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.”