II
Mark Napier was hard as nails, in a way. Lucky for him that he was!
He had been a boy of eighteen, just out of school, and ready to enter Oxford, when the war broke out. He had enlisted, and had been sent to Flanders; had been wounded, patched up and sent back, and wounded twice again. The third time the doctors told him that very likely he would never walk again.
For six months he had lain in the hospital, facing that possibility, facing all the other new things he had learned. In the course of time the doctors had reversed their decision, and he was discharged as cured—a most interesting case.
He went home—only he had no home[Pg 528] to go to. The war had done for his family. His mother had died, his brother had been killed, and so had most of the friends he had cared for. There was no money—nothing at all left for young Napier.
He had got a post as clerk in the London office of the Green Arrow Navigation Company. He had been only twenty-two then, and a queer mixture of boyishness and maturity. He had had a lifetime of experience of a sort; but of average, everyday life he knew next to nothing. He was a shabby, silent boy, coolly and doggedly determined to get on in the world.
He had got on. Here he was, at twenty-nine, manager of the Port Linton branch, going to master Port Linton and go on to something better. He was still very young and intolerant in some ways, very mature in others. He was very lonely, proud as Lucifer, and stubborn as a mule.
The leisurely air of the office—his office—had annoyed him. He knew how to handle men—he had learned that as a lieutenant at twenty-one. He was just, and he was inflexible. He saw that things were lamentably slack here, and he had wasted no time in telling Sprague and McLean that a new era had begun.
He had intended to let this girl know it, too—until he had glanced up and their eyes met.
Hard as nails was young Napier with Sprague, and McLean, and every one else with whom he did business; but not with Joey.
“Mr. Brown used to give me notes about the letters, and I answered them myself,” she explained.
Napier gave her his letters, and she answered them in the courteous and stilted fashion that Mr. Brown had taught her.
“I’m sorry,” said Napier, “but I’m afraid this won’t quite do. Sit down, and I’ll give you some idea of what I want.”
While he talked, he often glanced at her, and always he found her steadfast gray eyes fixed upon his face. She took the letters away and did them over again—his way this time.
“She’s game,” he thought. “No whining—no excuses!”
The others obeyed his orders because they had to; but Joey wanted to. She was eager to help. She admired his way of doing things. She was his friend.
He had plenty of difficulties in this new job. Port Linton was a conservative British colony, and some of the old clients resented young Napier. McLean was dourly hostile; Sprague, under an obliging manner, was impatient and scornful. Only Joey stood by him with absolute loyalty.
He would leave the door of his office open, so that he could see her at her typewriter. Even after she had gone, as he sat later at his work, he would look at the place where she had been and remember her wide-browed, candid face, her dark hair, her gray eyes. For that slender, quiet girl he felt a respect that was almost reverence, for she had the qualities that he prized above all others—dignity, reserve, and loyalty.
They had very little to say to each other during those first three days, for they were very busy; but he was always aware of Joey, and in his heart he always had confidence that she was his friend, his faithful helper.
“There’s no one like her,” he thought comfortably.
He thought her beautiful, too. He thought that her rare, slow smile was a wonderful thing, that her voice was the most solacing in all the world, that her sunburned hands were lovelier than any he had ever seen. His solitary and inflexible spirit turned toward her as its one refuge.
Late on Friday afternoon McLean brought him the books, which he wanted to look over before paying the salaries on Saturday morning. Every one else had gone home, and he and McLean sat alone in the private office, which was filled with the light of the sunset.
“Now!” thought McLean, watching. “Now you’ll have something to talk about, my lad!”
“What’s this?” said Napier, frowning.
“What?” asked McLean, who knew very well.
“Here’s fifteen pounds advanced to Sprague against his salary, before Christmas. It seems that he began paying it off, ten shillings a week, but here’s a month without paying anything; and here—why, he’s been getting full pay for the past six weeks, and he still owes seven pounds!”
“His mother’s been ill,” said McLean.
Napier said nothing. He didn’t need to speak—his look was enough.
“You’ll also find,” volunteered McLean, “that on the first of the month I had a week’s salary in advance.[Pg 529]”
“This won’t do!” said Napier briefly.
McLean emptied Mr. Brawn’s little cash box on the desk.
“What’s this?” said Napier, looking at the slips of paper. “‘July 5, five shillings—J. Craig,’ ‘July 8, ten shillings—J. Craig’—so many of them!”
“It’s for cash advanced,” said McLean, looking at him.
“I see!” said Napier.
He stacked all the slips into a neat little pile and sat for a moment staring at them. It was a disgraceful thing, to run an office like this. It was not only slack, but very close to dishonesty. It was the firm’s money these people were using.
“Have a cigarette?” he said abruptly, holding out his case to McLean.
“Thanks!” replied McLean, hiding a start of surprise.
For a time they smoked in silence.
“I can’t be hard on Sprague and McLean and not speak to her,” Napier was thinking. “That would be too damned unjust. Her whole week’s salary has been paid already, and she may need it badly. She may be in serious trouble.”
A great wave of tenderness swept over him as he thought of Joey. She was so pale and slight, so young.
“He’s almost human, after all!” McLean told himself, glancing at the new manager. He waited for awhile. “Well?” he inquired at last. “What do you want me to do about the pay envelopes, Mr. Napier?”
“Deduct ten shillings from Sprague’s,” said Napier. “Deduct ten shillings each week until his loan is repaid. It’s impossible to run an office like this. Now, what about you? How do you want to manage your advance? Ten—”
“You can pay me nothing at all this week,” McLean replied curtly.
There was another silence.
“What about—Miss Craig?” asked Napier. “Is she—entirely dependent on her salary?”
“I can’t say.”
“Does she—live alone?”
“She does not. She lives with her uncle and her grandmother.”
“Her uncle—what does he do?”
“He’s in the commission business.”
The sun was going down, and the light was draining fast out of the sky. Napier’s face was in shadow.
“McLean has a wife and child,” he thought, “and Sprague supports his mother. She lives at home, with her people. I’ve got to be just!”
“Well?” asked McLean.
“Don’t make up an envelope for Miss Craig,” said Napier, rising.
After a solitary dinner, he walked down to the water front, and smoked a pipe, looking out over the little harbor. He was very unhappy over this problem.