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.