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.