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!