, as he rumpled his stuck-up hair, and dubiously shook his head. He was surprised to hear about Alice, and,—Jeannette could see,—at once interested. She left the thought with him and confidently waited for it to take hold. Mr. Corey, she felt, would have handled the situation in just some such fashion as she had,—direct, cutting the Gordian knot, plunging straight to the heart of the matter.

One night at dinner she casually told her mother and sister that her engagement with Roy had been broken by mutual consent. She explained they both had begun to realize they did not really love one another well enough to marry and had decided to call it off. Roy was a sweet boy, she added, and would make some girl a splendid husband. She glanced covertly at Alice. The girl was bending over her plate, pretending an interest in her food, but her face was deadly white. A rush of tenderest love flooded Jeannette’s heart. At the moment she would have given much to have been free to take her little sister in her arms and tell her everything, assure her that the man she loved was beginning to love her in return and would some day make her his wife.

And that was how it turned out. A year later Roy and Alice were married by the Reverend Doctor Fitzgibbons in the church on Eighty-ninth Street in just the way the bride’s mother had planned for her older daughter, and now they were living in a small but pretty four-room apartment out in the Bronx for which they paid twenty-five dollars a month. Happy little Mrs. Beardsley’s mother and sister were aware that very shortly those grave responsibilities at which Mrs. Sturgis had often mysteriously hinted were to come upon her. Alice was “expecting” in March.

Roy was no longer an employee of the Chandler B. Corey Company. He had found another job just before he married and was now with The Sporting Gazette, a magazine devoted to athletic interests, gaming, and fishing, where he was getting forty dollars a week as sub-editor. He had always wanted to write and this came nearer his ambition than soliciting advertisements. Moreover there was the increase in salary. Of course The Sporting Gazette was new and had nothing like the circulation of the Corey publications, but Roy considered it a step ahead. He had given Mr. Featherstone a chance to keep him, but Mr. Featherstone had rubbed his chin and wagged his head dubiously when asked for a raise. No,—there mustn’t be any more raises for awhile, no more increases in salary until the company was making larger profits; they were expanding; there was the new building with the larger rent, and all those new presses to be paid for. So Roy had gone in quest of another job, and had found it in one of three rough little rooms comprising the editorial offices of The Sporting Gazette. He considered himself extremely happy, extremely fortunate.

The attraction Jeannette had once felt for him was as dead as though it had never been.

§ 4

Mrs. Sturgis no longer had to work so hard. She had given up her position as instructor in music at Miss Loughborough’s Concentration School for Little Girls and her work as accompanist for Signor Bellini’s pupils. Jeannette had made her resign from both places. With Alice married and gone, it was better for her mother to stay at home and take charge of the housekeeping. Mrs. Sturgis gave private lessons, now,—a few hours only in the morning or afternoon,—and these, she asserted, were a “real delight.” It left her plenty of time for marketing and for preparing the simple little dinners she and her daughter enjoyed at night. She took the keenest interest in these, and was always planning something new in the way of a surprise for her “darling daughter when she comes home just dead beat out at the end of the day.” Finances were no longer a problem. Jeannette contributed twenty dollars a week to the household expenses while her mother earned as much and sometimes more. She often reminded her daughter she could do even better than that, especially during the winter months, but Jeannette would not hear of her working harder.

“But what’s the use, Mama?” she would ask. “We’ve got everything we want. I can dress as I like on what’s left out of my salary, and there is no sense in your teaching all day. I love the idea of your being free to go to a concert now and then, and Alice’s going to need you a lot when the baby comes and afterwards.”

“That may be all very true, dearie, but I don’t just feel right about having so much time to myself. I could easily do more. There was a lady called this afternoon and just begged me to take her little girl. You know I have all Saturday morning.”

“No,” said Jeannette decisively; “I won’t consider it.”

They were really very comfortably situated, the girl would reflect. Once a week, sometimes oftener, Mrs. Sturgis would be asked to accompany a singer at a recital. That meant five dollars, often ten,—ten whenever Elsa Newman sang. Then there was the twenty she, herself, contributed weekly, and the lessons that brought in an equal amount. Between her mother’s earnings and her own, their income was never less than two hundred and fifty dollars a month. They were rich; they lived in luxury; they need never worry again. Jeannette knew she could remain with Mr. Corey for life if she wanted to; there was no possible danger of her ever losing her job. Her mother fussed about the apartment, cooked delicious meals, took an interest in arranging and managing their little home in a way that previous demands upon her time had never permitted. A new rug was bought for the studio, and some big easy chairs, which they had talked about purchasing for years. The piece of chenille curtaining that had done duty as a table cover so long in the dining-room was supplanted by a square of handsomer material; the leaky drop-light vanished and was replaced by one more attractive and serviceable. More particularly Jeannette had seen to it that her mother got new clothes. Mrs. Sturgis had always favored lavender as the shade most becoming to her, and her daughter bought her a lovely lavender velvet afternoon dress which had real lace down the front and was trimmed with darker lavender velvet ribbon. Some lavender silk waists followed, and a small lavender hat upon which the lilac sprays nodded most ingratiatingly. Mrs. Sturgis was radiant over her new apparel. Her extravagant delight touched the daughter. It was pathetic that so little could give so much intense enjoyment.

Once or twice a month, Jeannette took her mother to a matinée. She loved to go to the theatre herself, and studied the advertisements, read all the daily theatrical notes and never missed a review. She would secure seats for the play, weeks in advance, and always took her mother to lunch downtown before the performance. These were wonderful and felicitous occasions for both of them. They had great arguments each time as to where they should eat, what they should select from the magnificent menus, and later about the play itself. Jeannette liked to startle her mother by selecting some extravagant item from the bill-of-fare, or surprise her by handing her a little present across the table. Sometimes as they came out of the theatre she would pilot her without preamble toward a hansom-cab and before the excited little woman knew what it was about, would help her in, and tell the cabby to drive them home slowly through the Park.

“Oh, dearie, you’re not going to do this again!” Mrs. Sturgis would expostulate drawing back from the waiting vehicle. She really wished to protest against the needless extravagance. Jeannette would smile lovingly at her, and urge her in. Later as they were rumbling through the leafless Park and met a stream of automobiles and sumptuous equipages going in the opposite direction, Mrs. Sturgis would settle herself back with a sigh of contentment and say:

“Really, dearie, I don’t think there is anything I enjoy quite as much as riding in a hansom. You’re very good to your old mother. We may land in the poorhouse, but we’re having a good time while the luck lasts.”

On the occasion of the first performance of Parsifal at the Metropolitan, Jeannette, through Mr. Corey, was able to secure one ten-dollar seat for her mother. It was the greatest event in little Mrs. Sturgis’ life. She longed for Ralph, and wept all through the Good Friday music.

Frequently on Sunday afternoons Jeannette’s mother made her daughter accompany her to Carnegie Hall for a concert or a recital. Then, she declared, it was her turn to treat and she would not allow the girl to pay for anything. Her entertainments were never as “grand” as her daughter’s, but she took a keen delight in playing hostess, and after the music always suggested tea. They were both exceedingly fond of toasted crumpets, and Mrs. Sturgis was ever on the lookout for new places where they were served. But neither of her daughters inherited her love for music. Jeannette went to the concerts dutifully, but the satisfaction derived from these afternoons came from giving her mother pleasure rather than from the jumble of sound made by the wailing strings, tooting wood-winds and blaring trumpets. She could make nothing out of it all. When there was a soloist she was interested, especially if it was a woman, of whose costume she made careful notes.

Mother and daughter also went to church sometimes. Doctor Fitzgibbons had made a deep impression upon Mrs. Sturgis when he officiated at the marriage of Roy and Alice. She had been “flattered out of her senses” when the clergyman called upon her a few weeks after the ceremony to inquire for the young couple. He had talked to her about “parish work,” and expressed the hope that she would see her way clear “to join the church” and become interested in his “guild.” Mrs. Sturgis had laughed violently at everything he said, and had promised all he suggested. Thereafter she referred to him as her “spiritual adviser,” and Jeannette was aware she called occasionally at the rectory to discuss what she termed her “spiritual problems.”

Sunday evenings, Mrs. Sturgis and Jeannette usually invited Alice and Roy to dinner, and sometimes they were the guests of the young couple in the little Bronx apartment. Roy and Alice were like two children playing at keeping house, Mrs. Sturgis said with one of her satisfied chuckles. Jeannette, too, thought of them as children. Alice had always seemed younger to her than she really was, and even when her own thoughts had been filled with Roy, he had always impressed her as a “boy.” She often wondered nowadays, when he and his happy, dimpling, brown-eyed bride sat side by side on the sofa, their arms around one another, their hands linked, exchanging kisses every few minutes in accepted newly-wed fashion, what she had ever seen in him that had made her own senses swim and her heart pound. He was just a sweet, amiable boy to her now, with a fresh, eager manner, and rather an attractive face. She still liked his quaint mouth, his whimsical smile, his quick flashing blue eyes, but they no longer stirred her. She could kiss him in affectionate sisterly fashion without a tremor.

Jeannette and Mrs. Sturgis took great delight in observing the young couple together, in watching them in their diminutive but pretty home, and in discussing them afterwards. They were ideally happy,—laughing, romping, playing little jokes upon one another, deriving vast amusement from words, signs and phrases, the meaning of which were known to them alone. Both were affectionately demonstrative, forever holding hands, caressing one another and kissing. Jeannette said it made her sick, was disgusting, but her mother scolded when she betrayed her distaste, and reminded her it was “only right and proper.”

Roy, against the prospect of his marriage to Jeannette, had saved money; Mrs. Sturgis, urged by her older daughter, had once again placed a loan of five hundred dollars upon the nest-egg in the savings bank; Jeannette had contributed another hundred, and Roy’s father had shipped from San Francisco a half car-load of family furniture which had been in storage for many years. The wedding had awaited the arrival of this freight, and as soon as it came the stuff had been uncrated, and installed in the little Bronx apartment. The ceremony then followed and Roy took his blushing, laughing, excited bride from her mother’s arms, from the old-fashioned apartment where she had lived almost since she could remember, and from the wedding supper, direct to the new home in the Bronx which together they had furnished with such joy and hours of planning and discussion.

They had nearly a thousand dollars to spend, but Alice wisely decided, so her mother thought, that only half of it should go into house-furnishing. The furniture shipped by the Reverend Dwight Beardsley was designed in the style of an earlier day and much of it was too large for the snug little rooms of the Bronx flat. A large sideboard with a marble slab top and huge mirror could not be brought into the apartment at all, and was sold to a second-hand furniture dealer on Third Avenue for fifteen dollars. But most of the furniture from California was usable, and all of it good and substantial. Alice made the curtains for the dining and living rooms herself; she and Roy, on their hands and knees, painted the floors a warm walnut tone. They bought three or four rugs, a fine second-hand sofa with a rich but not too gaudy brocaded cover, bed and table linen, and everything needed for the kitchen. Horatio Stephens and his family sent them a colored glass art lamp, and Mr. Corey, consulting Jeannette, presented a beautiful clock with silvery chimes.

No young husband and wife ever took greater delight in their first home. They were always “fixing” things, arranging and rearranging them, cleaning and dusting. Roy bought a Boston fern during an early week of the marriage, paid three dollars for a brass jardiniere at a Turkish vendor’s to hold it, and the plant flourished on a small taboret in the front windows. They took the most assiduous care of this, watering it several times a day and digging about its roots with an old table knife whenever either of them had an idle moment. When one of the curling fronds began to turn brown, they had long discussions as to whether it should be trimmed off or not. They acquired a canary, too, which shared with the fern the young couple’s devotion. Alice had bought the bird because she was so “miserably lonely” without Roy all day long that she would “go out of her senses wanting him” unless there was something alive ’round the house to keep her company. The fact that the canary never opened his throat to make a sound,—although Alice had been assured by the man in the bird-store that he would “sing his head off”—did not in any wise detract from her love for the little feathered creature that hopped about in his cage and made a great fuss over giving himself a bath in the mornings. They called him “Sonny-boy” and took turns at the pleasure of feeding him.

Alice was a good cook. She had a gift for the kitchen, and Jeannette and her mother would exclaim in admiration over the delicious meals she prepared when they came to dinner. Roy would glance from mother to sister-in-law when the roast appeared or when a particularly appetizing-looking pudding was brought in, and at their exclamations of delight, he would say:

“Guess I’ve got a pretty smart wife,—hey? Guess I know a good cook when I see one, huh? Why, Alice’s got most women I know skinned a mile! She’s just a wonder; she can do anything. I only wish I was good enough for her. She’s a wonder, all right—all right.”

Jeannette was deeply moved when her sister told her she was going to have a baby. It tore at her heart to think of little Alice, to herself so young, so immature, so tender and weak and inexperienced, bringing a child into the world. She worried about it, wondered if Alice would die, felt with terrifying conviction that that would be the way of it. Her mother’s pleasure and complacency about the matter reassured her but little. Alice was having a child much too soon after her wedding; she ought to have waited for a year or so at least.

She watched the changes in her sister’s face and figure with growing wonder. Child-bearing was a mystery. Jeannette had never known a woman intimately who had had a baby; now she was both curious and concerned. After the early months of discomfort had passed, a benign gentleness settled upon Alice; her expression became placid, serene, beautiful. A quality of goodness transfigured her. She moved through the days toward her appointed time with supreme tranquillity. Whenever Alice spoke of “my baby,” Jeannette winced, while her mother maddened her each time with the remark that it was “only right and proper.”

One morning early in March, shortly after Jeannette had reached the office, her mother telephoned her in a great state of excitement. She had just heard from Roy; Alice’s baby would arrive that day; they were taking her right away to the hospital; she wasn’t in any pain yet, but the doctor thought it would be best to have her there; he didn’t say when the child was likely to be born.

There was no more news. The morning stretched itself out endlessly. Jeannette worried and suffered in silence; at noon she telephoned the hospital and got Roy; there was little change; Alice was miserable, but there was no talk about when the baby would be born; the doctor had promised to be in at three; Roy would let her know if anything happened. All afternoon there was a meeting of the members of the firm in Corey’s office; the question of the move to the new building was being discussed; it lasted until four, until five, until quarter to six. Jeannette was beside herself. Alice was dead and they were afraid to let her know!

At six o’clock her mother telephoned again. Alice was having her pains with some regularity now; the baby ought to be there about eight or nine o’clock, the doctor said.

As soon as she was at liberty Jeannette left the office. She did not want to eat, but took the elevated direct to the hospital. Her mother and Roy met her and they kissed one another again and again. Alice was “upstairs” now. They sat with their elbows touching on a hard leather-covered seat in the reception-room. Jeannette’s head began to ache; she counted the sixty-three squares in the rug on the floor twenty-two times; the black on the Welsbach burner in the lamp looked exactly like two people kissing.

Towards midnight the baby was born.

When Jeannette first saw her niece, the upper part of the little head and forehead were carefully bandaged. Her mother whispered that it had been an “instrument case”; Roy was not to know for a while at any rate. The baby was perfect,—a fine, healthy, eight-pound girl, and Alice was doing nicely.

But Alice did not leave the hospital for six weeks and was six months in recovering her old strength and buoyancy.

CHAPTER II

§ 1

It was some three months after the publishing house had been established in its new offices, that Jeannette had the card of Martin Devlin brought to her. It was embossed and heavily engraved, with a small outline of the earth’s two hemispheres in one corner and bisecting these, in tiny capitals, the words: THE GIBBS ENGRAVING COMPANY. Mr. Corey was out; Jeannette told the boy to inform the caller. In a minute or two the messenger returned to say that the gentleman would like to speak to Mr. Corey’s secretary, but Jeannette had no time to waste on solicitors of engraving work, and sent word that she was occupied. The boy reappeared presently with another of Mr. Devlin’s cards, on the back of which was pencilled:

“Dear Miss Sturgis,—I’d be grateful for two minutes’ interview. Have a message from an old friend of yours.

M. Devlin.”

Jeannette frowned in distaste, and looked up at the boy, annoyed. She was extremely busy, typing a speech for Mr. Corey which he was to read that night at a Publishers’ Banquet at the Waldorf. It was twenty minutes past four; she expected him to return at any minute.

“Tell the gentleman to come again, will you, Jimmy? I’m really too busy to see him to-day.”

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

“The responsibility of molding public opinion,” went her notes, “rests perhaps with our press, but to whom do the discriminating readers of the nation in confidence turn for the formation of their taste in literature, their acquaintance with the Arts, the dissemination of those inspiring idealistic thoughts and precepts of the fathers of our great——”

She estimated there were another three pages of it.

The door of her office opened and a young man of square build, with broad shoulders, and a grin on his face, filled the aperture.

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

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

Jeannette looked at him, bewildered. She had never seen this man before; she did not know what he was doing in her office, nor what he wanted.

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

At once she froze; her breast rose on a quick angry intake, and her eyes assumed a cold level stare.

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

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

“Well, that’s too bad, but I really called to have a few minutes’ chat with you,” he returned nonchalantly. “We have a friend of yours down at our office: Miss Alexander, Beatrice Alexander. ’Member her? She says a lot of nice things about you.”

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

“I’m afraid you’re sore at me,” he said. He laughed straight into her cold eyes, showing his big teeth.

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

“Er—you—a——” she began, deliberately clearing her throat with a little annoyed cough. “I think you’ve made a mistake. Mr. Corey is not in. As you see, I am busy. Good-day.”

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

“Whew!” whistled Mr. Devlin. He took a step nearer, put his hand on her desk, bent down to catch a glimpse of her face, and said with a pleading note in his voice and with that same flashing smile:

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

The man’s sudden nearness brought Jeannette up rigidly in her seat. Her eyes blazed a moment, but there was something in this person’s manner and in the ingratiating quality of his smile that made her hesitate. Her first thought had been to call the porter or one of the men outside, and have him summarily put out. Instead she said in her most frigid tone:

“Really, Mr. Devlin, you presume too far. You see that I am busy and I’ve told you that Mr. Corey is not in.”

“Well that’s all right, but what do you want me to tell Miss Alexander? She’ll be wanting to know if I delivered her message.”

“Miss Alexander, as I remember her, is a very lovely girl. You can tell her that I’ve not forgotten her, and that I am sorry that ... that in her office there are not more mannerly gentlemen.”

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

“Say, Miss Sturgis,” he began, “please don’t be sore at me. I didn’t know I’d find a girl like you in here. Miss Alexander said you were awfully nice and I thought maybe you’d be doing me a favor one of these days. I took a chance on getting in to see you the way I did. Don’t blame the kid.”

“What kid?”

“The office boy. I slipped him a quarter and told him to tell you I was an old friend of yours and wanted to give you a surprise.”

“Upon my word!”

“Well, you see,—we’ve all got to make our living; you, me and the office boy.”

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

“I think they’re all legitimate.”

“What,—bribing office boys?”

“Well, I didn’t bribe him exactly. I deceived him.” He laughed again. He was Irish, the girl noted, and presumably considered he had a great deal of Irish charm.

“At any rate, I got in to see you.”

“Much good it’s done you.”

“I have hopes for the future.”

“I wouldn’t cherish them.”

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

“I’m not in the least interested.”

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

“I will not.”

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

“I think you can’t.”

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

“Certainly not!”

“There’s other ways I can meet him.”

“You’re at liberty to find them.”

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

“You don’t deserve it.”

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

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

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

“Evidently you are aware of it.”

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

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

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

“I am always busy.”

“Can I ’phone?”

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

Mr. Devlin for a moment was routed.

“Oh, gosh!” he said in disgust.

Jeannette was not to be won. She nodded to him, and began to type briskly, the keys of her machine humming. The man stood uncertainly a moment more, shifting from one foot to the other; then he swung himself disconsolately toward the door, and closed it slowly after him. Almost immediately he opened it again and thrust in his head.

“I’m coming back again,—just the same!” he bawled. Jeannette did not look around, and the door clicked shut.

§ 2

The next time he called she was taking dictation from Mr. Corey and was unaware he had come. When she finished with her employer, and picked up the sheaf of letters he had given her, she passed through the connecting door between the two offices, and found Devlin waiting in her room.

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

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

“And here’s where you go out!” She walked towards the door that led to the outer office and flung it open.

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

“Aw—say——” he said in hurt tones. The smile was gone; for the moment his face was as serious as her own.

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

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

As he went out she suddenly felt sorry for him.

But that was not the last of him. His card appeared the next afternoon. Mr. Corey was again away from the office.

“I’m not in to this person,” she said to Jimmy, “and if he bribes you to show him in here, I’ll go straight to Mr. Kipps and have you fired.”

The next day he telephoned. She hung up the receiver, and told the girl at the switch-board to find out who wanted her before she put through any more calls. The day following brought a letter from him, but as soon as she discovered his signature, she tore it up and threw it in the waste-paper basket. Two minutes later, she carefully recovered its ragged squares and pieced them together.

“My dear Miss Sturgis,” it read, “you must overlook my boorish methods. I’ll not bother you again, but I beg you will not hold it against me, if I try to make your acquaintance in some more acceptable manner. Yours with good wishes, Martin Devlin.”

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

Jeannette considered the letter a moment, then uttered a contemptuous “Puh!” scooped the fragments into her palm, and returned them to the receptacle for trash.

§ 3

Toward the end of the week, she had a telephone call from Beatrice Alexander. She had not seen the girl for nearly four years but remembered how exceptionally kind she had been to her that first day she went to work, and thought it would be pleasant to meet her again, and talk over old times. They arranged to have luncheon together.

They met at the Hotel St. Denis. Jeannette always went there whenever there was sufficient excuse; she loved the atmosphere of the old place. Her luncheon was invariably the same: hot chocolate with whipped cream, and a club sandwich. It cost just fifty cents.

Beatrice Alexander had changed but little during the years Jeannette had not seen her, except that now she wore glasses. A little gold chain dangled from the tip of one lens, and hooked itself by means of a gold loop, over an ear. It made her look schoolmarmy, but she had the same sweet face, the same soft dovelike eyes, and the whispering voice.

“And you never married Mr. Beardsley,” she commented. “I heard you were engaged and he certainly was awfully in love with you.”

Jeannette explained about her sister, and how happy the two were in their little Bronx flat. Her companion exclaimed about the baby.

She had had two or three places since the old publishing house suspended its selling campaign of the History. She had been in the business office of the Fifth Avenue Hotel Company until it closed its doors. Now The Gibbs Engraving Company employed her; she’d been there about a year, and liked it all right, but the constant smell of the strong acids made her a little sick sometimes. She and Jeannette fell presently to discussing Martin Devlin.

“Oh, he’s all right,” Beatrice Alexander said. “He came there about the same time I did. He’s an awful flirt, I guess, and he gets round a good deal. I don’t know much about him, except that he’s always pleasant and agreeable, never, anything but terribly nice to me. Everybody likes him. He’s one of our best solicitors. I heard from one of the men in your composing room, who’s a kind of cousin of mine, that you were with the Corey Company and were Mr. Corey’s private secretary, and one day I happened to hear Mr. Devlin talking to Mr. Gibbs,—Mr. Gibbs and his brother own The Gibbs Engraving Company,—and he said something about how he wished he could land your account but he didn’t know a soul he could approach. And then I mentioned I knew you. That was all there was to it, only he said you treated him something awful.”

Jeannette rehearsed the interview.

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

“Oh, Mr. Devlin’s all right,” Beatrice Alexander said again. “He doesn’t mean any harm. He’s Irish, you know,—he was born here and all that,—and he just wants to be friendly with everyone. I suppose he was kind of hurt because you were so short with him.”

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

“Well, he’s been begging and begging me to call you up. He wanted to take us both out to lunch, but I wouldn’t agree to that. I told him I’d see you about it first.”

“I wouldn’t consider it,” Jeannette said, indignantly. “The idea! What’s the matter with him?”

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

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

They finished their lunch and wandered into Broadway. It was Easter week, and the chimes of Grace Church were ringing out a hymn.

“Let’s not lose touch with each other again,” said Beatrice Alexander at parting. “I’ll ’phone you soon, and next time you’ll have to have luncheon with me. I always go to Wanamaker’s; they have such lovely music up there, and the food’s splendid.”

§ 4

Jeannette had forgotten Mr. Devlin’s existence until one day as she was typing busily at her desk she suddenly recognized his loud, infectious and unmistakable laugh in the adjoining office. Mr. Corey had come in from lunch some ten minutes before, and had brought a man with him. She had heard their feet, their voices, and the clap of the closing door as they entered. Now the laugh startled her. She paused, her fingers suspended above the keys of her typewriter, and listened. It was Mr. Devlin; there was no mistaking him. She twisted her lips in a wry smile. He and Mr. Corey were evidently getting on.

She knew she would be called. When the buzzer summoned her, she picked up her note-book and pencils, straightened her shoulders in characteristic fashion, and went in.

Devlin rose to his feet as she entered, but she did not glance at him. Her attention was Mr. Corey’s.

“How do you do? How’s Miss Sturgis?” Devlin was all good-natured friendliness, showing his big teeth as he grinned at her.

She turned her eyes toward him gravely, gazed at him with calm deliberation, and briefly inclined her head.

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

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

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

“The Gibbs Engraving Company,” said Mr. Corey in his brusque businesslike voice, “wants to do our engraving. I’m going to give them a three months’ trial. I’d like to have you take a memorandum of what they’ve quoted us. Mr. Gibbs is to confirm this by letter. Now you said five cents per square inch on line cuts with a minimum of fifty cents....”

Jeannette scribbled down the figures.

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

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

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

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

“Give me a memorandum of that,” Corey said, “and send a carbon to Mr. Kipps.” He turned to the young man. “We’ll talk it over, and let you know just as soon as we hear from you.” Devlin rose. The men shook hands as Jeannette passed into her own room. She heard them saying good-bye. Their voices continued murmuring, but she did not listen. Suddenly Mr. Corey opened her door.

“Mr. Devlin wants to speak to you a minute, Miss Sturgis.” He nodded to his companion, said “Well, good-bye; hope we can get together on this,” and shook hands once more, and left Devlin confronting her.

“Please let me say just one word,” he said quickly. “I met Mr. Corey at the Quoin Club the other day and made a date for lunch. I’m after his business all right, and think I’ve got it cinched. I don’t want you to continue to be sore at me, if my outfit and yours are going to do business together. I’m sorry if I got off on the wrong foot. Please accept my apology and let’s be friends.”

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

“Aw shucks!” he said interrupting her, “I’m doing the best I can to square myself. I didn’t mean to annoy you. I didn’t care at first what you thought of me as long as I got in to see Mr. Corey. I confess I thought maybe I could jolly you into arranging a date for me to see him. No,—wait a minute,” he urged as the girl frowned, “hear me out. You see I’m being honest about it. I’m telling you frankly what I thought at first, but that was before I even saw you. I had no idea you were the kind of girl you are. It isn’t usual to find a person like you in an office. Oh, you think I’m jollying you! I swear I’m not. I just want to ask you to forgive me if I offended you, and be friends.”

There was something unusually ingratiating about this man. Jeannette hesitated, and Devlin continued. He pleaded very earnestly; it was impossible not to believe his sincerity.

Jeannette shrugged her shoulders when he paused for a moment. Her hands were automatically arranging the articles on her desk.

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

“For you to say you’ll forgive a blundering Irish boobie, and shake hands with him.”

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

“Oh, very well. It’s easier to be friends with you than have you here interfering with my getting at my work.”

“That’s fine, now.” He held her fingers a moment, his whole face beaming. “You’ve a kind heart, Miss Sturgis, and I sha’n’t forget it.”

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

§ 5

It was evident Martin Devlin proposed to be a factor in her life. When he came to the office to see Mr. Kipps or Miss Holland about the engraving,—and the work brought him, or he pretended it brought him, two or three times a week—he never failed to step to Jeannette’s door, open it, and give her the benefit of his flashing teeth and handsome eyes as he wished her good-day or asked her how she was. He did not intrude further. His visits were only for a minute or two. Only once when she was looking for a letter in the filing cabinet, he came in and lingered for a chat. He saw she was not typing, therefore ready to talk to him since he was not interrupting her. When she went to lunch with Beatrice Alexander a week or two later at Wanamaker’s he joined the two girls by the elevators as they were leaving the lunch-room, pretending, Jeannette noticed, with a great air of surprise, that the meeting was merely a fortuitous circumstance. The subway had a few days before begun to operate. Jeannette had never ridden upon it, so Martin piloted her down the stone steps, boarded the train, and rode with her until they reached Thirty-fourth Street. Beatrice Alexander had said good-bye as they left Wanamaker’s.

Devlin had a confident, self-assured way with him. It could not be said he swaggered, but the word suggested him. He was easy, good-natured, laughing, cajoling, irresistibly merry. His good humor was contagious. Men smiled back at him; women looked at him twice. To the subway guard, to the sour-faced little Jew at the newsstand, to the burly cop with whom they collided as they climbed the stairs to the street, he was familiar, patronizing, jocular. He called the Italian subway guard “Garibaldi,” the Jewish newsdealer “Isaac,” the burly policeman “Sergeant.” One glance at him and each was won; it was impossible to resent his familiarity. Everybody liked him; he could say the most outrageous things and give no offense. It was that Irish charm of his, Jeannette decided, back once more at her desk and clicking away at her machine, that made people so lenient with him.

She began to speculate about him a good deal. It was clear he was in hot pursuit of her, and that he intended to give her no peace. He commenced to bring little boxes of candy which he slid on to her desk with a long arm when he opened her office door to say “Hello!” Then flowers put in their appearance: sweet bunches of violets, swathed in oiled paper, their stems wrapped in purple tinfoil, the fragrant ball glistening with brilliant drops of water; there were bunches of baby roses, too, and lilies-of-the-valley, and daffodils. One day she happened to mention she had never read “The Taming of the Shrew,” and the following morning there was delivered at her home a complete set of the Temple edition of Shakespeare’s plays. She protested, she threatened to throw the flowers out of the window, she begged him with her most earnest smile not to send her anything more. She was talking into deaf ears. The very next day she found on her desk two seats for a Saturday matinée with a note scribbled on the envelope: “For you and your mother next Saturday. Have a good time and think of Martin.”

In deep distress she told her mother about him, but Mrs. Sturgis shared none of her concern.

“Well, perhaps the young man is trying to be friends with you in the only way he knows how. I wouldn’t be too hasty with him, dearie. You say he’s with an engraving company? Is that a good line of work? Does he seem well-off,—plenty of money and all that?”

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

“There’s no harm, my dear, in a nice rich young fellow admiring a pretty girl like my daughter. If the young man’s well brought up and means what’s perfectly right and proper, I don’t see what you can object to. You’ve got to marry one of these days, lovie; you must remember that. There isn’t any sense in tying yourself down to a desk for the rest of your life! You’ve got to think about a husband!”

“Well, I don’t want him!”

“Perhaps not. I’m not saying anything about him. But there’s plenty of nice young men in the world, and you mustn’t shut your eyes to them. A girl should marry and have a home of her own; that’s what God intended. Doctor Fitzgibbons was saying exactly that same thing to me only yesterday. Now this Mr. Devlin,—it’s an Irish name, isn’t it?——”

“Oh, hush,—for goodness’ sakes, Mama! Don’t let’s talk any more about him.... What did Alice have to say to-day?”

“She’s really gaining very rapidly now,” Mrs. Sturgis said instantly diverted. “She says she’s going to let that woman go. She comes every day and does all the dishes and cleans up and it only costs Alice three dollars a week.”

“Why, she’s crazy,” cried Jeannette. “She isn’t half strong enough to do her own work, yet. You tell her I’ll pay the three dollars till she’s all right again. I can’t imagine what Roy Beardsley’s thinking about!”

§ 6

Martin Devlin begged her to allow him to take her mother and herself to dinner, and “perhaps we’ll have time to drop in at a show afterwards,” he added. Jeannette declined. She had no wish to become on more intimate terms with him, but he would not take “No” for an answer. He persisted; she grew angry; he persisted just the same. She considered going to Mr. Corey and informing him that this representative of The Gibbs Engraving Company was annoying her, and yet it hardly seemed the thing to do. She spoke of it again to her mother, and Mrs. Sturgis at once was in a flutter of excitement at the prospect of a dinner downtown.

“But why not, dearie?” she argued. “I could wear my lavender velvet, and you’ve got your new taffeta.... I’d like to meet the young man.”

After all there were thousands of girls, reflected Jeannette, who were accepting anything and everything from men, wheedling gifts out of them, sometimes even taking their money. Her mother would get much pleasure out of the event.

When Devlin urged his invitation again, she drew a long breath, and consented. There seemed no reason why she should not accept; there was nothing wrong with him; she liked him; he was agreeable and devoted; her mother would be delighted.

He called for them on the night of the party in a taxi. It was an unexpected luxury. He won Mrs. Sturgis at once. Why, he was perfectly charming, a delightful young man! What in the world was Jeannette thinking about? She laughed violently at everything he said, rocking back and forth on the hard leather seat in the stuffy interior of the cab, convulsed with mirth, her round little cheeks shaking. He was the most comical young man she’d ever known!

The taxi took them to a brilliant restaurant, gay with lights, music and hilarity. Jeannette’s blue, high-necked taffeta and her mother’s lavender velvet were sober costumes amidst the vivid apparel and low-cut toilettes of the women. But the girl was aware that no matter what her dress might be, she, herself, was beautiful. She saw the turning heads, and the eyes that trailed her as the little group followed the head-waiter to their table. The table had been reserved, the dinner ordered. Cocktails appeared, and she sipped the first she had ever tasted. Her mother was in gay spirits, and preened herself in these surroundings like a bird. Devlin seemed to know how to do everything. He was startlingly handsome in his evening clothes; the white expanse of shirt was immaculate; there were two tiny gold studs in front, and a black bow tie tied very snugly at the opening of his collar. It was no more than conventional semi-formal evening dress, and yet somehow it impressed Jeannette as magnificent. She had never noticed how becoming the costume was to a man before. She realized, as she glanced at him, he was the first young man she had ever known, who had taken her out in the evening and worn evening dress. Roy had been too poor; the tuxedo he had had at college was shabby; she had never seen him wear it. She studied Devlin now critically. His hair was coal black, coarse, a trifle wavy; he wet it, when he combed it, and it caught a high light now and then. His eyebrows were heavy and bushy like his hair, the eyes, themselves, deep-set but alive with twinkles and laughter. They were expressive eyes, she thought, capable of subtlest meanings. His nose was straight, his mouth large and red, and his big even teeth glistened between the vivid lips with the glitter of fine wet porcelain. He had an oval-shaped face and a vigorous pointed chin. His skin was unblemished, but the jaw, chin, and cheeks were dark blue from his close-shaven beard. It was his expression, she decided, more than the regularity of his features, that made him so handsome. In his evening dress he was extraordinarily good-looking. She judged him to be twenty-six or seven.

The dinner progressed smoothly. Devlin had evidently taken pains in ordering it, and he gave a pleased smile when Mrs. Sturgis waxed enthusiastic over some particular feature, and Jeannette echoed her praise. There was, as a matter of fact, nothing spectacular about it: oysters, chicken sauté sec,—a specialty of the restaurant,—a vegetable or two, salad with a red sauce—Mrs. Sturgis thought it most curious and pronounced it delicious—an ice. To his guests, it seemed the most wonderful dinner they had ever eaten. The girl was impressed; her mother flatteringly excited.

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

Devlin called for the check, glanced at it, dropped a large bill on the silver tray, and when the change was brought, amounting to two dollars and some cents,—as both Jeannette and her mother noted,—waved it away to the waiter with a negligent gesture. It was lordly; it was magnificent!

Jeannette loved such ways of doing things, she loved the lights and music, the excellent food, the deferential service, the gorgeous restaurant, the beautifully gowned women. She would like to own one rich and sumptuous evening dress like theirs, and to be able to wear it to such a magnificent place as this, and queen it over them all. She knew she could do it; she could dazzle the entire room.

Devlin guided his guests through the revolving glass doors to the street, the taxi-cab starter blew his whistle shrilly, a car rolled up, the door was held open for them to enter, and banged shut. The starter in his gold-braided uniform and shining brass buttons, touched his cap respectfully, and the taxi rolled out into the traffic. Jeannette thrilled to the luxuriousness and extravagance of it all.

It was the same at the theatre. They had aisle seats in the sixth row; the musical comedy was delightful, spectacular, magnificent, in tune with everything else that evening. After the theatre, their escort insisted upon their going to a brilliant café where the music was glorious, and where Jeannette and her mother sipped ginger-ale and Devlin drank beer. Mrs. Sturgis commented half-a-dozen times upon the peel of a lemon, deftly cut into cork-screw shape, and twisted into her glass, which gave the ginger-ale quite a delightful flavor. It was Devlin’s idea; she had heard him suggest it to the waiter. He was a very remarkable young man, —very!

They were swept home in another taxi-cab, and he refused to let them thank him for the glorious evening. He hinted he would like to call, and perhaps be asked to dinner. But of course, that was not to be thought of! A grand person like him coming to one of their simple little meals, with Mrs. Sturgis or Jeannette jumping up to wait on the table? That would be perfectly ridiculous! But he might call some time, or perhaps go with them to a Sunday concert. He would be delighted, of course. He held his hat high above his head as he said good-night, and stood at the foot of the steps until they were safely inside.

It had been a memorable evening; they really had had a most wonderful time; Mr. Devlin certainly knew how to do things! Mrs. Sturgis, carefully pinning a sheet about her lavender velvet preparatory to hanging it in the closet, began planning how they could entertain him.

“Is he fond of music, do you know, dearie? I think we could get seats for some Sunday afternoon concert, and then bring him home to tea. It would be much better to ask him here than to go to any of those little tea-places; we could get some crumpets and toast them ourselves, and might buy a few little French pastries. You could see he was dying to be asked.”

Jeannette felt vaguely irritated.

“Oh, let’s not rush him, Mama.”

“Rush him? Who’s talking of rushing him, I’d like to know? The young man is a very delightful, presentable gentleman, and he’s evidently taken a great fancy to you, and he’s even been nice to your poor old mother. I declare, Janny, I can’t sometimes make you out! I just was proposing we extend him a little hospitality in return for his extremely lavish entertainment. He’s been most kind and considerate, and the least we can do....”

Jeannette’s mind wandered. It certainly would be wonderful, went her roving thoughts, to have money, and dress gorgeously, and go about to such magnificent restaurants, and then taxi off to the theatre, whenever one wanted to! It would be wonderful, too, to have somebody strong and resourceful always looking out for one’s comfort and enjoyment, paying all the bills, never bothering one about money, consulting and gratifying one’s slightest whim!

She went to sleep in a haze of golden imaginings. Her mother’s voice in the next room planning various schemes, commenting upon Mr. Devlin’s attractiveness, grew fainter and fainter, and finally dwindled silent.

§ 7

But the next morning Jeannette vigorously attacked the subject. There had been nothing extraordinary about the past evening. A man in conventional evening dress had taken her mother and herself to dine in a restaurant, and afterwards had driven them in a taxi to the theatre. What was there so remarkable in that? It was being done all the time; the restaurants were packed full of such parties night after night. It had merely seemed wonderful to a girl and her mother unused to such entertainment.

Jeannette kept reminding herself of this throughout the ensuing day. She did not propose to have her head turned, as her mother’s evidently was, by a little splurge of money. She was not in love with Martin Devlin, she did not care a snap of her finger for him, she would not marry him if he had a million! There was no sense in letting him think she would even consider such an idea. She couldn’t help it, if he was in love with her. She had done nothing to encourage him, and she didn’t propose to begin. No, the whole thing had better come to an end; it had gone quite far enough; she’d have to call off any silly plans her mother might be making.... What! Marry Martin Devlin and give up her job? Never in the world!

But Jeannette found she was dealing with a personality very different from that of Roy Beardsley. Mr. Devlin had one idea, one object: the idea was Jeannette, the object matrimony. He besieged her with attentions, he gave her no peace, he hounded her footsteps. Mrs. Sturgis threw herself whole-heartedly upon his side. She was deaf to her daughter’s remonstrances; she refused to be discourteous, as she described it, to a young man so attentive and considerate. Mother and daughter actually quarrelled about the matter, refused to speak to each other for a whole day, made up with tears and kisses, but this in no jot altered Mrs. Sturgis’ purpose of being Mr. Devlin’s friend and advocate.

Jeannette was not to be shaken. She did not desire Mr. Devlin, she did not want to marry anyone, she had no intention of abandoning her work.

“You got to marry me, Jeannette,” this purposeful young man said to her one day.

“Never,” said Jeannette resolutely.

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

“Well, we’ll see about that. I don’t care for you; I wouldn’t marry you if I did; you are only annoying me with your attentions. I would really like you much better if you’d leave me alone.”

The very evening this conversation took place she found a beautiful little scarab pin waiting for her when she got home. She mailed it back to him at The Gibbs Engraving Company. The next day came perfume, and a day or two later a large roll of new magazines; he sent her candy, flowers, theatre tickets. She gave the candy away, threw the flowers out of the window, tore up the theatre tickets and sent the torn paste-boards back to him in a letter in which she told him further gifts would only anger her. They kept on coming with undiminished regularity. She wept; her mother scolded her; Devlin called. There was no evading him; he was everywhere.

One day, he grabbed her, took her in his arms, beat down her resistance, strained her to him, and kissed her savagely, hungrily on the mouth. In that instant she capitulated; something broke within her; an overwhelming force rose like a great tide, welled up over her head and submerged her. She wilted in his embrace, succumbed like a crushed lily and longed for him to trample on her.

Love, glorious, intoxicating, passionate, had sprung to life in her. She resented it; she was helpless against it. She fought—fought—fought to no purpose. It rode her, rowelled her, harried her. Martin Devlin had conquered her heart, but her will was another matter.

§ 8

Jeannette became miserably unhappy. She imagined she had experienced all love’s emotions when Roy Beardsley possessed her thoughts. She laughed now when she thought of them. She had been little more than a school girl then, with a school girl’s capacity for love,—a maiden’s love, virginal, immature. It was not to be compared with this flame that seethed within her now. Oh, God! Her love for Martin Devlin was an agony! For the first time in her life she knew the full meaning of fear. She feared this man with a fear like terror. Ruthlessly he obtruded himself into her life, ruthlessly he assaulted the securest fastnesses of it, ruthlessly, she dreaded, he would strike them down and subdue her will as easily as he had won her love. He was in her thoughts all day and all night; she trembled when he was near her; it was torment when they were apart. Again and again, she returned to her determination to put him out of her life; he would only cause her trouble; there was only unhappiness in store for them both. It was useless. Neither her thoughts nor Devlin had any mercy upon her. She knew at last what love, real love, was like; it was a raging fire, white-hot, scorifying, consuming.

His lips never again found hers after that first terrible moment of weakness. Sometimes he caught her to him and strained her in his arms, but her cheek or hair or neck received his eager kiss. She resisted these embraces with all her strength, struggled in his grasp. She was mortally afraid of him; mortally afraid of herself. Desire throbbed in all her veins. She clung desperately to the last redoubt in her defenses behind which every instinct told her safety lay. She would allow him no avenue of approach; she would tolerate no moment’s weakness in her fortitude.

“Janny, you love me, and, by God, I love you. You’re the finest woman I’ve ever known, Janny. When are you going to marry me?” Martin had his arms about her, but both her hands were pressed against his breast. He seemed so big and powerful as he stood holding her; she knew his clean shaven chin was rough with his beard, firm and cold; he smelled fragrantly of cigars.

Ah, love! That was one thing,—she had no control over her heart,—but marriage was another. That was very different indeed.

“Martin dear,—I do love you,—I’m proud I love you. But I don’t want to get married!”

“Why not?”

Jeannette sighed wearily.

“I don’t suppose I can ever make you understand. I like to live my own life; I like to come and go as I please; I like to have the money I earn myself to spend the way I like. And besides that, I love my work, I love being at the office. I’ve been part of this business now for three years; I’ve helped to build it up, I know every detail; it belongs to me in a way. Does that sound unreasonable to you?”

“No, not unreasonable exactly. But I don’t think you see it right; you attach too much importance to it. You’ll be just as free and independent as my wife as you are now.”

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

“And then there’s Mr. Corey. I wouldn’t feel right about leaving him; he depends on me so much.”

“Well, for God’s sake!” exclaimed Martin. “Do you mean to tell me you would let that stand in the way?”

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

“And then there’s Mama,” went on the girl. “She’s so happy now, living with me. She doesn’t have to work so hard any more, and she goes to concerts and visits Alice and does as she pleases. You see, if I married, that would have to come to an end. I don’t know what she would do.”

“Why, she could do a lot of things,” argued Martin. “She might go and live with your sister, for instance, or come with us; she could divide her time between the two of you.”

“Alice would love to have her,” admitted Jeannette. “Mama’s crazy about Etta, and of course it would make it easier for Allie. But I don’t think Mama would consent to live with either of her children.”

“I’ve always been a fan for your ma,” said Martin, “and that just shows how dead sensible she is. Your sister’s husband and I could each send her twenty-five dollars a month, and she could find some place to board easily for that.”

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

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

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

“Well, there you are! You haven’t got a real reason on earth for not marrying me to-morrow.”

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

“You’re just playing with your happiness, dearie,” her mother said to her. “Martin Devlin’s a fine young man. You could go a long way before you’d find a better husband. I want to see my dearie-girl in a little home of her own like her sister’s.”

“Oh, Janny,” said Alice, “you don’t know what fun, being married is! Why, after you’ve become a wife, you feel differently about the whole world. Why, I’d marry anybody rather than not be married at all! ... And then, Janny, you haven’t got the faintest idea how sweet it is to have a baby of your own. Etta is just the joy of our lives. You ought to see Roy playing with her when he comes home from the office and I am getting her bath ready!”

Jeannette studied her sister’s radiant face curiously. There was a mystery here; something she did not understand. This was the girl who had borne her child in agony, who had endured nearly fifteen hours of labor, who had been torn and ripped, and had lain helpless on her back for six long months, fighting her way back to strength and normality, despairing and weakly crying! Yet here she was talking of the joy of having a baby, urging her sister to a like experience!

It was puzzling. How soon mothers forgot! Six months of helplessness already unremembered! It had not passed from Jeannette’s recollection. It had been terrible—terrible! ... And yet she would like to have a baby of her own,—a baby without that fearful ordeal,—a little Martin Devlin. She kissed Etta on the back of her wrinkled fat neck where it was sweetly perspiry and fuzzy with the lint from her blankets.

§ 9

Jeannette was equally sure of two things: she loved Martin with all her soul; she would never consent to give up her position with Mr. Corey and marry him. Martin, her mother, Alice, even Mr. Corey, who soon learned of the situation, could not persuade her.

Corey had a long talk with her about the matter.

“I don’t know very much about your young man; Gibbs speaks well of him. He tells me he’s been with them a little more than a year, and is their star salesman. I think he has more possibilities in him than that. Of course you never can tell. I confess I was impressed when I first met him. Somebody at the Quoin Club had him there as a guest and introduced us, and he talked good business from the start. I don’t think much of Gibbs’ engraving, but that’s no reflection on Devlin. Personally I think you ought to marry. I advised you the same way before. Perhaps you were right in not being too hasty in that instance. I can’t know, of course, whether you’re seriously interested or not. Your heart has got to tell you that. If you love Devlin well enough and think you’ll be happy with him, you ought to marry him. I hate to see you wasting your life down here in this office. You’re deserving a better chance. Business is no place for a girl. You ought to be building a home and rearing children of your own. If you make as good a wife as you have a secretary,” he ended with a smile, “your husband will have no occasion to find fault with you.”

But she could not bring herself to give up her independence. That was what stuck in her throat. She came back to it repeatedly. A little apartment like Alice’s to share with Martin, to fix and furnish,—it appealed to her imagination, it had its attractions,—but it would be such a leap in the dark! She was so sure of her happiness living the way she was—why alter it? Yet was there any happiness for her without Martin? She tried to picture it, and her heart misgave her.

Some of the glamor that surrounded him at first had now disappeared. He no longer seemed a scion of wealth, a prince, a lordling, to whistle menials to his beck and call, and to swagger his way in and out of restaurants, leaving a trail of scattered largess in his wake. Familiarity had stripped him of the cloak of splendor with which he first had dazzled her. She liked him all the better without it, for it had only been bluff with him, his way of trying to impress her. She knew him now for an ever merry soul, an amused and amusing companion, possessing rare thoughtfulness, a little vain, a little opinionated, vigorous, direct, domineering, who could, if he so desired, charm an angel Gabriel to softness. He had his faults; she thought she knew them all. He was happy-go-lucky, had small regard for time, appointments, or others’ feelings; he was extravagant in all his tastes; and loved pleasure inordinately. But there was a charm about him that made up to her a thousandfold for these trifling short-comings. He was the handsomest of men, generous and invariably kind-hearted, he could win a smile from an image, or accomplish the impossible, once his mind was made up.

It was a satisfaction to learn that he earned only fifty dollars a week. She had thought him a millionaire at first. He threw money about with a prodigality that distressed her. His theatre tickets, his gifts, his unceasing attentions cost money,—a great deal of money. She knew his salary did not warrant it. She was glad he got but fifty a week,—only fifteen more than she did, herself. Roy was getting forty. Martin seemed more human to her after she knew the size of his salary; he was more comprehensible.

And here, once more, was confronting her the matter of finances were she to marry. She and her mother together enjoyed an income that was never less than two hundred dollars a month. She contributed eighty, as her share towards rent and food, and had still sixty dollars a month left to spend as she chose, for clothes, for a gift to Alice, or for delightful adventures with her mother, lunches and theatres on Saturday afternoons, and the little surprises that were so delightful. Would she have anything like as much out of the two hundred dollars Martin earned if she married him? What part of his weekly pay envelope was he likely to give her to run their house, and to spend on herself?

It was only fair, since he pressed his suit so vigorously, that this all-important matter should be brought up and discussed. She did not consider herself mercenary. The question of the wife’s allowance in marriage seemed a vital one to her. She had tasted independence, and did not consider she should be expected to relinquish it in marriage. Alice and Roy got along in amiable fashion on this point. Roy kept five dollars a week for himself and gave his wife the rest of his pay envelope. Sometimes toward the end of the week he would ask her for fifty cents or a dollar to tide him over until Saturday. That arrangement seemed to Jeannette eminently fair. Roy gave all he could be reasonably expected to, she thought; five dollars a week was about as little as he could get along on for carfare, lunches and tobacco. Of course, his clothing and the pleasures he and his wife shared, came out of what Alice was able to save from week to week,—and she did manage to save a little. But, as Jeannette had often remarked, Alice was different from her. She, Jeannette, had won for herself an economic value to be measured in dollars and cents, and it was not fair to expect her to forego this for a hazy, uncertain condition in which her wishes and wants were only to be gratified at her husband’s whim. It was better to have a frank discussion and settle the matter.

Martin shouted a delighted laugh when she expounded this thought.

“Why, my darling,” he said, “don’t bother your head about it. You can have every cent I make and if that isn’t enough, I’ll go out and steal for you.”

“But seriously, Martin, what do you think a wife should have out of her husband’s income? Now, I’m not saying I’ll marry you——”

“You darling!”

“No—no,—be sensible, Martin. I want to thresh this out. If I should consent to marry you, what would you think would be a fair proportion of what you earn that I could count on as my own?”

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

“What would I be wanting money for?” she repeated. “Why, what do you think? ... For clothes, for pleasures, to throw away if I liked!”

“Aw, hear her!” he laughed. “Why, my darling, I’ll buy you your clothes and everything your little heart desires if only you’ll say ‘yes’ to me.”

“Martin, I’ll never say ‘yes’ until this is settled,” she said spiritedly, her eyes with a queer light in them.

Martin was serious for a moment.

“Sweet woman,” he said earnestly, “you can have it all. Divide it any way you like. I don’t care in the least. There’s plenty for the two of us.”

But Jeannette would consider nothing so indefinite. She did not want a great deal, but she wanted to feel sure of something that would be regarded as entirely her own. With difficulty she persuaded him to talk about the matter in earnest. They agreed that if his salary were equally divided, and Jeannette paid all the table expenses out of her half while he paid the rent and everything else out of his, that would be an equitable arrangement. That satisfied Jeannette; it gave her something to think about when she considered marrying him.

But even with this much settled, she was no nearer making up her mind than she had ever been. Marriage meant giving up the office, the close affiliations she had formed there. Propinquity had made her fellow-workers her friends; she knew them all intimately, knew something of their private lives, rejoiced or sorrowed with them at the inevitable changes of fortune. When an eminent surgeon from Germany performed a miraculous operation on Mr. Featherstone’s little son and gave him the use of his legs on which he had never walked, she shared his father’s joy; when Mr. Cavendish married a charming Vassar girl who was the daughter of a wealthy Wall Street banker, she congratulated him with a real pleasure; when Miss Holland’s seventeen-year-old nephew secured an appointment at Annapolis and successfully passed the entrance examination, she took keen satisfaction in her friend’s delight. She was shocked and saddened when Sandy MacGregor’s wife died, and when Mr. Allister was taken ill with pneumonia no one inquired more frequently about him while he struggled desperately to live, or felt more pleasure when it was announced he had turned the corner and would before long be back again at his desk. She was glad when Francis Holme, Walt Chase and Sandy MacGregor each received a substantial gift of the company’s common stock at Christmas-time, and was correspondingly sorry that Horatio Stephens and Willis Corey shared equally in the honorarium. When Miss Peckenbaugh asked for a raise in salary, and her request was endorsed by Mr. Allister, she took it upon herself to tell Mr. Corey certain facts about the young lady that had become known to her, and when as a result, the request was refused and Miss Peckenbaugh in anger resigned, she was amused and delighted. At the same time she urged and secured a five-dollar raise per week for old Major Ticknor who had a little blind grandchild he was helping to maintain in a private sanitarium. Young Tommy Livingston in the bindery had impressed her upon a certain occasion with his brightness and ability, and she recommended him warmly to Mr. Corey, and had the satisfaction of seeing him promoted to a desk in Mr. Kipps’ department. At her suggestion, window-boxes filled with flowers were put along the windows of the press-room that faced the street; she persuaded the firm to install a lunch-room for the women employees on the eighth floor, and it was her idea that a regular trained nurse be engaged and established in a small but complete infirmary within the building. She induced Mr. Corey to offer a certain rising young author, whose work had been her discovery and who was showing steady improvement, an increase in royalty percentage, and she prevented the publication of a certain piece of fiction, which Corey had given her to read, because she considered it vicious, despite Mr. Allister’s strong recommendation. She advised her chief to instruct Horatio Stephens to order a series of articles from a woman writer whose work in another magazine had interested her, and she urged him not to engage a certain Madame Desseau of Paris, a designer of women’s clothes, as the fashion editor of The Ladies’ Fortune. Jeannette had a hand in almost every important step that was taken. Mr. Corey respected her judgment, frequently consulted her, and sometimes followed her advice even when contrary to his inclinations. He often told her that he believed her intuition was unerring and the greatest possible help to him.

§ 10

That particular winter proved an exceptionally strenuous and exacting one for Mr. Corey. He was worn out with work and with the ever increasing demands upon him, demands that came more and more from the outside.

The P. P. Prescott Publishing Company, a house with a reputation of half a century of high literary output, through mismanagement was in danger of bankruptcy. While the “P P P” books were famous the world over, the bank that had financed the concern for years was tired of the arrangement; the tottering house owed the Chandler B. Corey Company nearly a hundred thousand dollars for subscription premiums Francis Holme had sold it, and it was a foregone conclusion that if the Prescott Company failed, there would be no way of collecting the debt. Mr. Corey wanted to take over the Prescott Company entirely,—it could have been bought at the time for practically nothing by assuming its obligations,—but this was one of their chief’s bold and brilliant ideas that Mr. Kipps and Mr. Featherstone opposed and, to Jeannette’s intense regret, persuaded him against. The result was that instead of absorbing the Prescott Company, and letting the Corey organization administer its various activities, Mr. Corey was forced to become chairman of the board which undertook to put the older publishing house on its feet again, and to do most of the work himself.

In addition to this he was compelled to accept the leadership of a committee appointed by the Publishers’ Association to confer with the postal authorities in Washington regarding the rates on second class mail matter which were in danger of being raised. He had been obliged to make several trips to the capital. He was one of the directors of a large paper mill which, in conjunction with some other publishers, he had purchased. He had shown an interest in local politics and had been put on the Republican State Central Committee; he was one of the governors of the Swanee Valley Golf Club, and executor of the estate of Julius Zachariah Rosenbaum, a wealthy Jewish capitalist, whose autobiography he had published during the old Hebrew’s life. No one outside the immediate members of the firm, with the exception of Jeannette, knew that Rosenbaum had taken sixty thousand subscriptions to Corey’s Commentary when the story of his life was appearing in serial form in that magazine, and when the book was published he ordered twenty-five thousand copies, presumably to distribute among his friends. Poor Rosenbaum! It was doubtful if he had a score, and when he died there was universal rejoicing throughout the country that the most grasping of moneyed barons, who had consistently obstructed the wheels of progress, was gone. But he left a large slice of his wealth in charitable endowments, and named Chandler B. Corey as one of the executors of his will.

These responsibilities weighed heavily upon Mr. Corey’s health and strength. He had been troubled with indigestion for several months and his general condition was not good. In addition there were domestic cares. With the increase of their fortunes, Mrs. Corey had moved herself and her family into a stone front house on Riverside Drive where she proceeded to maintain an expensive order of existence. She had begged hard for this new home, and her husband weakly had given way. He never seemed able to refuse his wife anything, Jeannette thought. He could be strong about other matters, but where Mrs. Corey and his son, Willis, were concerned he was foolishly irresolute. Mrs. Corey established herself in great feather in the new house, hired four servants in addition to a liveried chauffeur, who drove her Pope-Toledo, and began to entertain lavishly. Her special victims were authors, particularly visiting ones from England, and if any of them happened to be titled, it was always the occasion for an elaborate affair. Mr. Corey hated these entertainments, and to avoid them frequently went to Washington on the plea of pressing business connected with the postal rates. The new order was exceedingly expensive. Jeannette could not understand why Mr. Corey put up with it.

But his wife’s reckless expenditure was a matter of small concern in comparison with his anxiety for his daughter. The unfortunate girl had fallen during a sudden epileptic seizure, and struck her head upon a brass fender at the hearth. She had lain for three months in a semi-conscious condition, and though treatments had partially restored her mind, she was not wholly competent and would never again be able to go about without an attendant. It was a great grief to her father. His troubles had been further augmented at this particular time by Willis, who had been paying marked attention to a married society woman with an unenviable reputation for many affairs with young men. Mr. Corey solved this particular problem by sending Willis on a hunting expedition to South Africa with Eric Ericsson, the Norwegian explorer. Ostensibly the young man went to write articles about the trip for Corey’s Commentary. It was announced he was to be gone for a year. Jeannette was aware that Mr. Corey had paid Ericsson five thousand dollars to take his son with him; the money had been given, of course, in the form of a contribution to scientific research.

It was small wonder that Corey’s physician ordered a complete rest for him in the early spring of the year. The man was threatened with a nervous breakdown, his doctor told him; the matter of his indigestion must have his serious attention; he must take a vacation, and he must take it immediately. Affairs at the office made it impossible, at the moment, for this vacation to be of any length; even Jeannette realized that it would be hazardous for the company to be left without Mr. Corey’s guiding hand on the helm. It was decided that he should go to White Sulphur Springs, play golf as much as he was able, give especial attention to his diet, and keep in touch with the office by mail and telegraph. He would be able, it was hoped, to get a complete change of climate and a proper rest by this arrangement.

“Of course, you’ll have to go with me, Miss Sturgis,” he said, wheeling round upon her when this conclusion had been reached. “I couldn’t do a thing down there without you.”

“Why, certainly,” the girl answered. As their eyes met a moment, the same thought passed through both minds.

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

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

“But my pupils, dearie,—my little pupils!” she cried. “What will the darlings do without their lessons?”

“Well, the little darlings can get along without them,” Jeannette told her. “When their parents want to take them off to the mountains or the seashore, they just take them, and there’s never any question about paying for cancelled lessons. I guess you can do the same for once in your life.... Anyhow, there’s no use arguing about it, Mama. Mr. Corey needs me, and if you don’t go with me, I’ll go without you. It’s perfectly ridiculous that we have to be chaperoned! He’s like my father! ... But I thought you’d enjoy the trip. You know it isn’t going to cost either of us a penny!”

“Why, of course, dearie,—but you kind of spring this on me. I haven’t had a chance to think it over.... Of course, I’d love it.”

§ 11

White Sulphur Springs was beautiful, the weather perfection; Jeannette enjoyed every hour of her stay. She had wanted to get off by herself for some time, to think calmly over what she must do about Martin Devlin. He had given her one of his hungry kisses when he said good-bye, and she felt at the moment he was dearer to her than life itself. He was urging her with voice, eyes and lips to be his wife. A realization had come to her that she could temporize with the situation no longer; she must either agree to marry him, or in some way bring the intimacy to an end.

Corey played golf mornings and afternoons. Jeannette watched his mail, and answered most of it herself, only consulting him when necessary. She would give him brief memorandums of what his mail contained, and show him the carbons of the letters she had dispatched, signed with his name, “per J. S.” He did not have to give more than an hour a day to his affairs.

The doctor had warned him about his diet, and had directed him to take a hydrochloric acid prescription three times a day. Jeannette watched his food as well as his mail; she studied the menus in the dining-room and ordered his meals in advance, so that he would be sure to eat the proper food; she made him take his medicine, and persuaded him to try some electric baths that were operated in connection with the hotel. She kept a chart of his weight, and when they met at the breakfast table she would inquire about his night. She saw with satisfaction that he was improving steadily; his face, neck and hands were turning a healthy bronze color, his appetite was excellent, his sleep undisturbed.

At first a problem presented itself in Mrs. Sturgis. The little woman was intensely excited at being so closely associated with Mr. Corey. His presence agitated her; she felt it was her duty to entertain him, to evince an interest in his comings and goings, to maintain a pleasant and polite ripple of conversation at the table or whenever they were together. She believed it was expected of her to show an interest equal to her daughter’s in the state of his health, and that she must always inquire how he felt and how he had passed the night. Jeannette knew Mr. Corey hated this kind of fussy solicitude; it annoyed and irritated him. The girl suffered acutely whenever her mother commenced to ply him with her prim inquiries, or when she pretended to be interested in his golf game about which she knew, and her daughter and Mr. Corey knew she knew, not one thing. Jeannette suspected there were moments when Mr. Corey could have strangled her with delight.

There came a distressing hour eventually to mother and daughter. Jeannette had to tell her that Mr. Corey did not like her concern as to his welfare, that he had come down to White Sulphur Springs to rest, and that he must be spared all possible conversation. Mrs. Sturgis wept. She declared she had never been so “insulted” in her life, that she was going to pack her trunk and go home at once.

It was in the midst of this scene that a bell-boy of the hotel brought Jeannette a telegram addressed to Mr. Corey. She tore it open. It was from his wife.

“Dear Chandler, am lonesome without you. Wish to join you for rest of your stay. Wire me if I may come. Can leave at once. Love.

Rachael.”

Jeannette shut her teeth slowly as she read the words. It was most unfortunate. Mrs. Corey would upset her husband, would interfere with his daily routine, clash with him at once over his golf, object to the time he gave to it, find fault with Jeannette’s presence, angrily resent her supervision of his health and meals, so that little of the hoped-for good would result from these weeks of rest and recreation. And Mr. Corey would amiably agree to letting her join him!

Jeannette’s distress soon persuaded Mrs. Sturgis to forget her own grievances. Once her sympathy for her daughter was aroused, she waxed indignant over Mrs. Corey’s selfishness and lack of consideration.

“Why, the woman must be crazy,” she said warmly. “He came down here just to get away from her!”

“Oh, I know,” murmured Jeannette, “and as sure as I show him her telegram he will tell me to wire her to come at once.”

“Well, I wouldn’t tell him anything about it,” declared Mrs. Sturgis.

They fell to discussing the situation. After long consultation and several efforts at drafting it, they concocted the following answer:

“Mr. Corey is not well. I think it would be unwise for you to join him just now. He is getting a maximum amount of rest and sleep and anything tending to interfere with these I believe would be unfortunate. Will keep you advised of his condition.

Jeannette Sturgis.”

In the middle of the night that followed, Jeannette awoke, and considered what she had done. As she lay awake reviewing the matter, the conviction slowly came to her that she had committed a dreadful blunder. Her mouth grew dry; a cold sweat broke out on her. She got up, went to the window and gazed out upon the flat moonlight that filled the hotel garden below with evil shadows.

Mrs. Corey was certain to be wild! She would be insane with anger! Jeannette could follow the workings of her mind: Was her husband’s secretary to presume to tell her what she should do where his welfare was concerned? Was this stenographer at so much a week to take it upon herself to tell her employer’s wife she did not think her presence at her husband’s side a good thing for him? Was she implying that it would be harmful, distressful for him? Did she have such entire confidence in herself and her judgment that she could send a telegram like that without even consulting him? ...

Oh, the heavens were about to fall! It was an irreparable mistake! Mr. Corey, himself, would be furious with her! The mental distress she had been anxious to save him, she had, with her own hand, brought ten times more heavily upon him! She was a fool,—an utter, inexcusable fool! She was—was—was——

She did not sleep the rest of the night. She rolled and tossed in her bed, and walked the floor.

In the morning she went straight to Mr. Corey and told him what she had done. His seriousness as he frowned, and pulled at his moustache confirmed her worst fears. He made no comment; asked a few questions; there was nothing more. Jeannette went on talking volubly, at times incoherently, for the first time in all the years she had been his secretary, trying to justify herself. Suddenly a rush of tears blinded her; she tried to check them; it was useless.

“Well, well, well, Miss Sturgis,” Corey said consolingly patting her folded hands. “You mustn’t take it so hard. It’s not such a serious matter. You’re making too much of it. I guess I can square it for both of us.”

He drew a sheet of hotel paper toward him and scribbled a couple of lines with his fountain pen.

“Here,” he said, shoving it towards her. “Send her this telegram and see how it works.”

Jeannette read what he had written through blurred vision.

“Dear Rachael, Miss Sturgis has shown me your wire of yesterday. I agree with her that it would be a mistake for you to join me just at present. Am writing you. Much love.

Chandler.”

The girl looked up at him with swimming eyes. Impulsively she caught his hand; his generosity overwhelmed her; in a moment she had pressed the hand to her lips.

§ 12

They returned to New York the end of March. Mrs. Sturgis had been in a flutter of excitement during the last ten days of their stay; she was madly anxious to get home to see Alice, who had written she was going to have another baby. Both her mother and sister were distressed at the news; they felt it was unfortunate she was going to have one so soon after her first. Little Etta was not a year old yet.

On Washington’s Birthday, which fell on a Friday that year, Martin Devlin had come all the way from New York to see Jeannette. He had brought with him in his pocket a flawless, claw-set diamond solitaire in a little plush jeweller’s box and had begged Jeannette to allow him to slip it on her finger. She had found herself missing him during the weeks of separation more than she had believed it possible she could miss anyone; she missed his big hands and his big voice, his indefatigable solicitude, his joyous laugh, his unwavering love for her. In the months,—it was close to a year,—that she had known him, she had grown dependent upon these; Martin was part of her life now; she could not imagine it without him; love had enriched the existence of both. But she was no nearer marrying him than she had ever been. During the weeks of sunshine, the hours of solitude and thinking she had enjoyed, it seemed to her that marriage would be a terrible mistake; she believed she saw her destiny lying straight ahead; she had chosen a vocation, and like a nun, who renounces marriage, she too must give up all thought of being a wife. She must pursue her life work unhampered by domesticity. Not forever would she be Mr. Corey’s secretary; there were heights beyond she planned to attain. She told herself she had the capacity of being a successful executive; some day she would hold a position like Miss Holland’s, have a department of her own. Walt Chase had charge of the Mail Order business; one of these days he would be promoted to something more responsible, and Jeannette intended then to ask Mr. Corey to give her his place. She knew she could do the work,—perhaps even better than Walt Chase. She had plans already to make it larger and to get out special literature designed to arouse women’s interest. Walt Chase was getting seventy-five dollars a week now. She would like to be earning that much. She knew what she would do with it: she’d begin to put by a hundred a month, and invest it in good securities; when she grew old or wanted to take a vacation, she would have something saved up. She had only commenced to think of these matters recently, but now the idea fired her. It would be wonderful to have a private income of one’s own. And perhaps she might take her mother with her on a little jaunt to Europe! ... But matrimony? No, marriage was too great a risk, too much of an experiment. She acknowledged she loved Martin Devlin as much as she could ever love any man. Of that she was sure. She was not equally sure she would always be happy with him, that she would like married life itself. Why risk something that might bring her untold sadness?

So Jeannette had argued before Martin arrived to see her and so she had planned to tell him. It was a familiar conclusion with her, but this time she determined that he should have the truth and she would convince him that she could never marry him. But when Martin put his big fingers around her arm and drew her strongly to him, crushing her in his embrace while he forced his lips against hers, she wanted to swoon in his arms and so die. The weakness was but momentary; she fled from him, won control of herself again, and the bars were up once more between them. But she had not been able to bring herself to enunciate her high resolve; she had refused the ring, yet Martin had returned to New York with the confident feeling that some day she would wear it.

Mr. Corey had entirely regained his old buoyancy during the six weeks’ rest. He came back to his desk with all the dynamic energy which had so impressed Jeannette when she first became his secretary. She, too, was glad to be home again, back in her own office, resuming her daily routine, gathering up the threads of activity and influence she loved to have within her grasp, and seeing Martin every day. Alice, with her round eyes reflecting in their depths that same curious light Jeannette had noticed when the first baby was coming, welcomed her mother and sister in the gayest of spirits. She was having not nearly the same degree of discomfort, she told them, that she had had while carrying Etta. She made them come to dinner the night they arrived in New York; she wanted them to see the baby, and to show them the sewing machine Roy was buying for her on the installment plan. Martin was included in the party. This troubled Jeannette a little, for it seemed to establish him in the family circle.

She had returned from White Sulphur Springs on Sunday. On Tuesday, Mr. Corey did not come to the office all day. Jeannette had expected him; he had said nothing to her about being absent; she had no idea where he was. On Wednesday, when he came in, in the middle of the morning, a strained white look upon his face told her at once that something had gone wrong. He rang for her almost immediately, and indicated a chair for her, while he instructed the operator at the telephone switch-board he was not to be disturbed.

“Miss Sturgis,” he began, working a troubled thumb and forefinger at the ends of his moustache, “I have some unhappy, news for you; it has been unhappy for me, and I fear it will be equally so for you. Mrs. Corey as you know is a high-strung, temperamental woman. You’ve no doubt observed she had a decidedly suspicious nature....”

Jeannette’s heart stood still. In a flash she saw what was coming. A gathering roar began mounting in her ears, every muscle grew tense. She could see Mr. Corey’s mouth moving, his lips forming words and she heard his voice, but what he was saying, was meaningless to her; she could get no sense out of it. Suddenly he came to the word “divorce.” Her whole nature seemed to have been waiting for him to say it; as he pronounced it, she sat bolt upright, and a quick convulsion passed through her. At once her mind was clear and she was able to follow everything he was saying.

“... wrote her a long letter from the hotel. I was loving and affectionate in it—as affectionate as I knew how to be, for I feared the unfortunate matter of the telegrams would anger her. I think I wrote some eight or nine pages, and I tried to explain that you had been merely actuated by your solicitude for me. In my anxiety to placate her, I spoke very harshly of you, told her that you realised you had overstepped your province, that I had given you a severe reprimand and that you were much chagrined. I explained to her carefully your mother was with us, but she knew that was to be before we left. I assured her of my devotion. I got no answer. I suspected before we reached New York that she was at outs with me, but there have been other occasions when this was so, and I had no doubt that I could soothe her injured feelings. She had always resented your being my secretary; of course, you’ve known that. I did not dream, however, that she was as angry with me as she evidently is. She has shut herself into her own apartment at home and declines to see me; she is preparing to file against me a suit for absolute divorce, accusing me of improper conduct with you at White Sulphur Springs, claiming that your mother was bribed into conniving——”

“Oh!” gasped Jeannette.

“I am telling you these unpleasant details, so that you can fully grasp the situation. You will have to know in any case, and I think it is only fair to you to give you the whole truth from the start. She has gone to Leonard and Harvester and persuaded them to represent her. I don’t know what Dick Leonard is thinking about; he has known me for twenty years. Winchell, whom I saw yesterday, has been to interview Leonard, and he informs me that a detective agency was employed to watch us while we were at the hotel, and that affidavits have been obtained from some of the hotel employees which substantiate Mrs. Corey’s allegations.”

Mr. Corey smiled wryly.

“I don’t want to go on shocking you in this fashion. I just wish to say that Winchell showed me a copy of the plea, and the statements contained in it are as odious as they are false. You and I have been spared nothing.”

Again Mr. Corey paused, and a savage frown gathered on his brow. Jeannette was trembling; she wet her lips and swallowed convulsively.

“The brunt of the attack,” he resumed after a moment, “seems to be levelled against you. Leonard told Winchell that Mrs. Corey had no desire to expose me,—that was the word used; she wishes to bring to an immediate termination a relationship which she cannot tolerate; she declines,—so Leonard states,—to remain my wife as long as you are my secretary. As Winchell points out we have no way of determining whether or not she is in earnest. Of course she cannot prove her suit; she can prove nothing; but she sees quite clearly she can blacken your reputation before the world and force you out of this office by the very publicity which is bound to be attached to the case.... It makes me angry; it makes me very angry. I have been thinking over the situation from every angle, and I would willingly, and, I confess, with a good deal of relish, contest her suit, force her to retract every word she has said against either of us, and assist you in every way I could in suing her for libel. All my life my guiding principle has been justice. I believe in justice; I believe in a square deal, and this is foul, rank and outrageously unfair. If there was any possible way of obtaining justice for you I wouldn’t care anything for myself. I would welcome the publicity; certainly I have no cause to dread it. But it would serve you hard.... Take our own office here,—how many of those people outside there would believe in your or my innocence, no matter how completely we were vindicated?

“But far more important that the opinion of any one of those out there,—or that of all of them together,—is the effect this unpleasant story would have upon your young man. No doubt he has the same confidence in you that I have, but you will appreciate that no man likes to have for a wife a girl who has been mixed up in a scandal.... You see, how it would be? ... Devlin is a fine fellow; I like him; he will make his mark. You have confided in me that you care for him.... Well, Miss Sturgis, I advise you to marry him!—marry him before this ugly story gets bruited abroad. I am convinced it will never be told. I know Mrs. Corey and I know how she will act. As soon as she hears you are married and no longer here, she will withdraw her suit and be anxious to make amends. I have no desire for a divorce. I understand all too well that it will be Mrs. Corey who will suffer if we are separated, not I, and I have the wish to protect her against herself. There are the children to think of, too. This is merely the act of an insane woman,—a woman blinded by jealousy. Outrageously unfair as it is to you, and much as I shall hate to part with you, it seems to be the wisest thing to do. Winchell advises it, and I confess when I think of your own interests and everything that is involved, I agree with him. What do you think?”

Jeannette sat staring at her folded hands. Slowly the tears welled themselves up over her lashes and splashed upon the crisp linen of her shirtwaist. She was not sorrowful; she was only hurt,—hurt and cruelly shocked that anyone could believe the things Mrs. Corey had said of her and this man who was father, friend, and counsellor to her, whom she loved and respected and who, she knew, loved and respected her in return. Their relationship during the four and a half years they had been so intimately associated had been above criticism; it had been perfect, irreproachable. Jeannette felt foully smirched by the base imputation.

“Gracious—goodness!” she said at last upon a quivering breath, her breast rising. Tears trembled on her lashes, but for the instant her eyes blazed.

“Well,” Mr. Corey said wearily after a pause, “it’s too bad,—isn’t it?”

Too bad? Too bad? Ah, yes, it was indeed too bad! Silence filled the book-lined room, the very room she had taken such pains and such delight in furnishing so tastefully. She recalled Mrs. Corey had resented that! She had put some fresh pine boughs in the earthenware pot in the corner yesterday, and the office smelled fragrantly of balsam. The rumble of the presses below sent a fine tremor through the building. Both man and girl stared at the floor. They were thinking the same things; there was no need to voice them; both understood; it was all clear now to each.

He was right. The best thing,—the only thing for her to do was to resign. That would immediately pacify his wife; it would avert the breach and save Corey from an ugly scandal which could only hurt him. And then there was herself to consider, her own good name, her mother and Alice, and there was Martin! Nothing stood in the way now of her giving him the answer for which he eagerly waited. Martin! Ah, there was a refuge for her, there was a haven ready to welcome her! He would take her to himself, protect her, shield her against these slandering tongues!

Suddenly at the thought of him, so merry and strong and confident, of his joy at the promise she was now free to make, the floodgates of her heart opened and, bowing her head upon her fiercely clasped hands, she burst into convulsive sobbing.

CHAPTER III

§ 1

June sunshine streamed in through the open windows in an avalanche of golden light and lay in bright parallelograms on the floor. Jeannette was making the bed. She was in the gayest of spirits and sang as she punched the pillows to rid them of lumpiness, and smoothed them flat. She spread the brilliant cretonne cover, with its gaudy design of pheasants, over the bed, turned it neatly back two feet from the head-board, laid the pillows in place, and folded the cretonne over them, tucking it in gently at the top. The bed-cover was not as long as it should have been, and it required nice adjustment to make it lap over the pillows. It was the Wanamaker man’s fault, Jeannette always thought, when she reached this point in her morning’s housework; she had told him with the utmost pains how she wished the cretonne to go, and it was his mistake that it was not long enough. Short as it was, it could be made to reach by allowing only a scant inch or two at the bottom. She had put the same material at the windows in narrow strips of outside curtaining, and there was a gathered valance across the top. The bedroom was “sweet,”—charming and beautifully appointed like the rest of her domain. Her mother and Alice had “raved” about everything. Martin liked it, too, though his wife wished he could find the same amount of pleasure in their little home that she did. Martin was like most men: he did not notice things, never commented upon her ideas and clever arrangements.

To her the apartment was perfection. It was situated in a building that had just been erected in the West Eighties, halfway between Broadway and the Drive. It had five rooms and the rent was fifty dollars a month, more perhaps than they ought to be paying, but Martin had argued that ten dollars one way or another did not make any particular difference and if it suited Jeannette, he was for signing the lease. So he had put his name to the formidable-looking legal document, and the young Devlins had agreed to pay the big rent and to live there for a year. They could remain in it for life, Jeannette declared, as far as she was concerned; she could not imagine ever wanting a more beautiful or a more satisfactory home.

The apartment contained all the latest improvements: electric lights, steam heat, a house telephone. The woodwork was chastely white throughout; the electrolier in the dining-room a plain dull brass; the fixtures in all the rooms were of the same lusterless metal; between dining-and living-rooms were glass doors, the panes set in squares; the bathroom floor was solid marquetry of small octagonal tiles embedded in cement, and glossy tiling rose about the walls to the height of the shoulder; the room glistened with shining nickel and flawless porcelain; the bathtub was sumptuous and had a shower arrangement with a rubber sheeting on rings to envelop the bather. Martin had grinned when his eye took in these details. He swore in his enthusiasm: by God, he certainly would enjoy a bathroom like that; it certainly would be great. But Jeannette was more intrigued with the kitchen. Here were white-painted cupboards, fragrantly smelling of new wood, and a marvellous pantry full of neat contrivances, drawers, bins and lockers. In one of them Jeannette discovered a little sawdust and a few carpenter’s shavings; they spoke eloquently of the newness and cleanliness of everything. There was a shining gas-stove, too, with a roomy oven that had an enamelled door and a bright nickel knob to it. There was even a gas heater connected with the boiler; all one had to do was to touch a match to the burner,—the renting agent explained,—and presto! the flame came up, heated the coil of copper pipe and in a moment,—oh, yes, indeed, much less than a minute!—there was the hot water!

It had seemed so miraculous to Jeannette that she had not believed it would work, but it did, perfectly. No fault was to be found with anything connected with the wonderful establishment.

There had been plenty of money with which to furnish it just as Jeannette pleased. The publishing company had presented her with a check for two hundred and fifty dollars as a wedding gift in appreciation of her faithful services, and Mr. Corey had supplemented this with one of his own for a like amount.

“No,—no,—don’t thank me,—please, Miss Sturgis,” he had said almost impatiently as he handed it to her. “I feel so badly about your going, and I can never pay you for all you’ve done for me. This is a poor evidence of my gratitude and esteem. I wish I might make it thousands instead of hundreds.”

In addition, he had sent her on the day she was married a tall silver flower vase that must have cost, Jeannette and Martin decided, almost as much as the amount of his check.

Her mother had borrowed five hundred upon the old paid-up policy, asserting that she had done so for Alice, and the older daughter was entitled to a like amount upon getting married. And besides all this, Martin had turned over to his wife on the day the lease had been signed, several hundreds more.

It appeared that a year before, about the very time he had met Jeannette, his mother died. She had lived in Watertown, New York, where Martin was born, and where she had an interest in a small grocery business. Martin’s father,—dead for sixteen years,—had been a grocer and had run a “back-room” in connection with his store, where Milwaukee beer had been dispensed but never “hard” liquor. Jeannette did not give her mother these facts when she learned them; it was nobody’s business, she contended; everybody when he came to America was a pioneer and began in a humble way. Paul Devlin’s old partner, Con Donovan, who had come over from Ballaghaderreen with him in ’73, had carried on the business after his demise, and there had been money enough to send Martin to school and to support the boy and Paul’s widow. But when his mother had followed his father to the grave, Martin had no longer any interest in groceries, and he gladly accepted the three thousand dollars Con Donovan offered him for his inherited share of the business. It hadn’t been enough to do anything with, Martin explained to his wife; so he had just “blown” it. It accounted for the theatre tickets, the presents, the entertainments with which he had backed his wooing. There was nearly a thousand dollars left after the honeymoon to Atlantic City, and Martin had gone to his bank and transferred the whole account to his wife’s name upon their return, telling her to go ahead and furnish the new home in any way she fancied.

Jeannette had nearly seventeen hundred dollars in the bank when she began. She had no thought of spending so much, but it melted away in the most surprising fashion. Martin, in a way, was responsible for this: whenever she consulted him, he was always in favor of the more expensive course. She would have been quite satisfied with a two-hundred-and-twenty-dollar dining-room set, but he decided in favor of the one that cost three hundred and fifty. When she said she would be contented with the simple white-painted wooden bed, he had chosen a brass one and ordered the box-spring mattress that had cost nearly a hundred dollars more. He had also persuaded her against her judgment in the matter of the big davenport and the upholstered chairs that went with it for the living-room. Then there had been the matter of the two oil paintings in ornate gold frames upon which they had chanced in Macy’s while on a shopping tour. Jeannette had grave doubts about the oils; she did not know whether they were good or bad. Her misgivings in regard to them may have sprung from the fact that they hung in Macy’s art gallery; but there could be no questioning the handsomeness and impressiveness of the gold frames.

“Why sure, let’s have ’em,” Martin said, eyeing them judicially as he and his wife stood together considering the purchase; “they look like a million dollars, and anything I hate are bare walls! You want to have the place lookin’—oh, you know—artistic and classy.”

“The autumn coloring in this one is most lifelike,” the eager young salesman ventured. “It seems to me they both have a great deal of depth and quality,—don’t you think?—and while, of course, the size has nothing to do with the art, still I really think you ought to take into consideration the fact that this canvas is thirty-six by twenty-seven, and the other one is nearly as large. Now for twenty-five and thirty dollars....”

“Sure, let’s have ’em,” Martin decided in his lordly, arbitrary way, “and if I find out they’re no good,” he added to the beaming salesman, “I’ll come back here and slap Mrs. Macy on the wrist!”

This last was most appreciated, and the very next day, in much excelsior and paper wrappings, the two heavily framed paintings arrived and now hung facing one another in the front room. Jeannette used to study them, finger on lip, wondering if they had merit or were nothing but daubs. They appeared all right; there was nothing to criticize about them as far as she could see, but she knew they would never mean anything to her as long as she remembered they had been bought at Macy’s. Her mother warmly shared her husband’s enthusiasm.

“Why, dearie, they look perfectly beautiful,” she told her daughter, “and they give your home such an air of distinction. I wouldn’t worry my head about where they came from, as long as they give you pleasure.”

But if Jeannette had misgivings about the pictures, she had no doubts about anything else her perfect little home contained. It was complete as far as she could make it, from the service of plated flat silver her old associates at the office had clubbed together and given her, to the carpet sweeper that had a little closet of its own to stand in along with the extra leaves of the dining-room table. There were towels, sheets, table linen, chairs, pictures and rugs. She had indulged her fancy somewhat in curtaining, had decided on plain net at the windows with narrow strips of some brightly colored material on either side. She had picked out a salmon-tinted, satin-finished drapery at Wanamaker’s for the living-room, and gay cretonne for her bedroom, and she had had these curtains made at the store.

“I’d be forever doing the work,” she had said in justifying this extravagance to Martin, “and we want to get settled some time!”

“Sure,—have ’em made,” he had agreed genially.

The dining-room had puzzled Jeannette for a long time, but after the dark blue carpet had been selected and made into a rug to fit the room, she had found a blue madras that just matched its tone. It cost a great deal more than she felt she ought to pay, but she had bought the twelve yards she needed, nevertheless, and had determined she could save something by cutting and hemming the curtains herself; she could take them out to Alice’s and use her sewing-machine.

It was all finished now, Jeannette reflected, pushing the big brass bed into place against the wall. They had been a little reckless perhaps, but now they were ready to settle down, begin to live quietly and to save. They owed about two hundred dollars at Wanamaker’s but would soon manage to pay that off.

She went on calculating expenses as she ran the carpet sweeper about the room. Martin liked a good deal of meat, so she doubted if she could manage the table on less than twelve or maybe, thirteen dollars a week; that would take half of what he gave her on Saturdays. She needed so much for this, so much for that, and she would have to get herself some kind of a silk dress for the hot weather; still she thought she could save five or six dollars a week and Martin ought to be able to do the same; they would have the Wanamaker bill paid in a few months. As she went on running the sweeper under the bed and pushing it gingerly into corners so as not to mar the paint of the baseboards, she reflected that, as a matter of fact, Martin had really no right to expect her to pay anything out of her weekly money on what they owed Wanamaker; every cent of that bill had been for house furnishing, and it had been clearly understood between them that her money was for the table and herself. Still it had been she who had wanted the curtains; she ought to help pay for them.

§ 2

When the bathroom was cleaned, Martin’s bath towel spread along the rim of the tub to dry, his dirty shirt and collar put into the laundry basket, his shoes set neatly on the floor of the closet, the ash receiver in the living-room emptied and the cushions on the davenport straightened, Jeannette settled herself in a rocking-chair at the window, her basket of sewing in her lap. She hated sewing; the basket was in tangled confusion, but it was always that way. Spools and yarn, papers of needles, pins, buttons, threads, tape, and scraps of material were all mixed up together in a fine snarl. She found a certain degree of satisfaction in its confusion. To-day she had a run in one of her silk stockings to draw together, and a button to sew on Martin’s coat.

She caught the coat up first and as she held it in her hands, the song that she had been humming all morning died upon her lips. She looked at the garment with softening eyes; then she raised its rough texture to her cheek and kissed it. It smelled of its owner,—a smell that was fragrance to her,—an odor scented faintly with cigars but even more redolent of the man, himself; it was strong, it was masculine, it was Martin. There was no smell like it in the world or one half so sweet.

She mused as she searched for a black silk thread, needle and thimble. When Alice had extolled to her the wonderful happiness of marriage, how right she had been! Jeannette pitied all unmarried women now. There was a Freemasonry among wives, and all spinsters, old and young, were debarred from the mystic circle. She wondered what made the difference. Unmarried women were all buds that had never opened to the full beauty of the mature flower. They were of the uninitiated and as long as they remained so would never attain their full powers. Miss Holland, now, was a fine woman, efficient, capable, executive, but how much more able and efficient and remarkable if she had married! She might be divorced, she might be a widow. That did not make a difference, it seemed to Jeannette in the full bloom of her own wifehood; it was marrying that counted; it was that “Mrs.” before a woman’s name, that gave her standing, poise, position in the world, broadened her sympathies, increased her capabilities.

She thought her own marriage perfection; she considered herself the happiest, most fortunate of wives; her pretty home enchanted her, and Martin was the most satisfactory of adoring husbands. He had his faults, she presumed, and she, no doubt, had hers, but there were never woman and man so happy together, so ideally congenial. She thought of her honeymoon,—the few days at Atlantic City. She had never learned to swim, but Martin was an expert. He had looked stunning in his bathing-suit,—straight, clean-limbed, with his big chest and shoulders and his slim waist,—the figure of an athlete, as she indeed discovered him to be when he struck out into the sea with the freedom of a seal, flinging the water from his black mop of hair with a quick head-toss now and then, his arms working like flails. They had plunged through the breakers together, and Martin had held her high up as the curling water crashed down upon them. It had been cold but exhilarating, and a group had gathered on the boardwalk and down on the beach to watch the two battling with the waves. Then there had been the quiet rolling up and down the boardwalk in the big chair while the tide of Easter visitors sauntered past them in all their gay clothing. The weather had been warm, the sunshine glorious. She thought of their room at the hotel and the intimate times of dressing and undressing in each other’s presence. It had been emotional, exciting, a little frightening, but there had been the discovery of perfect comradeship, and all the other phases of marriage,—pleasant and unpleasant,—had been forgotten. Companionship,—wholehearted, unreserved, constant,—that was the outstanding feature of marriage for Jeannette.

Her mind carried her on to contemplate the future and what it held in store for them. Her marriage with Martin must be a success. There must be no quarrelling, no disagreements, no bickerings. There must never, never be any talk of divorce between them.... Ah, how she hated the word divorce now! She had never given the subject any particular consideration heretofore; it was merely an accepted proceeding by which unhappily married people won back their freedom. But how differently she felt about it to-day! She would die rather than ever consent to a divorce from Martin! She’d forgive him anything! He was a little spoiled, perhaps; he liked to have his own way, and he hated anything unpleasant. It must be her duty to humor and educate him; she must give a little, exact a little. A successful marriage, she believed, depended upon that. A husband and wife must become adjusted to one another. If necessary, she resolved, she would give more than she received. Oh, yes, she would give and give and give!

Martin had only one serious fault, and that was he too much liked having a good time. It seemed to her he was never satisfied with anything less than an epicure’s dinner; he must have the best all the time. He loved cocktails and wine and good cigars, a “snappy” show, a little bite of something afterwards, a gay place to dine, lively music, lights, color. He wanted “to go places where there was something doing,” and he didn’t want “to go places where there was nothing doing.” These were familiar expressions on his lips. His wife told herself she liked a good time, too; she loved the theatre and to dress well, and she liked a gay restaurant, good food and music, but she didn’t want them all the time; she wasn’t as dependent upon them as Martin was. A husband and wife, she considered, should not indulge in too much of that kind of frivolous living, and no later than last evening she had had a talk with Martin about it.

“Aw,—sure my dear,—you’re dead right,” he had assured her. “I know. We must settle down, and stay at home nights, but we’re still having our honeymoon, and I can’t get used to the idea that you’re my wife. It just seems to me we ought to celebrate all the time.”

Martin was always so reasonable, thought Jeannette, recalling his words. She decided she would have a specially nice dinner for him that night to show him how much she appreciated his sweetness. She paused a moment over the decision, as she recalled that something vague had been said to her mother about coming to dine with them. She knew Martin would prefer to be alone and she wanted to encourage the idea of his spending the evenings quietly with her. She would go to see her mother and explain matters; she would have lunch with her; at Kratzmer’s she would stop and get some salad, and she’d buy some crumpets at Henri’s and take them along with her.

Abruptly, she determined to let the run in her stocking wait. She wound the silk several times about the button on Martin’s coat, pushed the needle through the fabric twice, and snapped the thread close to the cloth with an incisive bite of her teeth. Then she carried the work to her room, hanging Martin’s coat on a hanger in the closet.

As she proceeded to dress carefully, she considered each detail of her costume. Her wardrobe was delightfully complete; she had plenty of clothes, a suitable garment for any demand. While an office worker, she had always dressed with certain soberness, an eye to business decorum. But as a married woman, a young matron who lived at the Dexter Court Apartments, she felt she could allow herself more latitude. She ran her eye appraisingly over the file of dresses that hung neatly in her closet; their number gratified her; she was even satisfied with her hats. Now she lifted down her blue broadcloth tailor suit, covered handsomely with braid, and selected a soft white silk shirtwaist that had a V-neck and a pleated ruffled collar; she drew on fine brown silk stockings and fitted her feet into tan Oxfords. Her ankles were trim and shapely. She never had appeared so smartly dressed; her appearance delighted her. But she was in doubt about the hat for the day, and finally selected the Lichtenberg model: a silvered straw, with a flaring brim, trimmed in gray velvet and a curling gray cock’s feather. As she pulled her hands into tan gloves and gave a final glance at herself in the long mirror of the bathroom door she decided that was the costume she would wear when she went to the offices of the Chandler B. Corey Company to pay her old friends a visit.

§ 3

Mrs. Sturgis had declared after Jeannette’s marriage she preferred to remain in the old apartment where she had been comfortable for so many years. To be sure the rent was thirty dollars a month, but she said she could manage that. She had her music lessons,—four or five hours a day,—and there were other pupils to be had if she needed the income. But it did not appear necessary. Elsa Newman’s cousin, Cora Newman, who had been studying with Bellini for two years, had developed a truly remarkable mezzo, and she preferred Mrs. Sturgis to any other accompanist. The very week Jeannette was married Cora Newman had given her first public recital, and Mrs. Sturgis had been at the piano. She had had a very beautiful black dress made for the occasion and the affair had been a great success. The critics had praised Miss Newman’s voice and the Tribune had given a special line to the player: “The singer was sympathetically accompanied at the piano by Mrs. Henrietta Spaulding Sturgis.” Now both Elsa and Cora wanted her whenever either of them sang, and there were plans ahead for a concert tour to Quebec and Montreal. If that turned out successfully, they were talking of an up-state trip in the fall through Rochester, Syracuse, as far as Buffalo.

“You know what I eat, lovies,” Mrs. Sturgis had explained to her daughters when keeping the apartment was being discussed among them, “is microscopic, and it won’t cost me five a week. I can always get whatever I need at Kratzmer’s and a little tea and toast is often all I want.”

“But that’s just it!” Jeannette had expostulated. “You don’t eat enough to keep a bird alive, anyhow, and if you live by yourself, you won’t eat that!”

Mrs. Sturgis had assured them she would take good care of herself.

“You can’t imagine me happy in a boarding-house,” she had challenged, “and I wouldn’t be able to have a piano there or give lessons!” There had been no answer to this; boarding in one place and renting a studio in another would be even more expensive than keeping the apartment.

§ 4

To-day Jeannette heard the familiar finger exercises as she neared the top of the long stair-flight of her old home: ta-ta-ta-ta-de-da-da-da-da—ta-ta-ta-ta-de-da-da-da-da, and as she noiselessly opened the back door kitchenward, her mother’s voice from the studio: “One-and-two-and-three-and-four-and....”

She took off her hat and gloves, laid them on her mother’s bed and went to peek in the cupboard; there was a piece of bakery pie and a few eggs. She decided to make an omelette and with the toasted crumpets and tea, a little jar of marmalade and the potato salad she had brought with her, she and her mother would lunch royally. It was ten minutes to twelve; the lesson would soon be over.

They lingered over their repast until nearly two. Mrs. Sturgis had lessons from four to six,—the after-school hours,—but until then she was free. She had had half a notion, she confessed, of going down to Union Square that afternoon to look at some new piano pieces for beginners at Schirmer’s. Jeannette told her she would go with her,—she wanted to get an alligator pear for Martin’s dinner,—but neither of them appeared inclined to terminate the little luncheon at the kitchen table. They had finished the crumpets, but there was still marmalade left, and Mrs. Sturgis produced some pieces of cold left-over toast with which to finish it.

She was full of news and her affairs. In the first place, Alice and Roy were going to Freeport on Long Island for the summer. They had found a very nice place where they could board for eighteen dollars a week,—oh, yes, both of them and the baby, too,—Roy was going to commute every day, and the Bronx flat was to be closed,—just turn the key in the door and leave it until they were ready to come back. Then there was great talk about the concert tour. Bellini, who had sailed only the day before yesterday for Italy, had thought Miss Elsa and Miss Cora had better study another winter before attempting it, but a most encouraging letter had been received from Montreal, and both the girls were eager to try the experiment. They were in doubt as to whether they should take a violinist with them or not; of course a violinist would be a drawing-card, but they would have his salary and all his expenses to pay, which would cut down the profits—if there were any! Jeannette’s mother did not think it was in the least necessary, but if they didn’t take one, Miss Elsa had said Mrs. Sturgis had better be prepared to do some solo numbers, and that meant she’d have to do some real hard practising as she hadn’t done anything like that for years! She did not know whether to work up the Mendelssohn Capricioso or the Chopin Fantaisie Impromptu; what did Jeannette think? Of course there was that Meditation....

But as her mother rambled on, Jeannette’s mind wandered. Her thoughts were with Martin. She wondered what he was doing at that moment; with whom he had lunched; how she could entertain him in the evenings and keep him from wanting to go out. He must have some friends whom she could invite to dinner. There was Beatrice Alexander, of course, and she had heard him speak pleasantly of Herbert Gibbs,—the younger of the two Gibbs brothers. He was married, she remembered; his wife had a baby and they lived somewhere down on Long Island. She herself would have liked to have asked Miss Holland, but she was hardly the type that would interest Martin. There was Tommy Livingston,—but Tommy was really too young. Her mind rested on Sandy MacGregor! He was a widower,—his wife had been dead for over a year,—she knew he would love to come to them, and Martin was sure to like him. The thought elated her: Sandy and Beatrice Alexander would make an excellent combination.

She accompanied her mother downtown in gay spirits, full of determination to put this plan immediately into effect.

§ 5

The dinner-party, when it took place, was not altogether a success; still it was far from being a failure. Sandy unquestionably had a good time, for he and Martin took a great liking to each other. Beatrice had proven the unfortunate element. She had always been diffident and the eye-glasses hopelessly disfigured her. Martin liked her because he knew her so well,—one had to know Beatrice to appreciate her,—but Sandy had been merely polite and amiable. He enjoyed Martin and Martin’s cocktails, however,—they had one or two before dinner,—and each time they raised their glasses, Sandy said: “Saloon!” which had amused Martin vastly. The dinner itself was delicious,—even Jeannette felt satisfied. The baked onions stuffed with minced ham,—Alice had suggested that and shown her how to do them,—had been enthusiastically praised, the chicken had been tender and the iced pudding, ordered at Henri’s, could not have been more delicious.

After dinner they played auction bridge; Martin loved cards in any form and he undertook to teach Jeannette; Sandy was an old hand at the game, but Beatrice Alexander was but a timid player. After three or four rubbers, the men abandoned the cards, which, Jeannette could see, bored them with such partners, and began matching quarters, and Martin had won eighteen dollars. The last match had been for “double or nothing” and Jeannette was hardly able to stifle the quick breath of relief that came to her lips when Martin won. She had always known Sandy to be liberal-handed and he paid his losses good-humoredly, telling Jeannette in a way that made her believe he meant what he said, that he had had a wonderful evening, and would telephone shortly to ask the Devlins to dinner with him. He generously offered to take Beatrice Alexander home, and Jeannette returned from the elevator, where she and Martin had bidden good-night to their departing guests, to the disorder and smoky atmosphere of their little home with the feeling that it had all been worth while.

“My Lord!” Martin said that night as he lay in bed waiting for her to wind the clock, open the window, snap out the lights and join him, “I wish you had a girl out there in the kitchen to help you with all that mess. Damned if I like the idea of my wife doing all those dirty dishes, and having to clean up everything to-morrow. It will take you all day.”

“Well,” Jeannette answered, “I’ll hate it to-morrow myself. But I really don’t mind very much. I love the idea of entertaining our friends. But we can’t have a girl yet. I’ve got to do my own work for awhile at any rate. You see, Martin, I was figuring it out....”

She had crawled in beside him and at once his arms were about her and she had nestled close to him, her head on his hard shoulder.

“Your friend Sandy’s a corker,” he said, kissing her hair and ignoring her plan of figures and economy. “I like that guy fine. You can have all that eighteen dollars I won from him.”

“Oh, Martin!”

“Sure,—of course.”

“I’ll put it in the till.”

The till was a small round canister intended for tea but converted into a savings bank.

“You’ll do nothing of the kind,” Martin told her. “You blow it in on yourself, or for something nice for the house.”

“But, Mart,” she remonstrated, “I want to pay off that Wanamaker’s bill! We can’t have a girl in the kitchen until we don’t owe a cent.”

“Aw, don’t worry so, Jan. You’re always scared we’re going to go bust or something. I’ll get a raise as soon as summer’s over. Gibbs is bound to come through ’cause he knows I’ll quit if he don’t. I bring in a lot of fine business to that outfit, and all my customers are dandy friends of mine. I’ll not be working for him at fifty per much longer.”

“Mart,” Jeannette said suddenly, “wouldn’t it be a good plan to have Herbert Gibbs and his wife to dinner some night and show them how nice we are and how nice we live and what a good dinner we can give them? You know it might help; he tells his brother everything, Beatrice says.”

“Great! Say, that’s a bully idea!” Martin was at once enthusiastic. “Herb would like it fine and so would Mrs. Herb. I’ll get some good old Burgundy and pour it into him and feed him some Corona-Coronas and he’ll just expand like a night-blooming cereus.”

And on this happy plan, still with an arm about her, her head pillowed on his shoulder, they drifted off to sleep.

§ 6

Some six weeks after her return to New York from Atlantic City, Jeannette arrayed herself in her braided broadcloth tailor suit, drew on her tan silk stockings and tan shoes, set the gray hat at a smart angle upon her head, added the touch of a fine meshed veil that brought the curling gray cock’s feather close to her hair, and paid her long-deferred visit to the office.

As she turned in at the familiar portals she was astonished at the difference between her present feelings and those of old. A year before she had entered the building with a hurried step, a preoccupied manner, her mind busy as she hastened to her work with ways of attacking and dispatching it. She had been conscious then that she was the “president’s secretary,” and had borne herself accordingly as she made her way through the groups of gossiping girls, aware they thought her haughty and unapproachable. To-day, she was Mrs. Martin Devlin,—a matron, smartly dressed,—come to pay a visit to the publishing house with the air of a lady who had perhaps arrived to select a book in the retail department or to enter a subscription. The dusty office atmosphere was alien to her now; the bustling, eager clerks, intent upon their affairs, seemed pettily employed; there was something ridiculous about it all to her. Yet less than three months ago this had been her world; all the vital interests of her life had been centered within these square walls. She still loved it, loved the building, the cold cement floors, the bare ceilings studded with sprinkler valves, loved what evidences of her own handiwork she recognized: the window-boxes, and the miniature close-clipped trees that stood in the entrance, the name of the house in neat gold lettering on the street windows.

Ellis, the colored elevator man, was the first to recognize her; he grinned, flashing his white teeth out of his black face, chuckling largely.

“Well, it certainly is good to see you; it certainly is like old times to see you ’round,” he said, rolling back the clanging door.

She stepped out upon the familiar fourth floor. It was the same—no different: the old racket, the old hum and confusion. A minute or two passed before she was seen; then there was a general whispering, machines stopped clicking, heads turned; there were smiles and nods from all parts of the big room. Mrs. O’Brien, Mr. Kipps’ stenographer, rose and came to greet her; Miss Sylvester and Miss Kate Smith followed suit. Presently there was a small crowd around her with questions, laughter, little cooing cries of pleasure, a feminine chatter. She caught Mr. Allister’s eye as he was leaving Mr. Corey’s office.

“’Pon my word!” She could not hear him say it, but she saw his lips form the phrase and noted his pleased surprise. He came forward at once, smiling broadly, pushing his way through the women who gave place to him.

“Glad to see you, Miss Sturgis,” he said beaming. “Only, by Jove, you’re not ‘Miss Sturgis’ any more! ... ‘Devlin,’ isn’t it? ... Does Mr. Corey know you’re here? He’ll be delighted, I know. Wants to see you badly. Two or three matters have come up he’d like to ask you about; nobody ’round here seems to know a thing about them.... Come in; he’ll be mighty glad to see you.”

He pulled back the swing gate in the counter and walked with her towards Mr. Corey’s office.

As Jeannette passed within a few feet of Miss Holland’s desk and as their eyes met she mouthed:

“See you in just a minute.”

“Here’s an old friend of ours,” said Mr. Allister, opening Mr. Corey’s door.

The white head came up, and immediately a pleased flush spread over the face of the man at the desk.

“Well—well—well,” he said, getting to his feet and coming to take both her hands. “Miss Sturgis! It’s good to see you again.”

“She’s not Miss Sturgis any more,” laughed Mr. Allister.

“That’s so—that’s so; it’s ‘Devlin’ of course. Well, Mrs. Devlin, you surely look as though marriage agreed with you.”

They were all laughing in good spirits. A few moments of inconsequential remarks, and then Allister withdrew while Mr. Corey made Jeannette sit down.

“Oh, I must have a talk,” he insisted, “and hear all about you.”

The door opened, and young Tommy Livingston came in with a question on his lips. His eyes lighted as he recognized the caller.

“My new secretary,” said Corey smiling.

“Oh, is that so?” Jeannette was pleased; the boy had always been a protégé of hers. “Well, Tommy, this is a step up for you!”

“Yes, indeed,” he said grinning. “I’m doing the best I know how....”

“Tommy does very well,” approved Mr. Corey.

“I didn’t know you understood dictation,” said Jeannette.

“I don’t very well. I’ve got a stenographer in my office,—’member Miss Bates?—and I’m going to night school and learning shorthand; I can run a machine fairly decently now.”

“Well, isn’t that splendid!”

Presently she was alone with Mr. Corey again. He asked about her, about Martin, about her married life. She was frank with her answers.

“I shall never thank you enough,” she said, “for persuading me to accept Mr. Devlin. I never would have married if you hadn’t made me, and I never would have known what I missed. I guess I’d’ve been here for the rest of my days.”

She was eager for his news, too.

Yes, he and Mrs. Corey were quite reconciled. She was very sorry she had maligned Jeannette. He was going to England in ten days and was taking her with him. Babs was about the same; she would never be any better; they had an excellent trained nurse for her and she was to spend the rest of the summer at a camp in the Adirondacks. Willis had written a most interesting letter from Johannesburg; he and Ericsson were trekking north through Matabeleland and Bulawayo; Mr. Corey did not expect to hear from him again for three months. Affairs at the office were about as usual; they expected to publish a big novel in the fall by Hobart Haüser; Garritt Farrington Trent had left his former publishers and come over to them; advertising was bad; there was some talk of a printers’ strike; The Ladies’ Fortune had been selling excellently on the stands; the pattern business was booming.

There were one or two matters he wanted to ask her about: What was the arrangement with Hardy as to the dramatic rights of Harnessed? No record could be found of the agreement. And did she recall from what concern they had bought that last stock of special kraft wrapper? And the folder containing all the correspondence with the Electrical Manufacturing Company had disappeared. What could have become of it? She answered as best she could. When she got up to go, he accompanied her to the door of his office.

“I can’t begin to tell you how we all miss you here,” he said gravely, “and how much I do especially. It’s been hard sledding without you. I’ve thought a hundred times,—oh, a thousand times!—of how much you did for me to make the work easier and how much you lifted from my shoulders. I got used to it, I’m afraid, and took a good deal for granted.... But I’m glad you’re married; that’s where you belong: making a home for yourself and leading your own life.”

There was moisture in Jeannette’s eyes as she turned away. She loved Chandler Corey, she said to herself; he was a wonderful man; she knew she was the only person in the world who truly appreciated him; and she knew he loved her, too. It was this glimpse of his affection for her that moved her. Theirs had been a rare comradeship, a fine communion, a beautiful relationship. It was ended; it was past and done; they could no longer be together or even find an excuse to see one another without having their actions misinterpreted. It had been the business, the common interest, that had wrought the tie between them, and now that there was no longer any office, the intimacy and companionship was at an end, the bond sundered,—soon they would have but a casual interest in one another!—and she had been closer to him than anyone else in the world, like a daughter, and he a father to her. It was sad; a matter to be mourned; each going a different way, only memories of a splendid coöperation and friendship remaining to remind them of happy years together.

§ 7

Jeannette stopped at Miss Holland’s desk and made her promise to take lunch with her at the noon hour when they could have a good talk.

As she left the scene of her former activities, her progress through the aisles between the desks was once again a succession of hand-clasps, congratulations, well-wishes, nods and smiles. It touched her deeply; she had no idea she had been so well liked: everyone there seemed to be her friend.

Miss Holland joined her at half past twelve in the lobby of the Park Avenue Hotel, and they had a delightful luncheon together at one of the little tables edging the balcony about the court. News was exchanged eagerly. Jeannette’s was scant, but her companion had endless gossip to retail. Miss Holland’s nephew, Jerry Sedgwick, was a midshipman now, and on his summer cruise in Cuban waters aboard a big battleship. She and Mrs. O’Brien had a little apartment down on Waverly Place and managed quite comfortably. The office was getting dreadfully on Miss Holland’s nerves; it was so different from what it used to be; in the old days everyone had done the best that was in him or her to make the business a success; no one had cared what the returns were to be; the idea of doing more and better work had been the thought actuating all. Now that the Corey Company had become one of the largest and most prosperous publishing houses in the country, the spirit had changed; everyone thought about “profits.” They had conferences of all the heads of departments each week and no one was interested in learning what was going on in the different branches of the business; what commanded their attention was how much “profit” was to be shown. It disgusted Miss Holland; there was no “Get Together Club” any more. Mr. Kipps was becoming more and more critical and fault-finding; he had headaches all the time; Miss Holland believed he was a sick man; he never took any exercise. The pattern business had grown enormously; Mr. Cruikshanks had done wonders with it; they had had to lease a whole big building over on Tenth Avenue to take care of it; The Ladies’ Fortune had a circulation of nearly half a million; Horatio Stephens had had a very substantial raise, and had grown awfully opinionated and disagreeable.

There was more gossip of lesser significance. Miss Hoggenheimer of the mailing department had gone on the stage, and had a part now in It Happened in Nordland, while Miss Gleason had married that big George Robinson of the Press Room, and Tommy Livingston would soon be engaged,—if he wasn’t already,—to Mrs. O’Brien’s little sister, Agnes, who worked in the Mail Order Department.... Oh, yes! and had Jeannette heard what had happened to Van Alstyne? It was terrible! He was in the penitentiary at Atlanta for using the United States mail for fraudulent purposes; he had become involved with some unscrupulous men who advertised worthless stock and the Federal authorities had put them all in jail.... And poor Mrs. Inness was dead; she died at her brother’s house in Weehawken.

Jeannette devoured these details. She sat absorbed, fascinated, listening to every word that came from her companion’s lips; she could not get enough of this chatter about her old associates; she was hungry for every scrap of information, fearful that Miss Holland might neglect to tell her everything.

She walked back with her friend to the office and would not let her go for another ten minutes until she had heard the final details of a violent quarrel between Miss Reubens and Mr. Cavendish.

Miss Holland promised to dine with her and Martin soon, and Jeannette promised in return to come with her husband to dinner with Miss Holland and Mrs. O’Brien in the Waverly Place apartment. They parted with many such assurances.

Jeannette walked all the way home in a daze of memories, thoughts of the old times crowding upon her brain, her interest in business affairs and personal happenings in the Chandler B. Corey Company awake again, stirring with all its former keenness.

§ 8

The dinner to which Mr. and Mrs. Herbert Gibbs were invited and to which after various postponements they ultimately came was a dismal failure from Jeannette’s point of view. First of all, she was late with the meal itself, and in hurrying, spattered grease on her gown; the yeast powder biscuits would not rise, and the leg of lamb was underdone, the meat pink when Martin carved it. Then Martin, himself, was nervous and excited, and the cocktails he had with his guest before they sat down went to his head and made him talk and act sillily. Lastly, and most important, the Gibbses were hopeless! Herbert Gibbs was flat-headed and there was no curve at the back of his neck, while the hair grew down under his collar sparse and short; he had an expressionless, stupid face and it was impossible to tell whether he was being bored or amused at the attempt of young Mr. and Mrs. Devlin to entertain him and his wife. Mrs. Gibbs was even less prepossessing. She was a plump German girl, with thin yellow hair done up in a knob on top of her head which frankly showed her white scalp through wide gaps. She was irritatingly voluble, had a piercing sharp nervous laugh, and exclaimed shrilly about whatever Jeannette said or did. She chatted unceasingly about her child, little “Herbie,” who, it seemed, was only ten months old but could already both walk and talk, and she embarrassed Jeannette by asking in a whisper how soon there was going to be a little Devlin. There was nothing spontaneous in the conversation during the whole evening, neither while they sat at table nor later in the living-room, where Mr. Gibbs sat stolidly puffing at cigars, sipping the red Burgundy with which Martin kept his glass filled, and Mrs. Gibbs rattled on about how they had found their home at Cohasset Beach on Long Island, and the involved circumstances connected with its eventual purchase. Mercifully they were obliged to take an early train home on account of “Herbie,” but did not depart until they had warned their young hosts they would soon be expected to spend a Sunday with them in the country.

That night, going to bed, Martin and Jeannette had their first quarrel. It left her shaken and unhappy all the next day. She ridiculed their guests and Martin defended them; she declared they were stupid and common; he, that she didn’t know them, that they were a very good-hearted sort, that she had been cold and patronizing with Mrs. Gibbs, that her husband had noticed it, and become awfully “sore”; it would have been a “damn sight better,” Martin concluded stormily, if they had never been asked.

“And after all the trouble I went to!” raged Jeannette to herself, hugging her side of the bed, rebellion strong within her, “cooking all day long, planning everything out, going over to Columbus Avenue twice, getting flowers for the table, working myself dizzy and ruining my organdie, just so he could make a good impression on them and perhaps help himself a little at the office!”

A tear trickled down her nose, and she wiped it off with a finger-tip. She would never give in to him,—never! She would make him beg and beg and beg for her forgiveness! It would be a long, long time.... With head aching and trying to choke down a sniffle that threatened to betray her, she fell asleep.

There was an eager reconciliation the next night; promises, vows, assurances, harsh self-accusations, and Martin carried her off after dinner to two dollar seats at the Broadway, where Jeannette whispered penitently, hugging his arm in the dark of the theatre, that if the Gibbses did ask them to visit them some Sunday, she would go and be her nicest to both.

§ 9

The occasion when Sandy MacGregor had the young Devlins to dine with him in style on the roof garden of the new Astor Hotel was another affair that turned out unfortunately. The lady whom Sandy asked to be fourth in the party,—a Mrs. Fontella,—was not the type with whom Jeannette had been accustomed to associate. She was boldly handsome with great round black eyes, masses of auburn hair, a cavernous red mouth, and a large, prominent bust. She was noisy and coarse, and when she laughed she showed a great deal of gum and rows of glittering gold-filled teeth. Jeannette froze into her most rigid and uncommunicative self. Just before dessert was served, Martin and Sandy excused themselves from the table and disappeared, leaving her sitting for almost half-an-hour alone with her noisy and conspicuous companion. It was evident when the men returned they had been downstairs to the bar where they had had drinks and had been shaking dice. Jeannette was thoroughly incensed, and although Sandy had seats for the theatre, she complained she was ill and insisted upon going home.

There was another quarrel between her husband and herself that night, but before they went to sleep he won her forgiveness, abused himself for treating her shabbily, told her again and again he was sorry, and promised never to be guilty of neglecting her again.

He could be irresistibly winning when he wanted to be.

CHAPTER IV

§ 1

On the Fourth of July the Gibbses asked Martin and Jeannette to spend the holiday and Sunday with them at Cohasset Beach. Jeannette contemplated the visit in the gayest of spirits. She spent fully two hours carefully packing her own and Martin’s suitcases. She had some very smart clothes for such an outing which she had had no opportunity of wearing since the happy honeymoon days at Atlantic City. The idea of appearing in these again at such a well-known summer resort as Cohasset Beach delighted her. She was anxious to be cordial to Mrs. Gibbs for Martin’s sake, and meant to dispel any unpleasant impression of herself that either Mr. Gibbs or his wife might have been harboring. To exert herself particularly in her host’s direction, “draw him out of his shell”—as Martin expressed it,—and make him like her, was part of her resolution.

Late Friday afternoon she manfully struggled with the two suitcases to the Thirty-fourth Street ferry and met Martin as agreed at the entrance of the waiting-room. They had been anxious to catch an early train from Long Island City, and it had been arranged that Mr. Gibbs and Martin should come to the station directly from the office and meet her at the ferry station.

“My God, Jan!” Martin exclaimed after he had swung himself off the trolley-car and come running up to where she was waiting. “My God, you look great! Say,—I never saw you look so—so swell!” Mr. Gibbs was pleasantly cordial, though suffering much discomfort from the excessive heat. Sweat trickled down his expressionless face, and continually he removed his straw hat to mop his forehead with a drenched handkerchief.

It was indeed hot, but the vistas up and down the river as the ferry-boat blunted its way toward the Long Island shore were all of cool pinks, palest greens and lavenders in the late summer afternoon, while the sun, setting through a murky haze, cast an enchanted light over the scene. In the train, Mr. Gibbs took himself off to the smoking car, leaving Martin and Jeannette alone. They sat beside a raised window, their hands linked under a fold of her silk dress, and the air that reached them was rich with the scent of the open country. The girl’s heart was overflowing with happiness as Martin whispered endearments in her ear: she was a wonder, all right; she looked like a million dollars; gosh! he was proud of her; there was no girl in the world like his wife! The holiday that was beginning for them, and the knowledge that they were not to be separated for two whole days—nearly three!—filled both with great felicity.

Cohasset Beach is a little village of two or three thousand inhabitants on the Sound side of the Island, some twenty-five or thirty miles from New York. The Gibbses lived in an unpretentious, white, peaked-roofed house, with plenty of shade trees about it, and a rather patchy, ill-kept lawn, bordered with straggling rosebeds. There was a lattice-sided porch covered with a clambering vine. The place was attractive though shabby; the house sorely in need of paint, the front steps worn down to the natural color of the wood, the edges of the treads frayed and splintery. A sagging hammock hung under scrawny pepper trees, and a child’s toys were scattered about, while close to the latticed porch was a pile of play sand hauled up from the neighboring beach.

Jeannette was disappointed. She had pictured the Gibbses’ house more of an establishment. Cohasset Beach was a fashionable summer resort; the Yacht Club there was famous; she had thought to find her hosts living in some style. But she was not to be daunted; she had come prepared to have a good time and to make these people like her; she reminded herself of her determination not to spoil this visit for Martin.

But on encountering Mrs. Gibbs she realized afresh how little in common she had with her hostess. The woman was devoid of poise, restraint, or dignity; Jeannette had forgotten her volubility and harsh, unpleasant laugh. Mrs. Gibbs welcomed her guest eagerly, keeping up a running fire of remarks, loosing her squeaks of mirth in nervous fashion. She slipped her arm about Jeannette’s waist and before showing her to her room or giving her a chance to remove her hat, led her to the nursery to view little Herbie in his crib. Mr. Gibbs followed for a peep at his son before the child went off to sleep and he brought Martin with him. They all hung over the sides of the crib and exclaimed about the baby, who rolled his solemn, perplexed eyes from face to face. Jeannette noted he was exactly like his father: flat-headed, expressionless, with no curve at the back of his neck, but Martin seemed quite taken with him and when he tickled him with a finger, the baby opened wide his little red mouth, displayed his toothless red gums and crowed vigorously. Jeannette was sure she detected in the sound the shrillness of his mother’s senseless laugh.

The guest room was on the third floor in one gable of the roof, a big room with sloping ceilings; it was equipped with a washstand on which stood a basin and ewer; the bathroom was on the floor below. Hattie, the colored cook, would bring up hot water, Mrs. Gibbs said in her excited way as she left them, urging her guests to make themselves comfortable. Jeannette had carefully packed Martin’s dinner clothes, and her own prettiest dinner frock, but there would evidently be no formal dressing in such a household. She stood at an open latticed window that jutted out above the vine-covered porch and looked out over a rippling billow of tree-tops, softly green now in the fading evening light, that tumbled down to the water’s edge. The Sound was dotted with little boats riding at anchor and there was one private yacht, gay with lights and fluttering pennants. The lambent heavens in the west touched the shimmering water delicately with pink. She pressed her lips resolutely together, and stared out upon the scene unmoved by its beauty.

“Great,—isn’t it?” Martin said, coming to stand beside her and putting his arm about her. “We’ll have a home like this of our own, some day,—hey, old girl? And you’ll be the boss of the show and be cooking me some of your fine dinners when I come home, and I’ll take you out sailing in the yacht on Sundays.” He laughed his rich buoyant peal and caught her in his arms.

“Oh, Martin,” she breathed tremulously, sinking her face against his shoulder, “I love you so,—I love you so!”

As she had foreseen, there was no change of costume for dinner at the Gibbses’ table. The meal itself had as little distinctiveness as the host and hostess: soup and vegetables, a large steak followed by apple pie and the usual accessories. Martin, Mr. Gibbs and his wife drank beer; it appeared that it was imported, and Martin was eloquent in its praise. There were cookies too, which made a special appeal to him; küchen, Mrs. Gibbs called them, but Jeannette thought them hard and tasteless. After dinner, the men walked down to the water and back, smoking their cigars, while Jeannette sat and listened to a long tale by Mrs. Gibbs of how she had happened to meet her Herbert, how her parents had objected, how they had tried to separate them, and how love had finally triumphed.

But Jeannette went to sleep that night with a happy prospect for the morrow awaiting her: they were to have lunch at the fashionable yacht club.

§ 2

Disappointment lay in store for her again. At noon, the next day, perplexed by the picnic baskets and shoe-boxes of lunch with which they were laden as they left the house, she learned it was the Family Yacht Club and not the imposing Cohasset Beach Yacht Club for which they were headed. Oh, no, Mr. Gibbs explained, only the swell New Yorkers and the rich nabobs who lived down on the “Point” patronized the Cohasset Beach Yacht Club; the dues there were fifty dollars a month; the nice folk in Cohasset all belonged to the Family Yacht Club; she would see herself how pleasant it was there; the steward served hot coffee and everybody brought their own lunches. Jeannette looked straight ahead of her to hide the blur of disappointed tears that for a moment blinded her. Martin was behind with Mrs. Gibbs carrying Herbie in his arms. The resolve to try and be pleasant and make these people like her died hopelessly in the girl’s heart. Oh, it was no use! It had been dreadful from the moment they arrived; it would remain dreadful till the end!

The club-house of the Family Yacht Club was a low spreading, wind-blown, sand-battered, gray building that squatted along the shore, separated from the lisping wavelets of the Sound by a strip of white, sandy beach; a long pier ran out into the water and a number of small sail-boats and row-boats were tied to the float at its further end. The pier, the beach, the wide veranda of the club-house were all crowded to-day; flags flew or were draped everywhere, and bathers ran up and down along the wet sand or congregated on the raft anchored a hundred yards from shore.

“Whew!” exclaimed Martin when he viewed the scene, “isn’t this great!”

His wife threw him a look; it did not seem possible he was serious, but a glimpse of his delighted face showed her he was indeed.

There were no chairs nor benches on which to sit, but the newcomers found a clean space on the sandy shore and prepared to establish themselves there. Jeannette thought of her spotless new white fibre-silk skirt, and in sad resignation sank into place. About them were a dozen or so of similar groups, preparing for the midday meal or already enjoying it. They were all neighbors of the Gibbses, residents of Cohasset Beach, who knew one another intimately, and hailed each new arrival, bandying Christian names. A man some distance away shouted in the direction of the Gibbs party, brandishing a bottle of beer.

“Hey, Gibbsey,” he yelled, “hey there! How’s the old stick-in-the-mud?”

Mrs. Gibbs shrieked across the stretch of sand at the woman beside him.

“How’s the baby?”

“Fine,” came the answer. “Mama’s got him.”

“That’s Zeb Kline over there,” Mrs. Gibbs informed her husband; “it’s the first time he’s been out since he was sick.... And those folks with Doc French certainly look like his sister-in-law and that cousin of hers, Mrs. Prentiss.”

A burst of music and the report of a cannon came distinctly from farther down the shore. Jeannette, craning her neck, could see a large, glistening white building with a red roof, gaily decorated with flags; there were loops of bunting about the railings of its porches.

“That’s the Cohasset Beach Yacht Club,” said Mr. Gibbs; “the Commodore’s just come to anchor; that’s his yacht out there; there’ll be some fine racing this aft; the Stars are going out.”

“Ham or cheese?” Mrs. Gibbs inquired, proffering sandwiches. She was busy with the lunch, snapping strings, opening boxes, squeezing wrapped tissue-paper packages with her fingers, shaking them, hazarding guesses as to their contents.

“I wonder what Hattie’s got in here,” she kept saying.

“Do have some sauerkraut; I made it myself. I thought maybe you’d like it. Don’t you fancy mustard dressing? ... Well, try the stuffed eggs. Hope you think they’re good. The cake’s Hattie’s; I think her chocolate’s splendid.... Mr. Devlin, some mustard pickles? Some eggs? ... Goodness gracious, papa! Look out for Herbie! He’ll get himself all sopping!”

“Say, Mr. Gibbs, this beer is great! How do you manage to have it so cold?” Martin asked.

“I bring it down a day or two ahead of time and the steward puts it on the ice for me; just half a dozen bottles, you know; doesn’t put him to too much trouble.”

“Well, this is a great little Club all right.”

“We think it’s nice. Just a few of us that have children got together and organized it. The Cohasset Beach has a big bar, and there always is a good deal of drinking going on down there. The New Yorkers, you know, come down for a good time. No place for young folk.”

“No, you bet your life.”

Jeannette, in spite of herself, found she was hungry. The fried chicken in the oiled tissue paper was delicious, and she loved the liverwurst sandwiches. Mrs. Sturgis and her girls had always been extremely fond of liverwurst; Kratzmer kept it, and many a luncheon Jeannette, her mother and sister had made with little else. The hot cup of coffee, that Mrs. Gibbs poured from the tin pot the Club steward brought and set down in the sand, put life into her. The pleasant heat of the day, the sunshine, the life and frolicking in sand and water, forced enjoyment upon her. But she would not go in swimming when Martin urged her. One glance at the crude bath-house with its gray boards and canvas roof was sufficient to decide her on this point. She sat stiffly beside Mrs. Gibbs, who had rocked Herbie to sleep in her arms, and now moved so her shadow would keep the sun off the child’s face, while she watched Mr. Gibbs and her husband disport themselves in the water. Martin’s swimming always attracted attention and when he made a beautiful swan dive from the end of the pier, there was a ripple of applause. She felt proud of him, proud of his fine figure, the beauty of his young body, his prowess, his unaffectedness.

“Who’s that young fellow doing all the fancy diving out there?” a man sauntering up asked Mrs. Gibbs.

“S-ssh,” breathed that lady, indicating her sleeping child. “His name’s Martin Devlin,” she whispered; “he works for Herbert in the city.”

Works for Herbert in the city! Jeannette felt the blood rush to her face. Works for Herbert! Indeed! Well, he wouldn’t be working for Herbert much longer. She’d have something to say about that. The idea! The impertinence! Giving the impression that her wonderful Martin was merely an employee of Herbert Gibbs!

Her husband, wet and dripping, came up to her and flung himself down panting upon the sand.

“Gee,” he said boyishly, “that water’s great! Never had a better swim in my life. It’s a shame you didn’t go in, Jan.”

He looked at her, sensing something was amiss, but she smiled at him and pressed his wet, sandy hand.

Late in the afternoon they prepared to go home. As they were about to leave the Club, a man climbing into his automobile offered a lift. Martin and Jeannette begged to be allowed to walk and persuaded their hosts on account of the baby to take advantage of the car. Left to themselves, they commenced a leisurely return.

Along the tree-bordered roads that fringed the shore, other groups in white skirts and flannels were wending their way homeward; flags flew from poles or were draped over doorways; the strains of a waltz drifted seductively from the Cohasset Beach Yacht Club; the blue water of the Sound was dotted with glistening triangles of sails, heeled over and headed in one direction.

“Those are the Stars,” Martin exclaimed; “the race is finishing; number seven seems to have it cinched. That steam yacht over there with all the flags is the judges’ boat.”

They watched for a moment longer. Far out in midstream, one of the Sound steamers was passing; already lights were beginning to twinkle in her cabins.

“Wonderful day,” commented Martin, giving his wife’s hand, as it rested in the crook of his elbow, a squeeze with his arm. They wandered onward. “I’d love to have a home with you in a place like this, with the sailing and swimming and tennis and all this outdoor fun. It’s my idea of living. A fellow Mr. Gibbs introduced me to out on the raft belongs to the Cohasset Beach Club, too. He told me they’ve got some swell tennis courts over there and he was after me to play with him to-morrow.”

“And will you?” Jeannette asked, listlessly.

“Well, I guess I can’t. Mr. Gibbs said something about some friends of theirs asking us all to go sailing to-morrow.”

“That will be nice,” said his wife, still in a lifeless tone, but Martin did not notice.

“By George, I think this is a great place. I was asking Mr. Gibbs about rents, and he tells me we could get a fine little eight-room house for forty a month, and it’s only three-quarters of an hour from town.”

“And what would you do without your theatres and your shows and your little dinners downtown?” smiled Jeannette.

“Oh—they could go hang!”

The smile upon his wife’s face twisted skeptically. She knew Martin better than he knew himself.

“And don’t you think the Gibbses ’re awful nice folks? They don’t put on any airs but ’re friendly and simple. They’d take us under their wing and ’d be darned nice neighbors.”

Jeannette shut her mouth. It was not the time to shatter his enthusiasm; he was having a good time, imagined these people wonderful; it wouldn’t be kind of her to show him now how vulgar and cheap and horrid they and their friends and their little ridiculous Club were. No,—it would only hurt him, and under the influence of the day and the good time, it would lead to a quarrel,—and she was sick of quarrels. She reminded herself she was out of sorts from the long day of boredom and disappointment; it would be madness to say a word now. The time when she could make him see the Gibbses, their house, their friends, their tiresome pleasures and cheap environment as she saw them would come, and she must bide her time.

“... not so particularly interesting,” Martin was saying, “but a darned good sort, and he’s got a shrewd business head. I think he likes me first-rate, and I was mighty glad to see you and Mrs. Gibbs pulling together. She told me she thought you were great, said all manner of nice things about how swell you looked. She’s not much of a looker, herself, but she certainly has got the right feeling of hospitality. Know what I mean, Jan? She gives you the best she’s got, and makes you feel at home and that she’s glad you’re in her house. I think that’s bully.... And isn’t that kid a corker? Golly, I think he’s slick! You know, I carried him all the way down from the house to the Club and he had his arms round my neck the whole way. He made funny little sounds in my ear, you know, as though he was kind of enjoying himself! ... Gee, he’s a great baby!”

That flat-headed, vacant-faced child? ... Well, Martin was hopeless! He must be crazy; there was no use talking to him!

§ 3

In the morning Jeannette vigorously renewed her resolution not to mar her husband’s pleasure. For the first time, since her marriage, she felt oddly estranged from him. There was a rent somewhere in the veil through which he had hitherto appeared so handsome, so considerate, so wonderfully perfect, and the glimpse she had of him now through the rift was disconcerting and a little shocking. While they were dressing, he smoked a cigarette although he well knew the fumes of it before breakfast made her giddy; at the table he was unnecessarily noisy, laughed too loudly, with his mouth wide open and full of muffin, and after breakfast on the ill-kept lawn, he rolled about with the Gibbs baby, making a buffoon of himself and streaking his white trousers with grass green and dirt. They were to go sailing at ten o’clock,—the Websters were to call for them,—and it was thoughtless of Martin, and indicated all too clearly his utter indifference to her feelings. He looked a sight in his dirtied flannels! ... But she would be sweet! She would be amiable! She would not undo whatever good had been accomplished. At four o’clock they would take the train back to the city; there remained less than seven hours more of this dreadful visit! Martin had completely captivated Mrs. Gibbs; his enthusiasm for the baby had been the last compelling touch; she shrieked at everything he said, thought him “perfectly killing.” Both she and Mr. Gibbs had been cordial to Jeannette. Grimly, the girl determined she would hold herself in leash for the few short hours that remained, would smile and smirk and simper and do whatever they wanted!

But it was the ten-forty train that night which she and Martin were able to catch back to town. The Websters’ yacht had been becalmed, and all day the boat had rocked upon the slow oily swells of the Sound, the sail flapping dismally, the ropes creaking and straining in the blocks. The women had huddled together in the scant shade of the sail, while the men sprawled helplessly in the flagellating sun. Herbie had wailed and whimpered for hours before his mother had been able to quiet him off to sleep. She had kept repeating in a sort of justification for his ill temper: “Why, he wants his bottle; the poor darling wants his bottle; ’course he’s cross, he wants his bottle.”

At four in the afternoon a motor-boat had come within hailing distance and generously offered a tow. Fifteen minutes later they were underway in its wake, when something suddenly went wrong with the motor-boat’s engine, and both vessels slowly heaved from side to side on the oily swells. Mrs. Webster frankly became seasick. The men shouted to one another across the strip of water between the boats, but none of the suggestions of either party brought results. The motor-boat being equipped with oars, it was decided to row for assistance,—a matter of two miles’ steady pull. Martin had wanted to go along and lend a hand, but Jeannette tugged at his arm and sternly forbade him to leave her.

Effective aid finally appeared towards eight o’clock in the evening when the gathering darkness had begun to make their position really perilous, and an hour later the party clambered out on the float in front of the Family Yacht Club, cramped, hungry, but profoundly thankful. By the time Martin and Jeannette had reached the Gibbses’ house and made ready for their return to town, the ten-forty had been the earliest train they could catch back to the city. Their hosts begged them to remain for the night, but Jeannette was inflexible in insisting upon returning home. She feared another hour spent at Cohasset Beach would drive her stark, raving mad.

CHAPTER V

§ 1

When Martin went on his honeymoon to Atlantic City, he had taken his annual two weeks’ vacation. During the hot weather of summer, therefore, he and Jeannette were obliged to remain in the sweltering city. But Jeannette did not mind the heat. Adventuring in married life was too utterly absorbing; she loved her new home, and each day found new delight in managing it. She and her husband considered themselves deliriously happy. Nights on which they did not go to the theatre, they roamed the bright upper stretches of Broadway, sauntered along Riverside Drive as far as Grant’s Tomb, or meandered into the Park, where electric lights cast a theatrical radiance on trees and shrubbery. On Sundays they made excursions to the beaches, and one week-end they went to Coney Island on Saturday afternoon and stayed the night at the Manhattan Beach Hotel. Jeannette long remembered the glorious planked steak they enjoyed for dinner on that occasion, sitting at a little table by the porch railing, listening to the big military band, while all about them a gay throng chatted and laughed at other tables, and crowds surged up and down the boardwalk as the Atlantic thundered a dull rhythmical bourdon to the stirring music of trumpet and drum.

Her mother departed the first of August for Canada. The concert tour having been finally decided upon,—without the violinist,—every day or so cards arrived from Mrs. Sturgis post-marked “Montreal,” “Quebec,” “Toronto.” The venture could hardly be considered a financial success, she wrote, but she and the girls were having just too wonderful a time! The Canadians were extraordinarily hospitable!

Alice, Roy, and the baby returned from Freeport the last of September; she expected to be confined early in November. The Devlins visited them one Sunday during the last weeks of their stay on Long Island, and Jeannette wondered how her sister could be happy in such an environment. The room the Beardsleys occupied was under the roof and, during the day, like an oven. Etta, Alice told her, woke up sometimes as early as five or five-thirty, and nothing would persuade the child to go to sleep again. As soon as she was awake, she began to fret, and her wails disturbed the other boarders at that hour. Either father or mother would find it necessary to get up, dress, and wheel the child out in her carriage, pushing her around and around the block until she could be brought safely back to the house. On Sundays when breakfast was not until nine o’clock, these hours of the early silent mornings were a long, wearisome, hungry trial. Jeannette thought the food at the boarding-house was markedly meager, and Alice had to admit that as the season was drawing to a close, there were evidences of retrenchment on the part of the landlady, but at first, she assured her sister, the table had been plentiful and good. The effect of all this upon Jeannette had been a determination to order her own life along safer lines. Two or three times Alice had come up to the city during the summer to spend the night. On these occasions Roy slept at his own flat in the Bronx, as there was only a narrow couch available at the Devlins’. To this Martin had been relegated, and the two sisters occupied the bed together. Alice was very large. It worried Jeannette; she was once more full of apprehensions. She made up her mind that for herself she did not want a baby for a long time, not until she and Martin were out of debt, and had saved something so that she could be sure of a certain amount of comfort and care.

Martin’s attitude about money distressed her. He did not seem to take the matter of their finances with sufficient seriousness. He was ever urging her to engage a maid to attend to the dish-washing and clean up after dinner. He hated kitchen work, himself, and equally hated to have his wife do it. When he finished his dinner and rose from the table, rolling a cigar about between his teeth and filling his mouth with good, strong inhalations of satisfying tobacco smoke, he felt contented, replete, ready for talk and relaxation. To have Jeannette disappear into the kitchen and begin banging around out there with pans and rattling dishes annoyed him. He could not bring himself to help her; something in him rebelled at such work. His wife readily understood how he felt; she sympathized with him, and did not want him to help her, but she had her own aversion to letting the dishes stand over night and having them to do after breakfast the following day. It took the best part of her morning, and meant she could never get downtown until afternoon. But Martin was willing to concede nothing; he answered her arguments by reiterating his advice to her to hire a girl.

“Good God, Jan,” he would say in characteristic vigorous fashion, “she would cost you fifteen or twenty dollars a month, and then you could get out as early as you wanted to in the mornings and we could have our evenings together.”

It was just that fifteen or twenty dollars a month which Jeannette wanted to save to pay on her bills. She had inherited a sense of frugality; it worried her to be in debt. Martin, on the other hand, was blandly indifferent. He was willing to deny himself very little, his wife often felt, to help her contribute to the “till.” They had many arguments about the matter but never reached a conclusion. Their creditors,—they owed a little less than three hundred dollars,—were kept satisfied by a small remittance each month but something more always had to be charged. Jeannette was baffled. She talked it over with Alice. The Beardsleys lived more simply than the Devlins; they did not entertain nor go out to dinner so often nor to the theatre, and they paid only half as much rent. Their whole scale of expenditure was more economical. That was the answer, of course. When Jeannette told Martin they were living beyond their means, he grew angry.

“Damn it,” he answered her, “if there is one thing I hate more than another, it’s a piker! What do you want to crab about the bills for? Haven’t we got everything we want? Aren’t we getting along all right? Who’s kicking?”

Jeannette heaved a sigh of weariness. Some day before long she would have to persuade him to her way of thinking.

§ 2

Alice’s boy was born in October and was christened Ralph Sturgis Beardsley by the Reverend Doctor Fitzgibbons, much to Mrs. Sturgis’ tearful satisfaction. Alice had a comparatively easy time with the birth of her second child, but again there was an aftermath which kept her weak and anæmic and necessitated an operation just before Christmas.

It was just before Christmas that Jeannette urged Martin to ask for a raise. Several circumstances encouraged her: she had learned through Miss Holland that Walt Chase was getting eighty-five dollars a week,—a big mail order concern out in Chicago had made him an offer and Mr. Corey had been obliged to raise his salary in order to keep him; Martin had met John Archibald of the Archibald Engraving Company, the largest color engravers in the city, and Mr. Archibald had bought Martin a drink at the bar in the Waldorf and presented him with a cigar; lastly, her husband had landed a new engraving account a few weeks before and had brought in considerable holiday business. Martin heeded her advice and had a talk with Herbert Gibbs, who promised to take the matter up with his brother, Joe, and seemed disposed to recommend the increase. In the wildest of spirits, Martin came home, waltzed his wife around the apartment, kissed her a dozen times, told her again and again she was a wonder, insisted she stop her preparations for dinner, and carried her off to a café downtown where he ordered a pint of champagne and toasted her.

His elation, however, was not fully justified. Martin had asked for a substantial increase and a commission on all new accounts. It was evident that in discussing the matter, the brothers had decided this was too much. They agreed to give him three thousand a year on a twelve months’ contract.

“I always detested that flat-headed pig,” Jeannette exclaimed inelegantly when Martin brought home the news. “Think of how we tried to entertain him and that stupid wife of his, and how we went down to visit them and let them bore us to death! I knew he was that kind of a creature!”

“Aw, come, come, Jan,” Martin remonstrated; “you want to be fair. Herb did the best he could; it was old Joe who kicked. Three thousand a year isn’t so bad; that’s two hundred and fifty a month. Not so rotten for a fellow twenty-seven.... Now I hope to God you’ll get a girl in here to help run the kitchen.”

“Well,—all right,” Jeannette conceded, “only you’ve got to go on helping me save. I want to pay off every cent we owe.... I suppose I get my half as usual.”

“Sure. I’ll be paid now twice a month: first and fifteenth.”

“Let’s see; ... that’s a hundred and twenty-five. I get sixty-two fifty; that’s really five dollars more a week, isn’t it?”

“You’re a little tight-wad,—do you know that, darling?”

“No, I’m not,” Jeannette defended herself. “I’m only trying to run things economically and systematically, and to do that you’ve got to plan ahead. The trouble with you, Mart, is that you never do!”

The raise led to the appearance of Hilda in the kitchen. Hilda was a big-boned, good-natured Swedish girl, willing, but a careless cook, often exasperatingly stupid. Jeannette paid her fifteen dollars a month, and established her in the vacant bedroom not hitherto furnished, which involved an outlay of nearly a hundred dollars.

In spite of the additional income, money continued to be a problem. Jeannette still felt that she and Martin were living too extravagantly, and that her husband did not do his share in helping to retrench. She had been entirely satisfied in the old days before she married to go to the theatre in gallery or rear balcony seats, but Martin scorned these locations. When he went to a show, he said, he wanted to enjoy himself, and sitting in the cheap seats robbed him of any pleasure whatsoever. It was the same whenever they went downtown to dinner; he preferred the expensive hotels and restaurants; when he bought new clothes he went to a tailor and had the suit made to order; he tipped everywhere he went far too generously. If there was any economizing to be done, it was always Jeannette who must do it, and what made it all the harder was that he did not thank her for the self-denial. He spent,—his wife had no way of knowing how much,—a great deal for drinks, and for the gin and vermuth he brought home. Once a week, sometimes oftener, he would arrive with a bottle of each, carefully wrapped up in newspaper, under his arm. Every time they entertained, she knew it meant more gin and more vermuth for cocktails. Martin was not a tippler. Frequently several days or a week would go by without his even suggesting a cocktail. He did not seem to want one, unless there was company, or he happened to come home specially tired. Jeannette had never seen him intoxicated, although on the last day of the year a number of the men at his office had gathered in the late afternoon at a neighboring bar, and wished each other “Happy New Year” over and over. Martin arrived home, glassy-eyed and noisy, wanting her to kiss and love him. She hated him when he had been drinking; she even loathed the odor of liquor on his breath; it made it strong and hot like the breath of a panther. Another expense was his cigars of which he consumed half-a-dozen a day. She knew they cost money, and she knew Martin well enough to feel sure that the kind he liked was not the inexpensive variety.

There was also his card playing to be taken into account. Sandy MacGregor had a circle of friends who played poker together generally once a week, on Friday nights. At first Jeannette had urged Martin to go when Sandy had rung him up, asking if he would like to “sit in.” She considered it part of a good wife’s rôle: a man should not be expected to give up masculine society, or an occasional “good time with the boys” merely because he was married. She did not entirely approve of poker, but Martin loved it. Whenever he won, he woke her up when he came home and announced it triumphantly; when he lost he said nothing about it, and she felt she had no right to ask questions. She suspected he did not tell her the truth about the size of the stakes for which he played, realizing she would worry, so she never inquired, and if Martin came home and put seven or eight dollars on her dressing-table, exultingly telling her that it was half his winnings, she thanked him with a bright smile and a kiss for his generous division, even though she was confident he had won a great deal more.

On the first and fifteenth of the month he gave her sixty-two dollars and fifty cents. She had to apportion the money among the tradespeople, the bills “downtown,” and keep enough for Hilda’s wages and incidental table expenses for the ensuing fortnight. It left her very little to spend on herself, for clothes and amusements,—far from enough. For years she had been independent, her own mistress, with the disposal of her entire earnings; it was hard for her now to have to economize and compromise and resort to makeshifts because of her husband’s indifference and improvidence. It brought back disturbing memories of old days when she and Alice and their mother had had to skimp and struggle in order to eke out the simplest order of existence. It was just what she feared might happen when she had considered marrying.

A month arrived when Jeannette found upon her grocer’s bill a charge for gin and vermuth and for half a box of cigars: nine dollars and twenty-five cents! It precipitated an angry quarrel between her husband and herself. Martin had been encroaching in various ways upon her half share of his salary, and she proposed now to put a stop to it. He argued that the cocktails and cigars had been for her friends when invited to dinner; she retorted that neither cocktails nor cigars had had any share in the entertainment she provided, and if he chose to have them on hand and offer them, it was his own affair. She taxed him with the whole score of his extravagance, while Martin chafed and twisted under her sharp criticisms, swore and grew sulky. He hated unpleasantness and tried to evade the issue: he’d pay for the booze and cigars and buy her a hat or anything else she fancied, if she’d only “forget it” and quit “ragging” him. But Jeannette felt that the question of an equal division of their financial responsibility was vital to the success of their marriage, the happiness of both, and she refused to be deflected. He finally stormed himself out of the apartment, viciously banging the door shut behind him. Two days of misery followed for them both, when they met with the exchange of monosyllables only, though their thoughts pursued one another through every hour. Their reconciliation was terrific, each willing to concede everything, eager to make promises and to assure the other of utter contriteness.

From Jeannette’s point-of-view matters improved. Twice Martin gave her an extra ten dollars out of his half of his salary.

§ 3

When the year’s lease on the apartment neared its end, Martin was not for renewing it. Herbert Gibbs had been talking to him about Cohasset Beach, urging him to move there. Summer was approaching, Gibbs pointed out, with all its good times of swimming and boating, and even in winter, he assured Martin, there was plenty of outdoor sport: skating, tobogganing, even skiing. In particular, his employer counselled, there was a remarkable little house,—a bungalow,—with floors, ceilings and inside trim of oak that had just become vacant through the death of its owner, which could be had for fifty dollars a month. It was a great bargain for the money. Martin was enthusiastic. Gibbs had promised he would be at once elected to the Family Yacht Club, and had described the good times its members had: dances every Saturday night and in summer, swimming, yachting, picnics. The “bunch,” he assured the young man, was a “live” one,—the pick of “good fellows.”

Jeannette listened to her husband’s glowing recital with a cold tightening at her heart.

“He says, Jan,” Martin told her eagerly, “that every once in awhile they have masquerade parties down at the Club, and everybody goes all dressed up, with masks on, you know, so nobody recognizes you, and they just have a riot of fun. Then about a dozen or fifteen of the fellows are going to get sail-boats this year. There’s a ship-yard near there, and the ship-builder has designed the neatest little sail-boat you ever saw in your life. He calls it the A-boat, and they are only going to cost ninety dollars apiece. Just think of that, Jan: ninety dollars apiece! A sail-boat,—a little yacht,—for that sum! Gee whillikens! Can you imagine the fun we’ll have? Everybody, you know, starts the same with a new boat. Gibbs was crazy to have me order one,—the Club is anxious to give the ship-builder as big an order as possible so’s to get the price down,—so I fell for it and told him to put me down. I thought maybe I’d call her the Albatross?”

“You—what?” asked Jeannette blankly.

“Sure, I told him to put me down. You know, it made a hit with him; he’d ’ve been awfully sore if I hadn’t; and it’s up to me to keep in with old Gibbsey. I can sell it if we don’t like it. Gibbs put my name up for membership in the Yacht Club.”

“He did?” Jeannette said blankly again.

“Well, darling, it’s only thirty dollars a year and I guess that’s not going to break us; the initiation fee is twenty-five,—something like that. Why the Club is just intended for young married folks like us; there’re the dances for the ladies, and the card parties and picnics, and there’re the sports for the men. Gee,—I think it will be great! And Gibbsey tells me that by special arrangement this year the Cohasset Beach Yacht Club is going to let us use its tennis courts!”

Jeannette looked into his excited eyes, and a dull exasperation came over her.

“The poor, poor simpleton,” she thought. “He thinks he’ll like it; Gibbs has filled him full. He’ll hate it as I hate it now inside of a fortnight. He never would be contented in such a place; what would he do without his theatres and the gay night life he loves? It’s hard enough for us to live as we are,—we have to struggle and struggle to make ends meet,—and here he is mad to try an even more expensive method of living, involving clubs and club dues, yachts and commutation fares! ... And in such a community with such people! The flat-headed Gibbses and their awful friends picnicking there on the sand that terrible Fourth of July! And Martin proposes I exchange them and their vulgar dreadful society, their masquerades and card parties, for my beautiful little apartment which I’ve tried to make perfect, which everyone admires, and which is my joy and delight!”

There was a dangerous, fixed smile on her face as she rose from the dinner table where they had been lingering over their black coffee, and rang the little brass bell for Hilda to clear away.

“Well, what do you think, Jan? Don’t you believe we’d both come to love the country? Don’t you think we’d have a pack of fun down there?”

She eyed him with a cold stare a moment before she answered slowly:

“I won’t consider it.”

His face fell.

“What’s more,” she added briefly, “I think you’re a fool.”

His expression darkened; he glowered at her, hurt to the quick. She ignored him and went about the living-room straightening objects, lowering shades, adjusting lights. All the time she was steeling herself to the wrangle she knew was coming. She would be equal to it; she would give him straight talk; she’d let him have a piece of her mind and make him realize how absurd he was, how utterly insane. Buying yachts and joining clubs! What did he think he was, anyway? A millionaire?

The storm when it broke was the most violent they had yet known; it was even worse than she had anticipated. Martin, usually noisy, cursing, was quick to recover, while she rarely lost control of speech or action. But now the thought of giving up her little home, as he calmly proposed, infuriated her. He had not the faintest conception of how she loved it; he had never done one single thing to improve or beautify it beyond buying those frightful Macy daubs!

For the first time in their quarrels she could not control her tears. Convulsed with sobbing, Martin thought she had capitulated. He waited several minutes in distressed silence and then came to where she lay upon the couch to put his arms about her and draw her to him, but she turned on him with a fury that was shocking. Rebuffed, he stared at her savagely, then snatched his hat and coat and left her with a violent bang of the door.

Jeannette never for one moment thought she could not swing Martin to her wishes. She could not conceive of herself weakening; Martin had always been easy-going, good-natured. But she had forgotten how purposeful he could be when his intent was hot; she had forgotten his perseverance, his patience, his indefatigability when he wooed her; she had forgotten his winningness, his persuasiveness. He brought all these qualities into play now; there was no side-tracking him, no gainsaying him. His mind was locked against the renewal of their lease, and set upon Cohasset Beach. He argued, he cajoled, he pleaded, he coaxed. Never had she known him so irritating or so winning. If she grew cross, he was amiable; if she grew sorrowful, he was consoling and tender; if she advanced arguments that brooked no reply, he was loving and answered her with kisses. But he was determined; nothing swerved him from his purpose.

Once again, Jeannette found no comforting support in anybody. Her mother said she ought to give in to her husband if he was so set upon the plan; it was the wife’s place to give way. Alice thought it would be delightful to live in the country, and assured her sister she would come to love it; she and Roy had been talking all winter about moving to some place on Long Island or in New Jersey, but it was hard to find anything really nice for twenty-five dollars a month within commuting distance of the city; they were going to board at Freeport again for the summer and they intended to look around and see what they could find there. It would be ideal for the children.... Was there any hope ... any prospect ...?

“No, thank Heaven,” Jeannette answered fervently. She had enough to bother her without the complication of a baby just now.

On the anniversary of her wedding day she surrendered. Martin had been so sweet and gentle with her, so anxious to please, so considerate, every impulse within her prompted her to do the thing he wanted. She could see how eager he was for his sail-boat, his new club and the country; he was mad to have them; her heart was full of love for him. She reminded herself that when she had entered into this marriage she had been determined to give more, if need be, than he did, to make their union a success. Here was an opportunity. It meant a great sacrifice for herself; she had no faith in the experiment, but felt sure she would learn to hate all the people and the place, and Martin would soon tire of it and them and share her feelings. But now it was the thing above all else he wanted, and it was her chance to be generous.

She extracted from him two promises, however. It was a foregone conclusion, she told him, that she would not be happy at Cohasset Beach, but if she agreed to go and live there with him, it must be understood between them that she was to be free to come into New York as often as she pleased, to shop or to visit her mother and Alice, or do anything she liked. He must also understand that he was to keep a closer watch upon their finances. With commutation, railroad fares and club dues added to their expenses they would have to practise a much more rigid economy. She wanted to get the table expenditures down to fifteen dollars a week, and that would be out of the question if he expected her to entertain. As soon as they were out of debt and had a little ahead, she would be more than willing to have him invite people to visit them.

He promised everything. He was only too anxious and willing, he said, to agree to all she asked, to show his deep gratitude.

§ 4

The bungalow at Cohasset Beach, at first sight, consoled her in some degree for giving up the apartment. The little house was charming, and charmingly situated. It had been built a few years before by a rich old lady, an invalid, who had been compelled to pass her days in a wheel-chair which she operated herself. Because of the chair, the house had been planned bungalow-fashion, though there was an upstairs of two small bedrooms and an extra bath, and the doorways between rooms had been made particularly wide to permit the easy passage of the chair. Inside there were oak floors throughout, a spacious fireplace, and an oak-timbered ceiling in a generous-sized living-room, off which opened two bedrooms and, opposite, the dining-room. There was an acre or so of unkempt ground about the house with some gnarled old apple trees, in blossom when Jeannette first saw them, and at the rear the ground sloped down to a rush-bordered pool in whose rippleless surface all the colors of the sky, blossoming trees and bordering reeds were intensified in glorious reflection. A white cow stood upon her own inverted image at the farther side. There was no view of the Sound,—the bungalow was a good mile from the water,—but it was picturesquely set, and Jeannette felt, since she had been forced to abandon the city, she could not have found a home in the country that suited her better.

The move from town was accomplished without a hitch; even Hilda was successfully transplanted. Jeannette set herself determinedly to work to fit herself and her furniture into the new environment, and was surprised to discover how easily both were accomplished. Expenses alone distressed her. The vans which brought down the household effects cost more than she had expected, and she was obliged to order more furniture and rugs to make the new home attractive. Unfortunately, the bungalow had casement windows and this necessitated cutting and remaking all her curtains. Some in addition, too, were needed for the living-room, and Jeannette had decided that scrim would be both practical and economical, but the clerk in the store had shown her a soft, lovely material, stamped with a design of long green grasses and iris, which he assured her was “sunfast.” The pale purple and green in the goods had appealed to her as so unusually beautiful and effective that she had not been able to resist getting it. She decided to plant iris about the house in the long narrow strips of flower-beds, and to carry iris as a motif throughout the place. In a Fifth Avenue shop there was some china that had a pattern of fleur-de-lis in its center, and her heart was set on some day acquiring it for her new home.

Martin was immediately elected to the Family Yacht Club; the Gibbses had him and his wife to dinner and invited the Websters and another couple to make their acquaintance; Mrs. Rudolph Drigo and Mrs. Blum, who were neighbors, called, also Doctor Vinegartner of the Episcopal Church. Alice, Roy, and the children spent a Sunday with her sister and Alice was enthusiastic about everything. She told Roy they would have to find a house of their own at Cohasset Beach without delay. Summer had arrived before Jeannette was half aware of its approach.

The weather turned glorious; the dogwood came and went; the country was full of sweet scents; robins and thrushes sang with open throbbing throats in the apple trees and hopped about in the shade; the frogs shrilled musically at evening in the pool, but Jeannette did not find the happiness for which she hoped. She tried to be content; she sought for joy in her new life and surroundings. She found none. Too many things were wrong. Over and over again she decided it was hopeless.

First of all, there was the Family Yacht Club which Martin loved and she despised. She had known beforehand what it was going to be like, and closer acquaintance proved her premise to have been correct. All-year-round residents of Cohasset Beach made up its membership. There were less than three thousand people in the Long Island village during the winter; it was only in summer that the place became fashionable. Among those who belonged to the little yacht club, Jeannette soon discovered, were Tim Birdsell, the village plumber; Zeb Kline, a contractor, hardly better than a carpenter; Fritz Wiggens, who kept an electrical equipment store on Washington Street; Steve Teschemacher and Adolph Kuntz, who were real estate agents and were interested in a development known as “Cohasset Park”; then there were the local dentist and his wife, the local attorney and his helpmate, and the local doctor, who seemed to be of a better sort than the rest and was fortunately unmarried. The ladies took an active part in the social life of the yacht club and ’Stel Teschemacher, Chairwoman of the Entertainment Committee, went early to call upon the new member’s wife to invite her to come to the “Five Hundred Club” meeting on the following Friday afternoon. There was a sprinkling of others who boasted of a slightly more exalted social status: Mrs. Drigo’s husband operated a large ice plant in New York City. Mrs. Blum was the wife of the well-known confectioner, and Percy Webster was connected with an advertising agency. If there were more interesting members they kept themselves aloof,—at least Jeannette did not meet them. Once when she was describing to her mother with a good deal of relish the type of people who belonged to this club, and was referring to the list of members in the club’s annual booklet, she was surprised to come upon the name of Lester Short and that of a prominent magazine editor well-known to her.

She asked Herbert Gibbs about these people at an early opportunity but elicited nothing more satisfactory from him than: “Oh, they come round occasionally.” If such was the case, Jeannette was unable to identify them. She was interested to learn later that Lester Short and his wife had six children and lived about half-a-mile beyond the village in the region known as the “Point.”

Martin had no fault to find with his new friends. He was welcomed into their hearts; he charmed them all; he was acclaimed immediately the most popular member, and was appointed by the Commodore, old Jess Higgenbothen, affable, decrepit and rich, and owner of most of the acres Teschemacher and Kuntz were trying to sell as choice lots in Cohasset Park, to serve on the entertainment committee with ’Stel Teschemacher. Martin was enchanted with the cordiality with which he was accepted; he thought Zeb Kline, Fritz Wiggens, young Doc French “corking good scouts”; Zeb and Fritz were a little rough perhaps but they were regular fellows; Steve Teschemacher was as “funny as a crutch” and his partner, Adolph Kuntz, had about as sharp and shrewd a mind as Martin had ever encountered.

“Why, you ought to hear Adolph talk politics!” he told his wife enthusiastically. “He knows more about what’s going on up in Albany right this minute than all the newspapers in New York. You ought to hear him tell some of his experiences in the Republican Party!”

He might be interesting and clever, everything Martin said of him, but to Jeannette he seemed uncouth, ill-bred, a spitter of tobacco juice.

§ 5

When the Yacht Club formally opened its summer season, Jeannette put on her prettiest frock and went with her husband to the dance with which it was inaugurated. It was one of the efforts she made to adapt herself to the village life. She loved to dance. Swimming, sailing, tennis did not appeal to her, but from the dances in the club-house she hoped she might derive a certain amount of genuine pleasure. On the night of the affair, after studying the reflection in her mirror she had decided she had never looked so well; with truth she could say she was a beautiful woman, and in this estimate of herself, she found ample confirmation in Martin’s eyes. They hired a hack and drove over to the club.

But for the young wife it proved a dismal experience. The yokels,—the plumber, the electrician, the carpenter, the dentist and real estate agents,—were afraid to approach her,—not that she wanted them to,—and she had been left to the favor of Herbert Gibbs, Doc French, and the old Commodore. The women eyed her covertly, whispered about her and her gown, and made no advances. Herbert Gibbs danced with her once, twice; Martin was three times her partner; Commodore Higgenbothen had passed his “gallivanting” days; Doc French, whom she liked and to whom she would have been glad to be cordial, did not dance at all. The floor was rough and uneven; the music lugubrious; three small boys kept up a fearful racket playing with some folding chairs stacked in a corner. She watched Martin whirling and wheeling about the floor, his face a broad grin, his eyes and teeth flashing, talking, laughing, exchanging an endless banter with other couples, answering here, there and everywhere to calls of “Martin” and “Mart.” At half-past ten she could stand no more of it. She knew she was dragging her husband away from a hilarious good time, but she was bored, disgusted with the whole evening and the hoidenish, loud-voiced village folk. She would never make the mistake of going to another of their wretched dances. Martin could go if he wanted to; if he liked to hobnob with such people, he could do so to his heart’s content: she wouldn’t raise one word of objection, but wild horses wouldn’t drag her there again!

In a fortnight, there was another dance at the club, and this time Martin took himself to the party alone, while Jeannette went to bed with a magazine. He woke her up when he came home a little after twelve, and told her he had had a wonderfully good time, and that Lester Short, his wife and their two older children had been present. But Jeannette had no regrets. The Shorts and her husband could enjoy the society of the plumbers and carpenters and their wives if they chose to do so; she felt satisfied that if she had gone she would have been miserable.

§ 6

Besides the Yacht Club there were other things in the new order of existence that proved annoying. Meat and vegetables cost considerably more at Cohasset Beach than in the city, and everything else was proportionally dearer. Jeannette had thought she might save a little on her marketing in the country, and it was discouraging to discover that this was quite impossible. She certainly had not expected to find that prices were actually higher. Then there was not nearly the same variety from which to choose in the stores here as there had been in the groceries and particularly the meat markets of Amsterdam and Columbus Avenues. She and Martin were especially fond of lamb kidneys which she used to buy at the rate of three for five cents in New York. Pulitzer’s at Cohasset Beach never seemed to have them. And even more exasperating was the fact that fish could only be had on Thursdays when the fish-man came around blowing his horn.

The neighborhood, too, was a source of discomfort. Jeannette discovered, within a few days after they had moved into the bungalow, that the reason so attractive a house had been for rent at such a figure, with its acre and more of ground, its apple trees and pond and picturesque setting, was that it was situated on the wrong side of town, beyond the railroad tracks, a mile from the water. The desirable, residential section of Cohasset Beach was that in which the Herbert Gibbses lived, on the hill overlooking the Sound. A block from the bungalow, their rear yards abutting upon the railroad tracks, was a row of shabby cottages occupied by laborers, Polacks mostly, who worked in the quarries down on the “Point.” Here fences sagged and refuse littered the roadway, dirty children scrambled about and screamed at one another, drying laundry fluttered from clothes-lines, and fat dark women in calicoes and shuffling shoes gossiped from doorstep to doorstep. On Saturday nights there were invariably celebrations among these people at which, from the singing and general racket, it was evident that red wine flowed freely, and the doleful whine of an accordion accompanying hoarse masculine voices rose dismally from sundown until the early morning hours, interrupted by shouts of rollicking laughter. Martin assured his wife that these people were simple creatures, peasants transplanted but a few years from their native soil, celebrating after a week of toil, in a harmless jovial way after the fashion to which, in the old country, they had been accustomed. But Jeannette found it disturbing, not a little frightening, especially on those nights when Martin went off to the Yacht Club and left her alone with only Hilda in the house.

Lastly mosquitoes, germinated in the pond within a hundred yards of her own door, made their appearance in hungry numbers early in July. The pool was practically stagnant,—without visible outlet,—and the neighbor who owned it and who operated a small dairy, refused to oil it as his cows watered there. The bungalow windows were unscreened. Jeannette did not understand how she had failed to notice the fact when she first inspected the premises. The matter had to be remedied immediately, or life would be insupportable. The landlord declined to do anything; Martin thought perhaps they could endure the nuisance until cold weather came, but his wife declared that unthinkable. If the windows were shut with the lights on, the bungalow became insufferably hot and stuffy; if left open, moths, winged bugs, every kind of flying insect of the night together with the pests bred in the stagnant pool, flew in to buzz about the globes and torment those beneath them. Zeb Kline agreed to equip the bungalow with screens,—the frames would have to be fitted to the insides of the windows on account of their being casement,—for sixty-five dollars, and Jeannette, angered by Martin’s complacent acceptance of the circumstances, and his indifferent attitude towards that for which she felt him largely responsible, told the carpenter to go ahead.

There were days when in the seclusion of her own bedroom she gave way freely to her tears. She wanted to be happy; she wanted to be a good manager of her house, a good wife to Martin. Life often seemed to demand more from her than she was capable of giving. Concede—concede—concede! It was all concession for her; Martin gave nothing.

§ 7

There came another Fourth of July, one year from the time of the visit to the Gibbses. Doc French was a member of the Cohasset Beach Yacht Club as well as of the Family Yacht Club. There was to be a wonderful party at the former on the evening of the Fourth; it was the Club’s annual show. A dinner was to be followed by a vaudeville entertainment provided by a number of talented actors from the Lambs Club, and after that a dance which would probably last all night. Doc French invited Martin Devlin and his wife to be his guests; he was giving a little dinner party for his sister-in-law, Lou, and her cousin, Mrs. Edith Prentiss, who were spending the holiday with him.

Jeannette was overjoyed at the prospect. She spent a day shopping in New York, and bought herself silver satin slippers, a pair of gray silk stockings to wear with a silver dress,—part of her trousseau,—which she had had no occasion to put on since she moved to the country. It promised to be a delightful affair and Martin shared her excitement.

It turned out to be all she expected. The spacious dining-room, the dancing floor, even the awninged porches were crowded with tables, gay with flowers and patriotic decorations. There was a beguiling atmosphere of soft lights, color and music, smart and lovely women, elaborate costumes, attractive men. Jeannette felt that she herself bloomed with beauty, that she appeared tall, statuesque, superb. People at other tables threw appraising glances and occasionally she saw a lorgnette levelled in her direction. Doc French was admiring and attentive; she liked his sister-in-law and particularly Mrs. Prentiss; the vaudeville show on an improvised stage at one end of the long room was one of the best she had ever witnessed. Some of the actors were head-liners in their profession; with songs and stories, they kept the audience rocking with laughter and stirred it to roars of applause. One of the entertainers particularly drew Jeannette’s interest,—a young actor, named Michael Carr. An unusually attractive youth, renowned for his good looks, a matinée idol, he had held the boards on Broadway all winter as the leading attraction in a Viennese opera. Jeannette thought he sang delightfully, and had a most charming personality.

Towards midnight the chairs and tables were cleared away and the dancing began. Doc French did not dance, himself, but he had no difficulty in securing partners for his guests, and Jeannette floated around the gaily decorated ball-room through the soft colors of calcium lights thrown upon the dancers, in an intoxication of pleasure. Men, young and old, seemed anxious to know her and ask her to dance; she was in demand every moment, and in one of these dizzying whirls she was interrupted by Doc French to introduce Michael Carr. The actor had asked to be presented; could he have a dance? The next was promised, but he could have it just the same, she said with shining eyes. She drifted away in his arms presently, a sweet giddiness enveloping her senses, rocking her in sensuous delight. They glided from the dance and wandered out upon the long pier over the water. The lisping waves lapped the piles and rhythmically beat upon the pebbled shore, the music of the dance reached them plaintively, yachts white and ghostly stood sentinels at their moorings, their cabins pin-pricked with lights, their starboard lanterns glowing green. The night air was caressing, gay voices floated toward them, there was smothered laughter from hidden corners, the heavens were a myriad of golden stars. Quite simply Michael Carr took the slim silver figure in his arms, she melted into his embrace and their lips clung to one another’s long and lovingly. It was a night of love, a night for lovers.

The brilliantly lit ball-room, the music drew them back. Jeannette had no sense of guilt; the mood of the hour still wrapped her; for the moment she loved this man whole-heartedly; he was divine, a super-man, a god. No thought of Martin came to distress her. She was supremely content, supremely happy; it was rapture, bliss, enchantment. In her ear he kept whispering:

“You are wonderful, you are beautiful, you are adorable.”

Doc French was beckoning to her, but she only smiled amiably at him as she passed and floated on in Michael’s arms, bending and undulating with him in perfect symmetry of motion. There was no such thing as time or space; she shut her eyes, and seemed to be floating—floating—floating—— Doc French stopped them with a hand on the actor’s arm.

“Sorry to interrupt,” he said, “but I fear I must. Your husband, Mrs. Devlin.... May I speak to you a moment?”

Carr said, “Oh, I beg pardon,” and stepped aside, but Jeannette’s thoughts followed him.

“What is it, Doc?”

“Martin had better go home, Mrs. Devlin. He’s been downstairs at the bar, and I guess he’s had a bit too much. I was going to take him home myself but I didn’t know how to get into your house.”

“Martin?”

“He’s been downstairs at the bar, and I’m afraid the fellows there wouldn’t let him get away.”

“Martin?”

Reality came blindingly upon her with a glare of hideous white light. Her dream shattered. Ugliness obtruded,—things naked and angular, harshness and cold cruelty! She felt as if she were being jerked from enchanted slumber by a rude and horrid hand.

She clutched at her heart as if to tear out the pain that had already stabbed her there.

“Martin!” she breathed again, gasping a little, the blood draining from her face.

“He’s all right, Mrs. Devlin,—quite all right, I assure you. Nothing’s happened to him—nothing wrong. There’s been no accident.”

“Accident?” Her eyes widened with sudden fear.

“No—no; it’s all right. He’s just drunk a little too much, and I thought he’d better go home.”

“Oh, surely—right away. Where is he?”

“Well, we’ve got him out in my car.”

“Let’s go—let’s go then; let’s go quickly. I’ll get my wraps.” She started for the dressing-room.

“Good-night,” Michael’s voice called after her but she did not turn her head.

Doc French led her to the motor car. Martin lay huddled in the back, insensate, a long string of saliva trailing from his under lip. A strange man supported him.

A trembling, whispered exclamation escaped Jeannette. Her companion kept on reassuring her.

“There’s nothing—nothing the matter,” he repeated. “He’s had too much to drink, that’s all.... Get in the front seat with me and I’ll drive you straight home and we’ll put him to bed.”

They bumped over the car-tracks in Washington Street and the dusty uneven ground in front of the station. The dawn was coming up angry and on fire in the east.

Before the bungalow, Jeannette jumped from the motor car and struggled to insert the twisted latch-key in the lock, but her fingers shook so much it took her some time to manage it. Behind her, Doc French and the strange man were lifting Martin from the car. As they wrenched him free he groaned painfully.

Jeannette flew into the house, flung on lights, tore back the gay-figured cretonne cover of the bed. Her underclothes lay upon the chair where she had tossed them when she had been so happily dressing. She gathered these with one swift reach and threw them to the floor of a closet. The stumbling feet were coming; the men were carrying Martin head and feet. With a concerted effort they heaved him upon the bed and he lay there inertly, sprawling, just as he had fallen.

“Can I help you, Mrs. Devlin?” asked the Doctor, dusting off his hands.

“Oh, no,—thank you very much,” Jeannette answered in a strained voice.

“Don’t you think we’d better undress him? He’s pretty heavy for you to manage alone.”

Jeannette looked at the helpless figure flung out across the bed, ungainly postured like a child’s discarded doll, purple lips parting with each breath, the hair damp and tousled. One of his garters had loosened and dangled now from the wrinkled hose that covered a patent-leather pump.

“No,” she said again slowly, “thank you very much for all your kindness, Doc,—but it’s my—my job; he belongs to me; I’ll take care of him.”

§ 8

Three hours later she walked out on the back porch. The heat of the Sunday morning was moist and tropical, giving promise of a scorching day. The bells of the Catholic Church on the “Point” road were ringing sweetly for the children’s mass. Her eyes felt burnt out from lack of sleep: two black holes in her head. Hilda was making a small fuss in the kitchen, rattling pans, droning hoarsely to herself. Jeannette stood at the porch railing and looked off across the quiet country, misty with the early heat. Emotions were at war in her heart, and there was pain—pain—pain.

She had not been to bed; she had not even lain down. The silver gown had been put away, her finery discarded, and now she wore the striped velveteen wrapper in which she usually did her morning’s work. She had undressed her husband, removed his shoes, drawn off his dress suit, tugging at its arms, rolling him from one side to another to free the clothing. She had washed his face with a cold wet rag and brushed the rumpled hair from his eyes. Then she had put the room in order, opened the casement windows, drawn the shades, closed the door and left him to peace and sleep. The house had needed straightening and to this she had turned her attention, adjusting rugs, pushing chairs into position, emptying ash receivers, carrying away newspapers, arranging magazines and books in neat piles, using broom and dust-pan, wiping the furniture with a dust cloth. Hilda had given her some coffee at eight o’clock and she had drunk it black and crunched some thin slices of buttered toast. Now nothing remained to be done and the thoughts to which she had resolutely shut her mind clamored for admittance to her weary brain. Remorse and reproach, censure and repugnance, disillusionment, humiliation, grief and regret,—they swarmed upon her like so many black flies.

The hours of the morning ticked themselves away. She could not sleep; she could not rest. Over and over her thoughts turned to the incidents of the night, giving her no peace, no surcease. Every little while she would go softly to Martin’s door and silently look in upon him; he lay as she had left him. In spite of the opened windows the room reeked of alcohol.

Towards noon she fell asleep on the couch in the living-room, and the afternoon light was waning when she opened her eyes. The sound of water woke her; Martin was running a bath, and when presently she entered the bedroom, she found him shaving. She was shocked at his appearance; his face was dead white, the eyes bloodshot, and his hand trembled as he held the razor, but it was Martin, restored to life and sanity.

They avoided one another’s glance, and constraint held them silent. She could see that physically he was weak, his nerves still shattered and that his mind was sick with remorse, and fear of her displeasure. He could not guess she wanted only to take him in her arms, to kiss and comfort him, wanted only to be kind and good to him, to restore him to health and strength again, wanted to utter no word of reproach but to give him all the love she could and so ease the pain and shame within herself.

§ 9

Three weeks later, Doc French drove up in front of the bungalow door in his lumbering motor car. It was late in the afternoon. There had been a heavy thunderstorm about two o’clock but now the sun was glittering on all the dripping trees and drenched shrubbery and the air was fragrant with sweet grassy and woodland smells.

There was to be another dance at the Cohasset Beach Yacht Club the following Saturday night. Doc’s sister-in-law and Mrs. Prentiss were coming down for it and would stay with him over the week-end; it happened to be Lou’s birthday and he wanted Martin and Jeannette to help celebrate the event at a small dinner he was arranging at the Cohasset Beach club-house before the dance.

Jeannette thanked him and said that, no, she was sorry but she and Martin had another engagement; Doc was very kind to think of them but it would have to be another time.

When her husband came home on the five-twenty, she told him about it.

“Oh, you bet you,” he agreed. “No more of that kind of stuff for this young fellow. We’re out of our class at that club, Jan.”

“I thought,” suggested Jeannette, “we might go to the other club that night. There’s always a dance there, and it would be our excuse to Doc French. It occurred to me that perhaps after we got to know those people a little better, we might like it.”

Martin’s face beamed with pleasure.

“Would you? Would you really go?” he asked eagerly. “Say, Jan, that’ll be fine. Say, if you only wouldn’t be so standoffish and proud, you’d learn to like that gang and they’d learn to like you. They’re awfully good-hearted.”

“Well, I’ll try,” said his wife.

CHAPTER VI

§ 1

It was quite an undertaking to go from Cohasset Beach to Freeport, on the opposite side of Long Island. One had to take the steam train to Jamaica and change cars there; the connections were bad; it took the better part of two hours. But Alice had written her sister week after week begging her and Martin to spend a Sunday with them and finally a date had been set. It was the end of the Beardsleys’ stay at Freeport, and the visit could not be further postponed if the Devlins were to accomplish it at all. Jeannette was eager to go, but to Martin it meant the loss of his one day in the week of yachting. There were races every Sunday afternoon and since Martin had acquired his little A-boat, there was no joy in life for him equal to the pleasure of sailing it. But it held no joy for Jeannette; she resented the boat and everything connected with it; to her it only meant ninety dollars’ worth of extravagance and it took her husband away from her every week-end. He spent Saturday afternoons “tuning up,” as he described it, for the race on Sunday. She saw little of him on these days; he was always at the yacht club and would often be half-an-hour to an hour late for dinner. He never had had any sense of time.

So she had patiently urged the expedition to Freeport and had made him promise weeks in advance that this particular date should be dedicated to the visit.

The day was a glorious success. Martin was in his sweetest, merriest mood and no regret over his lost sport lingered in his heart. There was only a faint stirring of wind and little indication that it would freshen, as previous days had been marked by calm; he was consoled, therefore, in thinking that in all probability there would be no race that afternoon.

Alice, Roy, and the children met them at the Freeport Station. They were all going on a picnic over to the beach it was announced; a launch would take them to a sandy reef that was their own discovery; it left a little after eleven; they just had time.

The beach when they reached it was totally deserted. No one ever came there, Alice explained; it was a narrow, hummocky strip of sand, a mile or more in length with no habitation on it but a gray weather-beaten shack falling into ruins. A rickety one-board pier jutted out into the lagoon that separated this reef from the island shore and the launch stopped there a moment to let the little party disembark before it went chug-chugging on its way to Coral Beach farther along the coast, where a small tent colony was springing into being. The launch would return for them about five o’clock.

A sandy tramp of a few hundred yards over the dunes and sparse gray sea-scrub brought them to the lunching spot. Here, half covered over with drifting sand, was a long padlocked pine box. Roy produced a key and opened it. This was the cache, the Beardsleys explained; they and the children came here every Sunday and they kept a few things stowed away in the box. Nobody ever disturbed them. This was their own little sandy domain, and they referred to it always as San Salvador. The box disclosed a tall faded, beach umbrella which was immediately unfurled and planted upright in the sand; then there was a piece of clean canvas, some straw cushions, and an iron grill. The canvas was spread under the umbrella; Roy made Jeannette seat herself on one of the cushions, and he propped a board at an angle behind her so that she might lean back against it and be comfortable; then she was given Ralph to hold and to feed from his bottle. The others proceeded to busy themselves with preparations for lunch. Etta was quite able to look out for herself, Alice assured her sister, and the baby would be off in ten minutes.

An expedition for driftwood was inaugurated and presently a large pile of smoothly rounded bleached sticks, branches and blocks of wood was heaped near at hand. The lunch consisted of hot cocoa and chops which were to be grilled, and some round flat bakery buns to be split in half and toasted. In a few moments there was a brisk, snapping fire leaping up through the bars of the grill; a large saucepan and the milk appeared, the buns impaled on the points of sticks were set to toasting; at the last moment the chops were to be put on to broil.

A heavenly felicity stole over Jeannette as she sat in the shade of the umbrella, the baby in her arms, watching the scene. The Atlantic thundered in in great arcs of green water, foamed-crested, which crashed magnificently in round curling splathers of spray, and slid swiftly, smoothly, reachingly up the flat beach to slink back again upon themselves as if deriding these harmless, picnicking people were not the victims for which they sought. Seaweed littered the beach in long whip lashes and bulbous bottles, and seabirds picked their way about in it, and pecked at sand fleas; gulls soared in wide circles above their heads, squawking ugly cries, or skimmed the wave-tops hunting fish. Far out upon the bosom of the ocean a steamer left a long scarf of smoke against an azure sky. The salt air from the sea was scented with the fragrant odor of the beachwood fire.

Little Ralph lay inertly in Jeannette’s arms sucking greedily at his bottle until the last of it had to be tilted up against his mouth. At this stage his eyelids began to drift shut and his head to hang heavily in the crook of her elbow. He was a cunning child, his aunt thought, critically studying him. He resembled his father with a closeness that was ludicrous: a small replica, with the same small mouth, the same whimsical smile and unruly, tawny hair. His skin was like satin,—delicately tinted,—and against its faint pinkness his long-fringed lashes lay like tiny feathery fans. His weight against her breast felt pleasant to her; he seemed so trusting, so certain of protection, as he lay sleeping thus, a scrap of humanity confident of the world’s love. A sudden tenderness came to the woman; she bent down and kissed the damp forehead at the edge of the child’s yellow hair.

The entrancing smell of crisply broiling meat and toasting bread assailed her.

“Uuum—m,” she said hungrily, and raising her head she observed Martin watching her. Puzzled a moment by the intentness of his gaze, her eyes widened inquiringly, but he only shook his head at her pleasantly and grinned. There was love in his look and it thrilled her as evidence of any affection from him never failed to do.

She gently laid the baby on the strip of canvas, arranged a rumpled little pillow beneath his head, spread a square of netting over him to keep flies from bothering him, weighing down its corners with a few beach pebbles, and joined the others about the fire, where presently they were all munching with gluttonous cries of delight. Never was there better food! Never was there anything so delicious! A bite of grilled chop and a bite of crisp buttery bun! Their appetites were on edge; they grunted in satisfying them. Another cup of hot cocoa, please,—and, yes,—another chop,—just one more,—but this must positively be the last!

As the fire died away, they lay back upon the sand, replete, heavy with food, bathed in pleasant warmth. Etta, stripped of all clothing but a diminutive under-shirt, played in the sand and squatted on her heels on the edge of the wave-rips, uttering gurgling cries of fright when her toes were wet. Drowsiness and bodily comfort wrapped the others’ senses; a feeling of openness,—sky, land and ocean,—beguiled them; the breakers pounded and swished musically up the beach; sea-birds lifted plaintive cries; the faint breeze was redolent of salt and kelp; the sun’s heat warm and caressing.

Jeannette awoke deliciously; Martin was bending over her; he had kissed her, and now he was smiling down at her.

“Come on,” he said, “we’re all going swimming.”

“Oh,” protested Jeannette, yawning, with a great stretch of limbs, “must we?”

“Oh, yes, Janny,” Alice urged, coming up, “we always go swimming; that’s the best part of the fun.”

“I didn’t bring a bathing suit,” objected Jeannette, sleepily.

“I’ve got an old one of mine for you and Roy borrowed a suit at the boarding-house for Martin.”

They dragged her to her feet and as she looked at the emerald waves curling toward her, they suddenly seemed inviting.

In a few moments they were into their bathing suits and ran down to the water together,—the four of them,—holding hands, laughing and shouting. The rushing tide swirled about their knees and leaped up against their thighs.

“Come on!” urged the men, dragging their wives into the frightening turmoil.

A wave engulfed them, quickening their breath, sending their hearts knocking against their throats with its cold sharpness.

“Oh-h-h!” screamed Jeannette, “isn’t it glorious?”

Martin caught her, lifted her high, as a comber crashed down upon them, burying him in white foam. The water fled past.

Jeannette caught him about the neck and they pressed their lips and wet faces together.

“Mart—Mart!” she cried. “It’s just like our honeymoon, isn’t it?”

He strained her to him, kissing her dripping hair and cheeks, his arms entwined about her, his face stretched wide with laughter and excitement.

“My God, Jan,” he said with almost a groan of feeling, “my God, I love you when you’re this way! You’re just wonderful!”

Her shining eyes were his answer, and he caught her to him again to kiss her fiercely.

A wave suddenly plunged over them. Jeannette felt herself wrenched from his embrace, felt him stumbling on the sand in the big effort he made to keep his footing. Even in that brief frightening moment, when she was totally submerged and they were being dragged apart, she was conscious of the great strength of the man, of arms suddenly taut as steel cables, of fingers and hands that gripped her like grappling hooks of iron and pitted their might against the might of the sea. The tumultuous plunge of water rushed headlong on its course, but Martin stood firm and pulled her to him.

They clung together once more, and laughing like children faced another menacing attack of the ocean.

§ 2

Later as she lay prone upon the hot, hard sand, baking in the sun’s delicious heat, her hair spread out behind her on a towel to dry, she watched her husband with Etta in his arms again encountering the waves. The little girl’s arms were tight around his neck and she screamed with excitement whenever the water foamed and welled up about them. The child was not frightened; it was remarkable to observe the unusual confidence the little girl had in her uncle. A fine figure of a man, mused his wife; his limbs had the form of sculpture and his body, shining now with the glitter of wet bronze, showed every muscle rippling beneath the skin like writhing snakes. He was indeed a husband to be proud of, a husband any woman might envy her. She must never let his love for her grow less; he must always be in love with her, not merely have an affectionate regard for her as most men had for their wives. He was lying on the beach, now, and Etta was covering him with sand, screaming shrilly each time he stirred and cracked the mold she was patting into shape about him.

“You bad, Uncle Martin,” came the child’s piping voice; “you be a good man and lie still.”

He had the child on his back presently and on hands and knees crawled a hundred yards down the beach, sniffing at whatever came into his path and growling fiercely. Etta’s shrieks reached them above the roar of the surf. She had a stick now and was belaboring her steed vigorously.

“No, no, Etta, no—no!” called her mother. Martin waved a reassuring hand and pretended to suffer death. “It’s wonderful the way Martin has with children,” commented Alice; “they seem to take to him naturally.”

Everyone did, thought his wife affectionately. He was truly exceptional; children,—boys and girls,—men and women,—everybody felt his irresistible attraction.

A shrill tooting announced the arrival of the launch. There was a mad scramble; no one was dressed. Roy went off to tell the boat to wait while the others hurried into their clothes, gathered plates, forks and other accessories of the lunch into baskets, and flung umbrella, canvas, grill and cushions back into their keeping-place. Everyone was laughing helplessly when Roy came springing back to tell them to take their time as the old captain had admitted he was half-an-hour early.

Fifteen minutes later they clambered aboard the puffing motor-boat, and Martin and Jeannette found themselves sitting side by side in the stern. His hand found hers as it lay upon the seat between them and their fingers linked themselves together; their eyes shone as they looked at one another.

“Wonderful day, Jan.”

“Ah, wonderful indeed,” she answered.

§ 3

It was late that night after they were in bed that Martin said to her:

“Jan, old girl, wouldn’t you like to have a baby? You looked so sweet to-day sitting there under the umbrella with little Ralph in your arms,—really you made a beautiful picture: mother and child, you know; I haven’t been able to get it out of my mind since.... I think it would be a lot of fun to have a kid.”

Jeannette was silent. She had often thought about having a child. Martin continued:

“Seems to me, Jan, you’d love a baby after it came. I know it’s a pretty tough experience, and you don’t want one so awfully badly, but Gee Christopher! I think a baby would be swell; one of our own, you know, one that belonged to us, that was ours,—and you would, too. I often look at Herbert Gibbs’ kid and wish to goodness he was mine. Herb’s always talking about him and I know damn well I’d be just as looney about a son of my own.... Now take Roy and Alice, for example: see what fun they get out of their children, and that Etta sure’s a heart-breaker! And she’s so jolly, too! Did you ever see a pluckier kid than that? You’d like a little daughter like her, wouldn’t you, Jan? I think a baby would be a lot of fun, don’t you?”

Still she said nothing and he asked his question again, giving her a little squeeze in the circle of his arm.

“I was just thinking about it,” she said vaguely. “It means a good deal for a woman.”

“That’s right, of course. I know it does,—but you wouldn’t be scared, would you, Jan?”

“Oh, no, that wouldn’t bother me—much,” she said slowly. “It’s the ties that bind one afterwards that I was thinking of.”

“Well-l, you want a baby some time, don’t you? You don’t want to grow old and be childless, do you?”

“No; certainly not.”

“Then what’s the good of waiting?”

“A baby’s an expense, and we’re terribly behind. I think we ought to be out of debt first, don’t you?”

“Yes-s,—I guess so.”

They went off to sleep at this point, but Martin brought the subject up again a few days later. During the interval, however, Jeannette had made up her mind: they were over five hundred dollars in debt and until that was cleaned up or at least very materially reduced, it would be very foolish indeed for them to consider having a child. If Martin wanted a baby, he must do his share in getting out of debt.

“But Jan, don’t you think that a baby would help us save? I mean if there was one in the house, I don’t believe you and I would want to gad so much.”

His wife eyed him with a twisted smile and an elevated brow.

“Oh—hell,” he said, disgustedly, and went to find a cigar.

CHAPTER VII

§ 1

September brought an end to the yacht-racing and a few weeks later Martin’s beloved A-boat was towed with a number of others a mile or two down the Sound to be housed in winter quarters. Jeannette earnestly hoped that this would mean her husband would spend more time with her at week-ends. He was gone from Monday till Friday all day, and she felt that at least part of his Saturday afternoons and Sundays should be hers. But Martin always wanted to do things on these days; he wanted some active form of amusement, some excitement, a “party,” as he called it; he was never content to sit at home and read or go for a walk with his wife. He asserted he needed the exercise, and if he missed it between Saturday noon and Sunday night, he was “stale” for the rest of the week. Sometimes Jeannette came into the city by train on a Saturday, met him after the office closed at noon, and together they went to lunch and later to a matinée. Then the alternative presented itself of either remaining in town for dinner and going to another show or of taking a late afternoon train back to Cohasset Beach. Such a program, of course, cost money, but unless Jeannette did this, Martin would go off to the Yacht Club Saturday afternoon, and return there in the evening after dinner to play poker. The Saturday night dances gave place at the close of the yachting season to “smokers” which only the men attended. A certain group called itself “the gang,” and prominent in it were such club lights as Herbert Gibbs, Zeb Kline, Fritz Wiggens, Steve Teschemacher and Doc French. Martin Devlin was warmly hailed as one of them. They played poker every Saturday night and the “session” lasted until an early hour Sunday morning.

Jeannette came to hate these men; she resented their taking her husband from her; she begrudged his gambling when he could not afford to lose. When she protested, the only answer from him was a testy: “Quit your crabbing.” He almost invariably won and divided his winnings with her, or at least divided what purported to be his winnings. His wife despised herself for taking the money; it made her want him to win, though she wished to be indifferent to his card-playing, since she did not approve of it. She tried to justify her acceptance of the money on the ground that it went to pay off some of their bills. But sometimes she bought a small piece of finery for herself with it. She was becoming very shabby in appearance. She reminded herself almost daily that she had not bought any new clothes since she was married, and the bride’s wardrobe, though ample, was now worn and much depleted.

§ 2

It was towards the end of summer, when already there was a brisk touch of fall in the air, that Roy Beardsley fell ill with typhoid and for three weeks was a desperately sick man. Martin, who had various talks with the physician, told Jeannette that there was small hope of his recovery; certain phases of the case made it appear very grave.

Jeannette took Etta and Ralph to stay with her in the country and Mrs. Sturgis moved out to the flat in the Bronx to help Alice fight for Roy’s life. Jeannette, from the first, believed he was going to die; destiny, it seemed to her, had ordained it. For the first time in many years she got down on her knees in her bedroom and prayed. She realized more clearly than anyone else in the family what a tragedy Roy’s death would be to them all,—to helpless Alice and his helpless children, to her little mother, to Martin, to herself. She did not know what would become of Alice and her babies! How would they live? She and Martin would have to shoulder the responsibility, and they had difficulty in making ends meet as it was! Where would Martin get fifty or even twenty-five dollars a month to send Alice? And how could Alice and the children manage on so small a sum? Roy, she knew, had a three thousand dollar life insurance policy,—hardly more than enough to bury him decently! Alice could not go to work; she had not the faintest notion of how to earn a living. She was clever with her needle, but that was all. It was impossible to imagine her a seamstress! But she would either have to go into that work and let Jeannette keep the children, or she would have to live with her mother, while Mrs. Sturgis and Martin,—between them,—would have to contribute what they were able to their support! It was a terrible prospect in any case. Jeannette was ridden with fear of the catastrophe. How different it would be, she reminded herself, were she in Alice’s situation,—she with her profession and her experience in business! She had nothing to fear on that score; she could always take care of herself. Poor Alice!—poor little brown bird!—there would be nothing for her to do; she could not support herself, not to mention her two children! Jeannette remembered that once she had begged to be allowed to follow her sister’s example and go to work, and she recalled how she and her mother had vigorously opposed her. She wondered now if that had been right. Perhaps every woman ought to have a profession or at least a recognized means of earning her livelihood. How secure Alice would feel now in that case if Roy died! Grief-stricken, yes, but with the comforting knowledge that neither she nor her children need be dependent on anyone!

All day long as Jeannette watched Etta and Ralph playing under the apple trees, which had begun to shed their yellow leaves and the scant weazened fruit from their scraggy branches, she thought of Roy’s possible death and her sister’s plight. Any one of the family group could be spared better than he! Yes, even Alice! ... Oh, it would be a calamity,—a dreadful, horrible calamity if Roy died! ... Twenty times a day she closed her eyes and thought a prayer.

She enjoyed having the children with her. Etta was an affectionate, ebullient child, always ready with hugs and kisses; little Ralph placidly viewed the world with reposeful solemnity, made no demands, was amiably satisfied with any arrangement his elders or even his big sister thought wise, and in his gentleness was extraordinarily appealing.

Late in the afternoons, Jeannette would dress them in clean rompers, pull on their sweaters and set them out on the lower step of the front stoop to wait for Martin. There they would sit for sometimes an hour, or even longer, watching for him and at the first glimpse, Etta would run screaming to meet him with arms flung wide, Ralph following as best he could. Martin was particularly in love with the boy, and he would hold the baby in his lap for long periods, neither of them making a sound; or the child would grasp his finger and toddle beside him, see-sawing from one slightly bowed leg to another, to inspect the pool and perhaps capture a frog.

Only a miracle would stay Death’s hand, the doctor had said, but the miracle happened; very slowly the tide began to turn and inch by inch the flood of life came back to the wasted body of Roy Beardsley. Jeannette shed tears of gratitude when it was definitely asserted he would get well. She left the children in Hilda’s care and went to the city to rejoice with her mother and sister. They clung together the way they used to do before either of the girls was married, wept and sniffled and kissed one another again and again. Roy’s blue eyes seemed enormously large and dark when his sister-in-law saw him; his lip was drawn tight across his teeth and these protruded like the fangs of a famished dog. His cheeks were sunk in great hollows beneath his cheek-bones, and his hands were the hands of the starved. He was a living skeleton, but his great eyes acknowledged her presence and her smile, and there was a faint twitching of the tight-drawn lip. Although she had been prepared, she could not keep from betraying the shock his altered appearance gave her; he was indeed ghastly.

The averted tragedy sobered them all. Roy would be many weeks getting back his health and he must take particular care of himself during the approaching winter, the doctor cautioned. No one ever whispered the word “tuberculosis” but each knew it was that which Roy must guard against. If it could be managed, he ought to be taken to a warmer climate, the physician advised, and he must make no effort, but rest, drink milk and eat nourishing food for a long time until he had entirely regained his strength. His father eagerly wrote him to come to California; Jeannette and Martin asked to keep the children; everyone urged Alice to take her husband to the Golden State. So just before the first snow of the year, she and Roy departed westward, waving good-bye through the iron grill at the station to the little group behind it, who waved vigorously in return until “All aboard” was shouted, the porter helped Alice up into the vestibule and the train began slowly to move.

§ 3

The winter was hard. It was unusually cold and snow lay heavy in great mounds along the edges of the village streets, and beaten trails of it meandered through the frozen fields. Soot from the trains blackened the white drifts and the road-beds were rutted in sharp ridges, and gray ice, that crackled and shivered like glass underfoot, formed in the hollows. The leafless trees spread their branches in black nakedness against the bleak sky and the wind blew chilly across the bare countryside from the icy waters of the Sound.

Yet Jeannette knew her first happiness at Cohasset Beach. Her days were full of the care of her small niece and nephew. They were endearing mites, exacting, but warmly affectionate. She had had no experience in bringing up children but her mother came down to stay with her for a while, and Mrs. Drigo, who lived a hundred yards or so down the street, and had four healthy youngsters of her own, gave counsel in emergencies. Jeannette devoted herself to her task. She attacked the problem much as she would have met some untoward circumstance in business. She considered herself efficient, set great store by efficiency, and proposed to apply it to the care of her sister’s children. She devised a system and adhered to it.

In the cold mornings when the children woke, they might look at their picture-books until she came in to dress them. They must not make any noise and Martin must not go in to play with them or even open their door to say “Hello” when he got up early to fix the furnace. They had their “poggy” and milk at eight and immediately thereafter were bundled into their woolly leggings, sweaters, hooded caps and mittens and sent out to play in the snow. They were to amuse themselves until eleven, when, furred and properly shod, their aunt appeared to take them with her to market, wheeling Ralph in his go-cart, while Etta trailed along beside them. Upon returning, the children had their luncheon, always a good full meal of baked potato, cut-up meat and vegetables, and a little dessert. Jeannette believed small children should have light suppers, and that their “dinner” should come at midday. After they had eaten, it was nap-time, and this was the blessed interval of relaxation for herself. Her charges must stay in bed until three o’clock, when they were re-dressed in their woolly leggings, sweaters and caps, and permitted to go out again to play in the snow. For the rest of her life, bits of watery ice stuck to the fine hairs of woollen garments always brought back to Jeannette with poignant emotion the memory of these days. When the children stamped into the house at the end of their play, their skins hard and coldly fresh, their breaths puffs of vapor, their cheeks crimson, the little sweaters and leggings would be encrusted with hard, icy snow. Jeannette would have a log fire going, and she would undress them before its crackling blaze and hang their damp outer garments on the fire screen to dry. The little naked figures dancing in the warm room in the flickering firelight was always a delightful sight to her. They were their merriest at this hour and said their cutest things with which she remembered later to regale Martin. Upstairs the oil heater would be warming the bathroom which Hilda had made ready and presently there would come a mad dash into the dining-room and up the cold stairway to the grateful temperature of the little room. And here began a great splashing with shrieks and admonitions, and here Jeannette dried their sweet little bodies and slipped them into their cotton flannel double-gowns. Then downstairs once more before the replenished log fire to sit on either side of her and empty their warmed bowls of crackers and milk and listen to the story she either read or told them until Martin came in to find them so. Then followed kisses and hugs all round and immediately thereafter the children were dispatched to bed with a final warning from their aunt that there must positively be no talking.

Thus it was day after day, always the same, relentlessly the same, undeviating monotony. Martin always praised Jeannette, her mother praised her, even the neighbors praised her. Alice wrote loving messages of deep gratitude. She responded to the general approval, delighted in the applause. The thought that she was proving herself equal to this unfamiliar rôle, that she was doing her job efficiently, comforted and inspired her. Revelling in her righteous duty, she threw herself passionately into its perfect execution. She gave it all her energy, thought and time. She told her husband and mother with much emphasis that Etta and Ralph were far better behaved now than they ever had been with their own father and mother.

“It’s routine, I tell you,” she would say. “Children respond to routine and this business of deviating from a strict schedule is demoralizing. A little firmness is all that is necessary in making children good. They really are very adaptable. I confess I was surprised. They learn so quickly! The minute Etta and Ralph saw when they first came that I wouldn’t stand for any foolishness, they were as meek as lambs.... I declare! Alice is so soft and easy-going with them, I hate to think of their being spoilt when they go back.”

It was another surprise to Jeannette to discover how little the presence of the children in the house disturbed Martin. She had thought he would grow restless after a time and that they would be certain to annoy him. She had been sure he would soon object to ties which would chain her to the house. Martin loved children—loved them particularly well for a man, perhaps—but he was often unreasonable where her time and movements were concerned, and had always rebelled at restraint. Now he mildly accepted the new element in their lives without protest and as time passed continued amiable. If she could not go out with him or accept an invitation, he did not reproach or even urge her, but praised her for her devotion, and often stayed at home to keep her company. Saturday nights, however, when the “gang” gathered at the Yacht Club, he went off to join them, but since the children were with her, Jeannette did not mind being alone in the house.

“Come home early,” she would say to him. “It’s such fun to have you in the house on Sundays and the children love it. I hate to have you wake up tired and hollow-eyed, and you know, Martin, when you get only two or three hours’ sleep you are sometimes a little cross and the children notice it.”

“You’re dead right,” he would agree with her readily. “I’ll tell the boys I’ve got to quit at midnight. They can begin the rounds then; there’s no sense in our sitting up until three or four o’clock in the morning.”

And often he kept his word.

§ 4

Alice and Roy had planned to stay six months in California, but in April Jeannette received a letter from her sister with the news that they had decided to return the first of May; Roy was in fine shape,—he was even fat!—they both were mad to see their children.

The letter left Jeannette feeling strangely blank. What was she to do without Etta and Ralph? She had talked a great deal about the fearful responsibility, the exacting care these youngsters involved and what a relief it would be to her when their mother came home to take them off her hands. She had aired these views to her own mother and to Mrs. Drigo, Mrs. Gibbs, and particularly to Martin. Yet now that Alice was coming a month, even six weeks sooner than she intended, she had none of the expected elation. A sadness settled upon her. She wondered how she would occupy herself when the babies were gone.

“What do you suppose Roy intends to do?” she asked Martin one day. “He hasn’t got a job. I don’t see how he’s going to manage for Alice and the children.... He might leave them with us for awhile.... No,—I suppose Alice will want them back immediately! ... It will be some time before he gets settled.”

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

That was one of Martin’s irritating qualities, reflected his wife. He was always so optimistic, so confident, never appreciating how serious things sometimes were. Roy and Alice were facing a grave situation; it might be desperate. Martin refused to regard it as important.

“I wonder if Mr. Corey would take him back at the office?” Jeannette hazarded. Very probably he would. It was a brilliant idea and, acting upon it at once, she went the following day to see her old employer.

The visit to the publishing house was strangely disquieting. She was struck by the number of new faces, the many changes. The counter which formerly defined the waiting-room on the fourth floor had been removed and now the space, walled in by partitions, was converted into a retail book store with shelves lined with new books and display tables. A gray-haired woman inquired her name with a polite, indifferent smile, and when she brought back word that Mr. Corey would see Mrs. Devlin, undertook to show Jeannette the way to his office!

There were changes behind the partitions as well. It was amazing the differences two years had wrought. There was none of the flutter of interest her appearance had caused at her previous visit. One or two of her old friends came up to shake her hand and to ask about her, while a few others nodded and smiled. She did not see Miss Holland anywhere, and Mr. Allister of whom she caught a glimpse in a distant corner accorded her a casual wave of the hand. She was forgotten already, she, who had once enjoyed so much respect, even affection, who had been the president’s secretary, had been known to have his ear and often to have been his adviser! Miss Whaley, whom she remembered as having been connected with the Mailing Department, she met face to face on her way to Mr. Corey’s office, but the girl had even forgotten her name!

But there was nothing wanting in her old chief’s reception. Mr. Corey rose from his desk the instant she entered his room, and reached for both her hands. He was the same warm, cordial friend, eager to hear everything about her. How was she getting on? How was that good-looking husband of hers? Where were they living? He reproached her for not having been in to see him, appeared genuinely hurt that she had neglected him so long. He had changed, too, Jeannette noticed; his face sagged a little and he no longer bore himself with his old erectness. She observed he still dyed his mustache; a little of the dyestuff was smeared upon his cheek.

News of himself and his family was not particularly cheerful. Babs was in a private sanitarium at Nyack; Mrs. Corey was badly crippled with rheumatism,—a virulent arthritis,—and, in the care of a trained nurse, had gone to Germany to try to get rid of it; Willis had picked up an African malarial fever while he had been exploring, and although he was home again, recurrent attacks of it kept him in poor health. Jeannette noted a gentleness in Mr. Corey’s voice as he spoke of his son; he blamed himself for Willis’ condition; that African trip on which he had sent him was responsible for the boy’s broken constitution. As for business, things were in bad shape, too. The public did not seem to be buying books any more; they weren’t interested; The Ladies’ Fortune was doing pretty well, but the increased cost of production knocked the profits out of everything; the office was demoralized, the “folks” did not seem to coöperate as they had done in the old days; he, himself, found daily reasons to regret the hour when Jeannette had ceased to be his secretary; he hadn’t had any sort of efficient help since she left; recent secretaries all had proven a constant source of annoyance to him. Tommy Livingston had got married and asked for one raise after another until Mr. Corey was obliged to let him go; he believed he was doing very well for himself in the news photograph business; Mr. Corey finally had had to take Mrs. O’Brien away from Mr. Kipps, but even she was far from competent. There were other details about the business that awoke the old interest in Jeannette. Something in this office atmosphere fired the girl; it brought buoyancy to her pulse, it stimulated her, it put life into her veins. How happy she had been here! Never so contented, she said to herself.

She hastened to tell Mr. Corey the object of her visit, and he promised to find a place somewhere in the organization for Roy.

“I have only a hazy recollection of the young man,” he said, “but I’ll do whatever you want me to, on your account, Miss Sturgis.”

Jeannette smiled. She would always be “Miss Sturgis” to Mr. Corey. She liked it that way; her married name meant nothing to him, never would. She thanked him warmly and promised to come to see him again.

As she made her way out through the crowded aisles of the general office, amid the familiar rattle of typewriters and hum of work, past old faces and new, her heart tugged in her breast. She was still part of it; some of herself was implanted eternally here in this tide of work, in the busy, preoccupied clerks, in the hustle and bustle, in the smell of ink and paste and pencil dust, in the very walls of the building.

§ 5

The good news she had to tell Roy of the job she had secured for him warmed her heart. There was no time to write, but she treasured it to herself and imagined a dozen times a day, as he and Alice were speeding homeward, how she would break it to him.

Martin was unable to be present when they arrived at the Grand Central Station, but Mrs. Sturgis, Jeannette and the two children were there waiting for them to emerge from the long column of passengers that streamed in a hurrying throng from the Chicago train. There were screams of joy and wet lashes as the parents’ arms caught, hugged and kissed the children again and again. Mrs. Sturgis had a cold luncheon prepared at home, and with bags and children, the four adults bundled themselves into a taxi and drove to Ninety-second Street, laughing excitedly, interrupting one another with inconsequences after the manner of all arriving travellers.

Roy indeed had put on weight; the emaciated look had entirely disappeared. His plumpness altered his expression materially and his sister-in-law was not quite sure she liked it. There could be no question about his splendid health. His face was round and there were actually folds in his neck where it bulged a trifle above his collar. Alice looked prettier than ever and as Jeannette studied her, she realized how much she had missed her sister during the past few months and how much she loved her. Yet when the children climbed into their mother’s lap and tried awkwardly to twine their short arms about her neck, Etta announcing shrilly that she loved her “bestest in all the world,” Jeannette experienced a cruel pang of jealousy. Now Alice would immediately begin to spoil them and undo all her good work! ... It was going to be very hard,—very hard, indeed.

She was anxious to tell her good news. Roy must be worrying about the future and it was not fair to keep him in the dark. But when she told him triumphantly, he and his wife only looked at one another with a significant smile. They had good news of their own: they were going back to California and meant to take the children with them; they intended to live out there for a year or two in a place called “Mill Valley,” just across the bay from San Francisco, with Roy’s father. Dr. Beardsley was a dear old white-headed man,—the dearest on earth, Alice declared,—and he was rector of a little church in Mill Valley and lived in the most adorable redwood shake house up on the side of a mountain just above the village. The house was a roomy old place and Dr. Beardsley had talked and talked to them about coming to California and making their home with him for two or three years until Roy had gained a start, for it appeared that Roy wanted to write,—he had always wanted to write,—and while he had been convalescing out in California under the big redwoods, he had written a book,—not a big one,—but a story about an old family dog the Beardsleys had once owned, and he had sent it to a magazine and they had paid three hundred dollars for the serial rights and there was a very good chance that some publisher would bring it out in book form! The money was not very much of course, but it was unquestionably encouraging and Dr. Beardsley felt that he and Alice ought to combine forces and give Roy a chance at the profession he hungered to follow. He had never had an opportunity to show what he could do with his pen, and it was not fair to have him give up this ambition merely because he had a wife and two children on his hands. Dr. Beardsley had three or four thousand dollars in the bank and he declared he had no particular need of the money and was ready to invest it in his son’s career as a promising speculation in which he, himself, had faith. He believed, he had said, he would get a good return on his money! He had urged Alice and Roy to come with their two children and make their home with him for a while, live the simplest kind of life,—living was extraordinarily cheap in Mill Valley; Mama wouldn’t believe how cheap after New York!—and wait until Roy was on his feet with a well-established market for his work.

“So we talked it over and said we would,” concluded Alice with her soft brown eyes shining confidently at her husband, “only it’s going to be awful hard to leave you Mama, and Sis.”

Mrs. Sturgis promptly grew tearful.

“No—no, dearie,” she said between watery sniffles and efforts to check herself, “I don’t know why I’m crying! It’s quite right and proper for you and Roy to accept his father’s kind offer. There’s no question in my mind he’ll be a great writer, and I think you’re very wise, and it will be lovely and healthy for the children and I approve of the whole idea thoroughly, only—only California seems so terribly far away!” A burst of tears accompanied the last. Jeannette felt irritated. Her mother would soon be reconciled to Alice and the children being in California,—but in her own heart there was already an ache she knew would not leave it for many months.

§ 6

The end of May, when the dogwood was again powdering the new-leafed woods with its white featheriness, when the Yacht Club had formally opened its season, and Martin had towed his adored A-boat out of winter storage, had pulled it with a row-boat the two-and-a-half miles to its summer moorings, Alice, Roy and the children departed, and Jeannette faced an empty home with what seemed to her an empty life.

It was inevitable she should reach out for distraction. During the spring, Doc French had married Mrs. Edith Prentiss, a rich widow, whom Jeannette had liked from their first meeting. The new Mrs. French was her senior by only a year or two, and much the same type: tall and dark with beautiful brows and skin and masses of glistening black hair. She had a great deal of poise, and dash, and dressed handsomely. At the opening of the season for the Cohasset Beach Yacht Club, when there was a dinner and dance, the Devlins were Doctor and Mrs. French’s guests and had a particularly good time. Jeannette bought herself a new dress for the occasion. She would not have been able to go otherwise, she told Martin, as she had absolutely nothing to wear! All the pretty clothes that had formed her trousseau were completely gone now; she did not have a single decent evening frock left!

The affair led to the young Devlins being asked to a Sunday luncheon on board the new Commodore’s sumptuous yacht and this had been another happy event. Martin had been in high feather, and had proven himself unusually amusing and entertaining. The Commodore’s wife had singled him out for attention; the Commodore, himself, and Doc French had urged him to allow his name to be put up for membership in the Yacht Club.

It was a great temptation for both the young husband and wife, but it was out of the question for them to belong to two yacht clubs, and Martin resolutely refused to resign from the Family. No, he said, there were too many “good scouts” in the little club, and he wouldn’t and couldn’t “throw them down.” Jeannette did not urge it, although it was hard to decline the invitation to join the Cohasset Beach Club. Yet she felt that membership in it was beyond their means and would lead to other extravagances, while specially was she afraid of the free drinking that went on there. Martin had a mercurial temperament; one drink excited him; more made him noisy and silly; he was not the type that could stand it. Better the Family Yacht Club as the lesser of the two evils. She would have been satisfied if he never entered either.

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

“It makes me so mad! Martin won’t economize, won’t help me save and insists upon being a member of that cheap little one-horse organization with its cheap common members, spending his time and money in a place he knows I detest and where I never set my feet that I don’t regret it. And if he would only help me get out of debt and would behave himself when there was liquor around, we might be able to join the Cohasset Beach and associate with nice, decent people of our own class and enjoy some kind of social life. It’s unfair—rottenly unfair! I’ve been struggling all winter taking care of my sister’s babies, and of course it’s been expensive and we haven’t been able to put by a cent. I’ve done my level best to economize; I haven’t bought myself so much as a pair of shoes since last year, ... and look at me!”

She held out her foot and showed her mother where the stitching along the sole had parted. Mrs. Sturgis shook her head distressfully, and made “tut-tutting” noises with her tongue.

“And what does he expect me to do?” Jeannette went on, her voice rising as her sense of injustice grew upon her. “Here’s Doc French and his wife, Edith,—she’s really a stunning girl, Mama, and I like her so much!—anxious to be nice to me, wanting me to go with them to the smart Yacht Club all the time, asking me to their house for dinner and cards, or to go motoring with them in their beautiful new car, and Commodore and Mrs. Adams inviting me to luncheon on The Sea Gull, and I haven’t a decent stitch to my back! If I complain to Martin, he says I’m ‘crabbing’ or tells me to get what I need and charge it! And that’s just madness, Mama,—you know that. He denies himself nothing and expects me to do all the self-sacrificing. I declare I’m sorely tempted sometimes to take him at his word, to go ahead just as I like, get whatever I need and let him meet the bills as best he can. That’s what most wives would do! I’ve never known such humiliation since I went to that Armenian dance with Dikron Najarian. In all the time I was supporting myself, I was never so shabbily dressed as I am right this minute! It does seem to me that Martin could manage better. I know I did when I was earning my own money and financing my own problems. Martin makes just about what you and I used to have when we were living together, and you know perfectly well, Mama, we had money to throw away then. Why we used to go to the theatre and everything! I haven’t been inside a theatre in—in—well, since last September and that’s nearly a year! I don’t know what he does with his money! He swears he doesn’t gamble any more, but he’s always broke and I have the hardest time getting my sixty-two fifty out of him on the first and the fifteenth. He tried to borrow some of it back from me last month! I tell you, he didn’t get it! He never takes me into his confidence about money matters and he never comes and gives what’s coming to me out of his pay envelope of his own accord! I always have to ask him for it! Think of it, Mama, having to ask him to give me what’s my right! I never had to go to Mr. Corey and ask him for my salary on Saturday mornings, and I work ten thousand times harder for Martin Devlin than I ever did for Mr. Corey! ... I was no shrinking violet when Martin married me! I was a self-supporting, self-respecting business woman and when we married we made a bargain, and I intend he shall live up to it. I don’t propose he’s going to welch on me merely because I’m a woman. He’s got to give me just as much consideration as he would a man with whom he’s made a contract. Our marriage was an honorable agreement with certain specified provisions, and if he doesn’t live up to them, neither shall I!”

“Oh, Janny, Janny!” cried her mother in alarm; “don’t talk so reckless, dearie! What on earth do you mean?”

“Walk out on him!” flashed Jeannette. “I’ll go back to my job and run my own life the way it suits me!”

§ 7

Martin spent every Saturday afternoon at the Family Yacht Club, “tuning up” his boat. He loved to tinker about her, adjusting this, tightening that; he was never finished with her; there was always something still remaining to be done. He and Zeb Kline sailed the Albatross together in the races; they constituted her crew.

As soon as Martin reached Cohasset Beach from the city on the last day of the week, he hurried directly from the station to the yacht club. He kept his outing clothes,—they consisted of little more than a shirt, a pair of duck pants and “sneakers,”—in a locker at the club. By two o’clock he was squatting in the cockpit of the teetering little boat, busy with wrench, knife, or rag, thoroughly happy. If there was sufficient wind later in the afternoon, he and Zeb might take a short sail up the Sound, round the red buoy, and home again, or over two legs of the course. The afternoon was all too short; it was six,—seven, before a realization of the passing time came to him. He wanted a quick swim then before re-dressing himself, and if someone did not give him a lift, there was the long hike homeward.

He would be sure to find one of three situations when he opened the door of the bungalow upon reaching home: Jeannette would be there, coldly unresponsive, resentful of his tardiness; she would be dressing for a dance at the Cohasset Beach Yacht Club in frivolous mood, or she would have already departed to dine with Doc and Edith French, having left word with Hilda for him to follow if he cared to. He came to accept these circumstances. He did not particularly like them but he did not know how to go about changing them. To dress and join his wife was generally too much effort after his long afternoon on the water. He either found his own amusements or else, thoroughly weary, went to bed.

At an early hour on Sunday he was usually astir and often left the house while Jeannette was still asleep, or else they breakfasted together about nine o’clock and made polite inquiries as to one another’s plans for the day. Every Sunday afternoon during the summer there was a race and Martin would not have missed one for any consideration. As soon as he could leave the house, he was off to the club and Jeannette did not see him again until he came stumbling home late in the evening, sunburnt and thoroughly exhausted.

One Saturday night it was nearly eight o’clock when the flickering acetylene lamps of Steve Teschemacher’s big brass-fitted motor car swept into the circular driveway before the Devlins’ home, and Martin got out, called “Good-night and many thanks!” and opened the door of his house. Dishevelled, his hair blown, his shirt open at the throat, carrying his cravat and collar, he walked in upon a dinner party his wife was giving. The four people at his table were all in immaculate evening dress. He recognized Doc French and Edith, but the remaining person in the quartette was a man he had never seen before.

“Mr. Kenyon, my dear,” said Jeannette, introducing him. “Our little party was quite impromptu. I didn’t know how to get you. I telephoned the club twice but Wilbur said you were out on the water.”

Doc French welcomed him, clapping him on the back.

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

Martin hurried. The blankness passed that had come to him as, unprepared, he arrived upon the scene. His good-nature asserted itself; he was always ready for a good time. In fifteen minutes he was entertaining his wife’s guests with an Irish story, told with inimitable brogue, and had them all roaring with laughter.

Kenyon he did not fancy. The man was too perfectly dressed, his white silk vest had a double row of gold buttons and fitted his slim waist too snugly; the movements of his hands were too graceful, too studied; his heavily lashed eyes squinted shut when he laughed, and the eyes, themselves, were glittering and glassy.

Martin went with the party to the Cohasset Beach Yacht Club for the dance to which they were bound. Since he had declined to become a member he felt he ought not to go at all to the club, but Doc French on this particular night would not listen to him, and carried him off with the others. There were the usual drinks, the usual gay crowd, the usual music and the usual dance; Martin, pleasantly exhilarated, had his usual good time. He saw his wife here and there upon the dancing floor during the evening, and thought her unusually vivacious and pretty, but it was not until three or four days later that a casual happening brought back to him a disquieting recollection that each time he had caught a glimpse of her that night, her partner had been Kenyon.

The incident that stirred this memory was the chance discovery of two cigarette stubs in a little glass ash tray on the mantel above the fireplace. Jeannette did not smoke. She explained readily that Gerald Kenyon had been to tea the previous afternoon. But Martin was not satisfied. Kenyon was a type of rich man’s son,—idler and trifler,—whom Martin thought he recognized; Jeannette had said nothing about having had him to tea and the circumstance was too unusual for her to have forgotten to mention it; now he recalled the matter of the dance.

One of their old angry quarrels followed. It left both shaken and repentant, and in the reconciliation that followed, much of their early warm love and confidence in one another returned. Many differences were settled, many concessions and promises were made, and better harmony existed between them thereafter than they had known for a long time.

§ 8

It was then that Jeannette seriously considered having a baby. Martin was anxious for a child, and she knew how happy one would make him, how grateful and tender he was sure to be to her. She dreaded the ordeal more than most women; she was fearful of the agony that awaited her at the end of the long, dreary, helpless nine months; Alice’s hard labor, and the following weakness from complications that had kept her practically bedridden for half-a-year, had made a grave impression on Jeannette’s mind. She shuddered at the idea of being torn, at being manhandled by doctors, at being pulled and mauled and treated like an animal. It represented degradation to her, but she was prepared to go through with it. She wanted a child; she wanted one as much as Martin did; she wanted more than one. Her husband had accused her once of not loving children, but after the devotion she had lavished upon Etta and Ralph during the long months of the past winter, she felt she had convinced him that such a reproach was wholly unjustified. Far more than the agony of childbirth, Jeannette apprehended the fetters that maternity would forge about her feet. Once a mother she knew her liberty was over. She would be bound then by the infant at her breast, by ties of duty and maternal instinct, and above all by love. She hated the thought of restriction; she hated the thought of giving up her independence; she rebelled at inhibitions which would prevent her from going her own way, living her own life, being her own mistress.

Once again the question of money obtruded itself. What did the years ahead hold in store for her as Martin’s wife? How would she fare at her husband’s hands when she was thirty, forty, fifty? The infatuation of the bride for the man she had married, was gone now; she saw him in a cold, critical light. She loved him; she loved him truly and honestly; she loved him more than she had ever thought to love any man. Never was she so happy as when they two were alone together and in sympathy. She liked often to recall the happy day they had spent with Alice and Roy on the sand reefs off Freeport. Martin had been so sweet, and splendid and dear that day! No woman could love a man more than she did, then; he had been everything that stirred her admiration. But that was a year ago and he wasn’t the same; he and she had drifted apart. Perhaps it was as much her fault as his; perhaps their grievances against one another were no more than those of any average couple. She realized that both were strong-willed and opinionated; it was inevitable that they should sometimes clash. But if Martin differed with her, he could pursue his own way independent of his wife, while she must wait upon his pleasure. She did not—could not trust Martin with the old confidence he had once inspired. Perhaps that was the experience of all wives. Most women put up with it, had to put up with it, made the best of conditions, lay with what equanimity they could in the bed they had chosen in the first flush of love. But with her,—and always with this thought ever since she had been a wife, Jeannette had breathed a prayer of gratitude,—there was a way out! The girls that had married blindly out of their father’s and mother’s house had no alternative if their marriages proved unsatisfactory but to endure them or seek divorce. But she and all other women who had achieved a livelihood of their own in the world of business, who had won for themselves an economic value that could be measured in dollars and cents, could go back to work! They did not have to appeal to the law, the disreputable divorce courts, to free them from an intolerable alliance, or compel a reluctant man to support them with alimony gouged from his unwilling pocketbook!

Ever since she had become Martin’s bride, Jeannette realized she had hugged this thought to herself and always found consolation in it. It had even been in her mind when she considered marriage; she had said to herself in those uncertain days, that if the experiment did not prove satisfactory, there was a stenographer’s job waiting for her somewhere in the world. Now this knowledge that she could be independent again if she chose had a vital bearing on the question of her having a child. Once a mother, the door of escape from a situation which might some day become intolerable would be forever closed. She could not leave a baby as she could leave a husband.

Should she risk it? Should she take the plunge, leave the safe return to shore behind her and strike out into unknown waters, placing faith in her husband’s devotion and his ability to take care of her? Ah, if she could only be sure! If she could only be convinced of Martin’s dependability! She did not care a snap of her finger for Gerald Kenyon, Edith French or the Cohasset Beach Yacht Club or anything! All she wanted was that Martin should be good to her, should protect and provide for her with as much thought and care as she had given herself when she had been a wage-earner and her own mistress! If Martin would stand back of her, she would welcome a baby, she would bear him half-a-dozen,—all that her strength was equal to! She would banish her fear of the ordeal!

She told him so passionately. She showed him the reasonableness and righteousness of her stand, and he admitted the truth of what she said. He promised to do anything she wanted.

“You’re dead right, Jan,” he said with a gravity that went straight to her heart, “I see your point. I’ll do the best I can. And golly! won’t it be great when there’s a kid in the family,—you know,—a kid that’s our own? Why, you were never so happy or so pretty, and you never were so good to me and I never loved you more than when Etta and Ralph were toddling round here.”

But she would agree to nothing until he had demonstrated to her that he had changed and was as much in earnest about the matter as she proposed to be.

“Mart, you’ve got to show me; you’ve got to convince me you’ve turned over a new leaf. I want to be satisfied that I am always going to be glad I’m your wife before I anchor myself to you for the rest of my life. Now we’re in debt. While I’ve been out of sympathy with you, I’ve done some charging in town,—new clothes I had to have in order to go about with Edith French. If we have a baby it’s going to cost money, and we’ve got to be out of debt first,—don’t you think so? You can reëstablish my faith in you by showing me now how you can help me save. If we cut down and put our minds to it, we can save a thousand dollars by the first of the year. Now I’ll let Hilda go and do my own work, if you’ll resign from the Family Yacht Club!”

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

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

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

“Well-l, my God,—that’s kind of tough,” he said slowly. “But all right,—if you say so, I’ll get out, I’ll sell it and quit.”

“Do you really mean it, Mart?”

“Yes, I’ll—I’ll resign.... Only, Jan, can’t I finish the season? Zeb and I’ve got a swell chance for the cup and all the A-boats have been invited over to Larchmont for their annual regatta, and Zeb knows that course, and we’re all going to be towed over the day before....”

He was like a little boy pleading for a toy. She could not find it in her heart to refuse him.

“Very well,” she conceded slowly, “only as soon as the season’s over you’ll positively resign?”

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

§ 9

June, July and August passed, Labor Day came and went, the yachting season closed with gala festivities, special boat races, a big dance at each of the clubs, and one day Martin announced that Zeb had paid him sixty dollars for the Albatross, and that he had sent in his letter of resignation to the board of directors. It was then that Jeannette told Hilda she would be obliged to let her go. She had grown fond of the girl and was sorry to lose her, but in the face of this evidence of her husband’s good faith, she felt she must begin to carry out her part of their bargain.

Apart from this, there were other considerations which made her welcome this new régime of curtailment and self-denial. She was not satisfied with the recent order of her life; her conscience troubled her; there had been certain evenings during the past summer, memories of which were not altogether pleasant.

Hardly a week had gone by without Doc and Edith French inviting her to go with them to a dance at the Cohasset Beach Yacht Club or on a jaunt to some road-house on Long Island, and Gerald Kenyon invariably had been along. He had made love to her, flattering love to her, and she had been diverted. She liked him; he danced well, he was rich and a prodigal host, he was agreeably attentive. She would have early sent him to the right-about had it not been he proved a convenient escort. Martin was rarely on hand to accompany her; Gerald was eager to go with her anywhere she wished. She suffered his attentions, reminding herself that it was only for a few weeks,—just until the end of the summer,—and it was her last fling at gaiety. She would rid herself of him by September and prepare her household and her life for the time of retrenchment. Nothing of serious significance had happened on any of these merry evenings; Martin could not have found fault with her; Gerald had never so much as kissed her cheek, but the atmosphere that had prevailed was disturbing to Jeannette. Gerald often imbibed too freely, but he was never offensive. He and the Frenches sometimes grew noisy and there was a good deal of loose talk. A drink or two had a marked effect on Edith, and Jeannette wondered sometimes at the things she said and did. Not that her words and actions were in themselves particularly shocking, but coming from a woman of her graciousness and refinement they sounded rough. Jeannette was ready, now, to be quit of these intimates. Their society was not healthy, and in her soul she was conscious she did not belong in it. Her innate sense of rectitude took offense at such behavior.

Thus it was that she turned to the period of self-denial with willingness, even zeal. She threw herself whole-heartedly into the program of her new existence. She wanted to clean her soul as well as her life.

She was happy in the changed order of her days; she liked doing her own work since it meant penance for her as well as saving; she liked to think she was preparing herself for her child. She figured out how long it would take them to be out of debt: less than a year if they saved only fifty dollars a month.

“Now, Martin,” she reminded her husband, “I’m not going through with this unless you stand back of me. You’ve got to save penny for penny with me, and you’ve got to show me you’re deadly in earnest.”

She said this because he did not seem as enthusiastic, now, as he had been when the plan was first discussed. The eagerness was missing, and he was rather sour about it. She knew he grieved over the sale of his boat, and it was bitter hard for him to give up his club. But this time she was determined. She had renounced her frivolous, expensive friends; he must renounce his; she proposed to get along without the luxury of a servant, he must deny himself, too.

“Well, damn it!” he growled at her implied reproach, “ain’t I doing everything you want? The boat’s gone, and I’ve sent my letter in to the club! What more do you want me to do?”

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

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

His efforts to divert himself about the house on Saturday afternoons and Sundays were pathetic. He started vigorously to spade up a bit of ground which he declared would make an admirable vegetable bed in the spring. The spading lasted half a day and all winter Jeannette saw the snow-covered shovel sticking upright in the ground where he had left it. He was bored by inactivity. Books did not interest him; he scorned the solitaire she suggested and in which she herself could find amusement; likewise he grew impatient at walks in the woods now full of autumn tints. Jeannette tried her best to entertain him. Several times she asked the Drigos over for auction bridge but Mrs. Drigo and her husband quarrelled so much when the cards ran against them, that Martin declared he did not care to play with them. Jeannette tried “Rum” but that, too, bored him; there was no pleasure in the game, he told her, without stakes and one couldn’t gamble with one’s wife. At the end of her resources, she shrugged her shoulders and let him seek out his own amusements as best he could. His attitude nettled her. He ought to face the new life, she felt, with the same fortitude, conscientiousness and willingness that she displayed. She told him so with a good deal of rancor one day: he was acting like a spoiled boy; he wasn’t being a good sport about it. He only glowered at her in reply and stalked out of the house.

She had her own suspicions where he went, but she did not reproach him. In her heart she was sorry for him; his empty evenings and his week-ends hung heavy on his hands. She hoped he would get used to the idea and by and by be moved to follow her example.

But as the weeks and then the months began to go by, and she saw that it was only she who was making the sacrifices,—cleaning, cooking, washing dishes, denying herself clothes and even trips to the city to see her mother,—a dull anger kindled within her. This burst into flame when she learned by chance that Martin was still a member of the Yacht Club. ’Stel Teschemacher telephoned her one day to remind her to be sure and come to a bridge tournament the ladies of the club had arranged for the following Wednesday afternoon. Jeannette explained with some relish that she feared she was not eligible to participate since her husband was no longer a member of the club, but ’Stel Teschemacher assured her that such was not the case.

“Oh, no, you’re mistaken, Mrs. Devlin. He’s still a member and a very valued one. The Directors refused absolutely to accept your husband’s resignation; they just positively made him reconsider it.... Why, we couldn’t get along without Mr. Devlin! He’s just the life of the club!”

Jeannette said nothing to Martin. She was bitter, feeling he had tricked her, was not playing fair. She decided she would go to New York and pour out her grievance in a stormy recital to her mother. It would relieve her mind. On the train she met Edith French and when the city was reached, her friend triumphantly carried her off to lunch at the Waldorf.

§ 10

Not very long after this, she learned that Martin had been playing poker, and had lost. He had had a bad streak of luck and was obliged to confess to her he did not have enough money to pay the rent without making a levy upon her share of his salary; she must count on only forty dollars when his next pay-day fell due.

At that her resentment burst forth. She had denied herself consistently since the first of September. With her own hands she had made the little Christmas presents she had sent Alice and the children, and even what she had given her mother, in order to save a few dollars, and here was Martin gambling away at the card table money that was hers!

“You’re no more fit to be a father than a husband,” she told him, her anger blazing. “You expect me to bear a child to a man like you! You’re no better than a common thief!”

“Aw, cut that out, Jan,” he answered, a dull crimson reddening his neck; “I’ll admit I’m in wrong and that you’ve got every right to be sore at me, but what’s the use in accusing me of being dishonest?”

“Dishonest?—dishonest?” she repeated furiously, her hands clenched. “Half of every dollar you earn belongs to me,—and don’t you forget it! It’s mine by right of being your wife; it’s mine by right of your definite promise when I married you that we should share and share alike. I made a financial sacrifice then because I thought you and I were going to build a house and rear a family. I used to earn a hundred and forty dollars a month,—let me tell you,—and every cent of it I spent as I chose and for what I chose. I’ve never seen that much or anything like that much, since I married you. Don’t fool yourself you give me a penny! You work in your office and I work here and we both earn your salary. When you take my money and gamble with it and lose it, you’re doing exactly the same as if you put your hand in Herbert Gibbs’s cash drawer and helped yourself! It’s just plain thievery!”

Martin was on his feet, his face congested.

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

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

§ 11

It was in this mood of fury, with her grievance seething within her, that she gladly agreed to accompany Edith French on a day of shopping in the city. Edith telephoned she had been invited by a certain famous Fifth Avenue importer to witness, at a private showing, the opening of some sealed trunks just received from Paris containing the new spring models. She wanted Jeannette to go with her, and the two women arranged to leave for town on an early morning train.

It was a cold, glittering winter’s day when the crispness in the air set the blood tingling; snow was piled in the street and there was a general scraping of iron shovels on stone and cement. Edith and Jeannette feasted their eyes on the new styles as they eagerly discussed clothes and fashions. Edith, stimulated by her privileged glimpses, bought herself a new hat, which Jeannette declared to be the most beautiful thing she had ever seen in her life! Edith, it seemed to her companion, was free to purchase anything that took her fancy. If a garment or bauble attracted her, she got it without hesitation. Jeannette’s heart was sick with longing. She watched her companion enviously. In a reckless moment, urged by her friend to whom she had confided at luncheon the tale of Martin’s perfidy, and who had been gratifyingly sympathetic, she selected and charged a long woolly, loose tan coat that had a deep collar of skunk. The coat had been “on sale” and Edith had been so full of admiration for the way Jeannette looked in it, that she offered to buy it and give it to her as a present. To this Jeannette would not agree, but later, wrapped in its soft ampleness and with a glowing satisfaction that it was the most becoming garment she had ever owned, she did not press an objection when Edith proposed to telephone Gerald Kenyon and ask him to take them to tea. At five o’clock sitting against the crimson upholstered wall-seats of a glittering café, sipping her hot tea and nibbling her thin, buttered toast, listening to the music and the pleasant chatter of her companions, conscious of Gerald Kenyon’s admiring eyes, Jeannette decided that it was the first happy moment she had known in months, and that if Martin chose to go his way, she had ample justification to go hers.

A madness descended upon her. She was near to tears most of the time but went dry-eyed upon her way, shutting her ears to the voice of conscience, refusing to allow her better nature to assert itself. On and on she stumbled into the forest of imprudence, allowing herself to give no heed to the gathering shadows, taking no thought of how she should ever find her way out of the gloom when the hour came for her to turn back,—for, of course, she must some time turn back!

Little by little she was beguiled into doing the things she had foresworn. She allowed Edith to persuade her into going almost daily with her to the city; she spent here and there the dollars she had so hardly saved; she began heedlessly to charge again: shoes, silk stockings, a smart French veil, gloves. The two friends fell into the habit of lunching or taking tea with Gerald Kenyon and sometimes going to a matinée with him, and the day came—as he had carefully planned it should come,—when Jeannette lunched with him alone. And over the small table at which they sat so intimately, still in the grip of the insanity that fogged her sense of righteousness and values, she confided to his eager, understanding ears the story of her husband’s selfishness, and listened to his persuasive voice as he offered to help her out of her difficulties.

“Why, listen here, Jeannette,” he said, bending toward her earnestly across the littered luncheon cloth, “I can make five thousand dollars for you over night. There’s no sense in your troubling yourself about money matters. If you’re in debt, I can show you a way that will pull you out of the hole and give you all the spending money you need! The old man, you know, is in steel. He’s on the inside and there’s nothing that goes on down in Wall Street that he doesn’t know. He gave me a tip the other day: a sure-fire tip. Did you ever hear of Colusium Copper? Well, it’s one of the subsidiary companies of the United States Steel Corporation, and its stock’s going right up. The old man telephoned me to come down and see him, and he says to me: ‘Gerald, put what you can lay your hands on on Colusium Copper; it’s due to go to seventy-five and you want to get out about seventy-two or three.’ It was fifty-eight then; it’s about sixty-six to-day. Why, look here,—it went up a couple of points yesterday.” He showed her the figures convincingly in a newspaper he drew from his pocket. “Now you just let me buy a few of those shares for you this afternoon before the market closes, and I’ll hand you a check for five hundred to-morrow when you meet me for lunch. You don’t have to put up the money; I can fix that for you; I’ll just telephone my brokers you want to buy a few shares and that I’ll O.K. the deal. It’s a sure-fire proposition, Jeannette. You won’t be risking a cent.”

He was very earnest, very persuasive; his voice was gentle and so kindly. Five hundred dollars! thought the girl; it would wipe out all those little purchases here and there that she had had charged to her account about which Martin knew nothing!

Gerald was a dear! He was really a most generous, warm-hearted friend! It was wonderful of him to take such an interest in her trifling financial problems.

And the next day he showed her the check: $515.60 beautifully made out,—W. G. Guthrie & Company, Stock Brokers,—and it was drawn in her name. Her fingers trembled a little as she took the stiff bank paper in her hands.

“You see what I told you!” Gerald said with a triumphant smile. “Why, say, I could have made it five thousand just as easy if you had only said the word. The old man knows when anything like this is coming off in the Street. You have to laugh at the way the public runs in and lets the big guns fleece them. The big fellows stick up the bait and the poor fools rush after it and then chop—chop go the axes! ... Any time, Jeannette, you want a bit of change just let me know and I can fix it for you. I’ll just give the old man a ring and ask him what’s good.... Now, for Heaven’s sake don’t get the idea that what I’m able to do for you on a little flier down in Wall Street is anything in the nature of a present or anything like that. I’m just slipping you a little piece of inside information,—savvy, dearie?”

The endearment was unfortunate. It suddenly reminded Jeannette of her mother and she remembered she had not been to see her in weeks. Besides, it was the first time Gerald had addressed her with any such familiarity.

“I don’t think I’d better take this,” she said abruptly, tossing the folded check at him. She leaned back in her chair and drew her hands close to her breast.

He picked it up, tapped his fingers gently with it and began to argue. He argued long and eloquently: the money did not belong to him, it was hers, it represented the profits of her own little deal, he hadn’t a right to a cent of it, it was impossible for him to touch it. But now no word from him could reach Jeannette. Fear was awake in her; she began to be very frightened; her panic grew. Suddenly she wanted to get up from the table and run into the street. She wanted to go to her mother; she wanted her mother badly. She felt she must get out of the restaurant, must get into the air, must get away from that table and this man at any price. She was like one who stands with her back to a precipice and, turning around, finds herself within a few inches of its edge, a chasm yawning at her feet. Fright made her giddy, her mouth was dry, her throat closed convulsively.

“If I can only stand it for ten minutes more,” she said to herself, gripping tight her folded hands beneath the table, “and keep my head and not let him suspect! ... I must go on and pretend.... Just ten minutes more.”

She managed it badly. The experienced eye of her companion guessed all that was passing in her mind, and he cursed himself for having been too precipitous. The wary hare that he had been at such pains to coax to his side for so many months had taken flight at the first lift of his finger. He would have to begin all over again, and this time proceed more leisurely. For the present, he knew his cue was to withdraw.

He let her make her escape without remonstrance. He asked if she would not allow him as a friend to mail her the check, and when with more vehemence than she meant to display, she refused, he tore the paper neatly into bits and let the fragments flutter from his finger-tips to the table.

“Well,—it’s too bad,” he said with a shrug that eloquently expressed his hurt. “Sorry. My only object was to try and help a bit.”

He left her at the door of the restaurant with a graceful lift of his hat, saying he hoped to see her soon again. It was lost upon the girl. She hurried to a telephone booth in a drug store at hand and tried to reach the apartment on Ninety-second Street, but there was no answer. She thought of Martin but there was the uncomfortable confession she would have to make to him of her recent extravagances. Her recklessness, she realized, had robbed her of the righteousness of her quarrel with him; reproach he could meet with reproach.

She longed then for her sister,—her quiet, brown-eyed sister,—who had never judged her harshly in her life, but Alice was in far-away California. There was nobody, nobody in the world to whom she could turn for comfort, for sympathy and counsel, and then coming toward her with a pleased and smiling recognition in his face she saw Mr. Corey. She fluttered to him with almost a sob, and put both her hands in his; as he greeted her affectionately she wanted desperately to lay her head against his shoulder and give way to the fury of tears that fought now to find escape. In that moment, everyone seemed to have failed her,—mother, sister, husband,—but this staunch, loyal, rock-solid friend who believed in her, who knew only the best of her, whose faith in her was unbounded, who knew her as she really was.

He was talking but she listened not to his words but to her own heart that told her here was the haven for which she sought, here was the counsellor, the friend who would help her without cavil or reproach.

“Tell me about yourself,” he was saying. “You promised you’d come in to see me once in awhile,—and that brother-in-law of yours? I thought we were going to find a job for him? What happened?”

Jeannette attempted to explain: Roy was trying to become an author, his first story was appearing as a serial and he and his wife and babies were in California. As she spoke of Alice, her voice suddenly grew husky and when she tried to clear her throat, the hot prick of tears sprang to her eyes, and she was obliged to stop and press her lips together. Mr. Corey’s brows met sharply.

“What’s the matter? You’re in trouble?” He waited for her to speak but she could only shake her head helplessly and blink her swimming eyes.

“Come in here with me,” he said in the old authoritative voice she still loved to obey. They turned from the crowded street where they were being jostled, into the drug store she had just quitted. It was crowded in here, too, with a swarm of elbowing people before the soda fountain. Corey guided the girl to the rear and they stopped by a deserted counter.

“Now what is it? Tell me about it,” he said shortly. “Can I help you?”

She tried again to answer him but she was still too shaken; at any effort to speak her tears threatened.

“Please,” she managed, gulping.

He left her, went to the soda counter and returned with a glass of water. She drank it gratefully; the cold drink steadied her.

“I’ve just been acting foolishly,” she said at last, dabbing her eyes with a corner of her handkerchief. “It’s all my fault, I guess.”

By degrees he pried her story from her: Martin had been treating her badly; he had been very unfair to her; their marriage was a hopeless failure; she couldn’t make it a success alone; she had struggled and struggled and she didn’t believe it was any use; he was fearfully extravagant and she had to do all the saving to keep them out of debt; she had done without a servant just so they could get a little ahead, but try as she would, they kept falling behind, and Martin didn’t care....

She had no intention of misrepresenting her case to Mr. Corey, but hungered for his sympathy, for his justification and approval, for his censure of her husband.

He heard her with furrowed brows, his keen eyes watching her face, and when she fell silent, he waited a long moment.

“Life’s hard on young people,” he said at length with a deep breath and a dubious shake of his head. “It’s hard enough for them to get adjusted to one another without having to worry over money matters. I’m sorry your marriage has not turned out well. I feel particularly badly because I urged you into it. Devlin seemed a likely fellow to me.”

They both considered the matter, studying the floor. Jeannette felt as she stood there her life was breaking to pieces.

“If you’re in debt,” said Mr. Corey at length, “and it’s merely a question of money to tide you over present difficulties; you must let me lend you what you need.”

“Oh, no, thank you,” she said quickly.

“Oh, yes, but you must,” he insisted.

With firmness she declined. She wasn’t begging; she just had had one man try to give her money; she couldn’t accept financial assistance from anyone. No, it was her own problem,—she could work it out herself without anyone’s help.

“Very well, then,” he suggested, “come back and work for me awhile. I’ve an abominable person as secretary now; I intended to fire her anyhow, and it will give me tremendous satisfaction to do so at once, for I never needed efficient help more desperately than now.”

The words of polite thanks on Jeannette’s lips died. She raised her eyes and fixed them on the face of the man before her, a light breaking slowly in them.

“You mean ...?” she began. Her face was like radiant dawn.

“I mean exactly what I say: come back for as long as you wish. Stay until you’ve earned what you need, and be free to go when you’re ready: three months, six months, whenever you like.... It will be good to see you back even for a short time at your old desk.”

Her intent gaze leaped from pupil to pupil of his smiling, earnest eyes. Her thoughts raced: there was Martin; he would say “No” of course; he wouldn’t consider letting her do this; he’d be furious, but Martin would have to be won over, and if not ... well then ... there was her mother and her own old room waiting for her in the apartment on Ninety-second Street!

“Well?” said Mr. Corey amused, at the glowing color in her face.

“Mrs. Corey?” Jeannette faltered.

“She’s in Germany and a very sick woman. It’s rheumatism, you know, and she’s been crippled a long time. I doubt anyhow if she’d care.”

Somewhere up above like pigeons fluttering forth from heaven’s dome came happiness winging down upon the girl.

“Oh, yes,—if you’ll have me,—indeed I’ll come back.... I’ll be there Monday morning! ... Oh, it will be wonderful!”

END OF BOOK II