CHAPTER II
It was some three months after the publishing house had been established in its new offices, that Jeannette had the card of Martin Devlin brought to her. It was embossed and heavily engraved, with a small outline of the earth’s two hemispheres in one corner and bisecting these, in tiny capitals, the words:THE GIBBS ENGRAVING COMPANY. Mr. Corey was out; Jeannette told the boy to inform the caller. In a minute or two the messenger returned to say that the gentleman would like to speak to Mr. Corey’s secretary, but Jeannette had no time to waste on solicitors of engraving work, and sent word that she was occupied. The boy reappeared presently with another of Mr. Devlin’s cards, on the back of which was pencilled:
“Dear Miss Sturgis,—I’d be grateful for two minutes’ interview. Have a message from an old friend of yours.M. Devlin.”
“Dear Miss Sturgis,—I’d be grateful for two minutes’ interview. Have a message from an old friend of yours.
M. Devlin.”
Jeannette frowned in distaste, and looked up at the boy, annoyed. She was extremely busy, typing a speech for Mr. Corey which he was to read that night at a Publishers’ Banquet at the Waldorf. It was twenty minutes past four; she expected him to return at any minute.
“Tell the gentleman to come again, will you, Jimmy? I’m really too busy to see him to-day.”
The boy went out and she returned to her work, her fingers flying.
“The responsibility of molding public opinion,” went her notes, “rests perhaps with our press, but to whom do the discriminating readers of the nation in confidence turn for the formation of their taste in literature, their acquaintance with the Arts, the dissemination of those inspiring idealistic thoughts and precepts of the fathers of our great——”
She estimated there were another three pages of it.
The door of her office opened and a young man of square build, with broad shoulders, and a grin on his face, filled the aperture.
“Beg pardon, Miss Sturgis,” he began. “I hope you won’t think I’m butting-in.”
He had a strong handsome face, big flashing teeth, black hair and black eyebrows.
Jeannette looked at him, bewildered. She had never seen this man before; she did not know what he was doing in her office, nor what he wanted.
“I’m Martin Devlin,” he announced, advancing into the room.
At once she froze; her breast rose on a quick angry intake, and her eyes assumed a cold level stare.
“I hope you’re not going to be sore at me.” He smiled down at her in easy good humor.
“Mr. Corey’s not in,” said the girl. She was staggered by this individual’s effrontery.
“Well, that’s too bad, but I really called to have a few minutes’ chat with you,” he returned nonchalantly. “We have a friend of yours down at our office: MissAlexander, Beatrice Alexander. ’Member her? She says a lot of nice things about you.”
“Oh!” Jeannette elevated her eyebrows and surveyed the speaker’s head and feet.
“I’m afraid you’re sore at me,” he said. He laughed straight into her cold eyes, showing his big teeth.
Jeannette straightened herself and frowned. She felt her anger rising.
“Er—you—a——” she began, deliberately clearing her throat with a little annoyed cough. “I think you’ve made a mistake. Mr. Corey is not in. As you see, I am busy. Good-day.”
She looked down at her notes and swung her chair around to her machine.
“Whew!” whistled Mr. Devlin. He took a step nearer, put his hand on her desk, bent down to catch a glimpse of her face, and said with a pleading note in his voice and with that same flashing smile:
“Aw—please don’t be sore at me, Miss Sturgis!”
The man’s sudden nearness brought Jeannette up rigidly in her seat. Her eyes blazed a moment, but there was something in this person’s manner and in the ingratiating quality of his smile that made her hesitate. Her first thought had been to call the porter or one of the men outside, and have him summarily put out. Instead she said in her most frigid tone:
“Really, Mr. Devlin, you presume too far. You see that I am busy and I’ve told you that Mr. Corey is not in.”
“Well that’s all right, but what do you want me to tell Miss Alexander? She’ll be wanting to know if I delivered her message.”
“Miss Alexander, as I remember her, is a verylovely girl. You can tell her that I’ve not forgotten her, and that I am sorry that ... that in her office there are not more mannerly gentlemen.”
Devlin threw back his head and roared. His laugh was extraordinary.
“Say, Miss Sturgis,” he began, “please don’t be sore at me. I didn’t know I’d find a girl like you in here. Miss Alexander said you were awfully nice and I thought maybe you’d be doing me a favor one of these days. I took a chance on getting in to see you the way I did. Don’t blame the kid.”
“What kid?”
“The office boy. I slipped him a quarter and told him to tell you I was an old friend of yours and wanted to give you a surprise.”
“Upon my word!”
“Well, you see,—we’ve all got to make our living; you, me and the office boy.”
“There are ways of doing it,” said Jeannette acidly.
“I think they’re all legitimate.”
“What,—bribing office boys?”
“Well, I didn’t bribe him exactly. I deceived him.” He laughed again. He was Irish, the girl noted, and presumably considered he had a great deal of Irish charm.
“At any rate, I got in to see you.”
“Much good it’s done you.”
“I have hopes for the future.”
“I wouldn’t cherish them.”
“Ah, well now, Miss Sturgis, don’t be cruel!”
“I’m not in the least interested.”
“Won’t you tell me who’s doing Corey’s engraving?”
“I will not.”
“I can find out easily enough, and I think I can interest him.”
“I think you can’t.”
“Won’t you make an appointment for me to see him?”
“Certainly not!”
“There’s other ways I can meet him.”
“You’re at liberty to find them.”
“Aw ... you’re awfully mean. Why don’t you give a fellow a chance for his living?”
“You don’t deserve it.”
“Because I gave the boy a quarter to show me which was your office?”
“Yes, and because you’re so ... so....”
“Fresh,—go on; you were going to say it!”
“Evidently you are aware of it.”
“A fellow hasn’t a chance to think anything else.”
“Well,—you’ll have to excuse me. I’m really very busy.”
“Can I come again when you’ve a little more time to spare?”
“I am always busy.”
“Can I ’phone?”
“I can’t bother with ’phone messages.”
Mr. Devlin for a moment was routed.
“Oh,gosh!” he said in disgust.
Jeannette was not to be won. She nodded to him, and began to type briskly, the keys of her machine humming. The man stood uncertainly a moment more, shifting from one foot to the other; then he swung himself disconsolately toward the door, and closed itslowly after him. Almost immediately he opened it again and thrust in his head.
“I’m coming back again,—just the same!” he bawled. Jeannette did not look around, and the door clicked shut.
The next time he called she was taking dictation from Mr. Corey and was unaware he had come. When she finished with her employer, and picked up the sheaf of letters he had given her, she passed through the connecting door between the two offices, and found Devlin waiting in her room.
“Really!” She stopped short and frowned in quick annoyance.
“Well, here I am again!” he said blandly.
“And here’s where you go out!” She walked towards the door that led to the outer office and flung it open.
Devlin’s face altered, and a slow color began to mount his dark cheeks.
“Aw—say——” he said in hurt tones. The smile was gone; for the moment his face was as serious as her own.
Jeannette did not move. Devlin picked up his hat and gloves.
“My God!” he exclaimed fervently, “you’re hard as nails!”
As he went out she suddenly felt sorry for him.
But that was not the last of him. His card appeared the next afternoon. Mr. Corey was again away from the office.
“I’m not in to this person,” she said to Jimmy, “and if he bribes you to show him in here, I’ll go straight to Mr. Kipps and have you fired.”
The next day he telephoned. She hung up the receiver, and told the girl at the switch-board to find out who wanted her before she put through any more calls. The day following brought a letter from him, but as soon as she discovered his signature, she tore it up and threw it in the waste-paper basket. Two minutes later, she carefully recovered its ragged squares and pieced them together.
“My dear Miss Sturgis,” it read, “you must overlook my boorish methods. I’ll not bother you again, but I beg you will not hold it against me, if I try to make your acquaintance in some more acceptable manner. Yours with good wishes, Martin Devlin.”
He wrote a vigorous hand,—strong, distinct, individual.
Jeannette considered the letter a moment, then uttered a contemptuous “Puh!” scooped the fragments into her palm, and returned them to the receptacle for trash.
Toward the end of the week, she had a telephone call from Beatrice Alexander. She had not seen the girl for nearly four years but remembered how exceptionally kind she had been to her that first day she went to work, and thought it would be pleasant to meet her again, and talk over old times. They arranged to have luncheon together.
They met at the Hotel St. Denis. Jeannette always went there whenever there was sufficient excuse; sheloved the atmosphere of the old place. Her luncheon was invariably the same: hot chocolate with whipped cream, and a club sandwich. It cost just fifty cents.
Beatrice Alexander had changed but little during the years Jeannette had not seen her, except that now she wore glasses. A little gold chain dangled from the tip of one lens, and hooked itself by means of a gold loop, over an ear. It made her look schoolmarmy, but she had the same sweet face, the same soft dovelike eyes, and the whispering voice.
“And younevermarried Mr. Beardsley,” she commented. “I heard you were engaged and he certainly was awfully in love with you.”
Jeannette explained about her sister, and how happy the two were in their little Bronx flat. Her companion exclaimed about the baby.
She had had two or three places since the old publishing house suspended its selling campaign of the History. She had been in the business office of the Fifth Avenue Hotel Company until it closed its doors. Now The Gibbs Engraving Company employed her; she’d been there about a year, and liked it all right, but the constant smell of the strong acids made her a little sick sometimes. She and Jeannette fell presently to discussing Martin Devlin.
“Oh, he’s all right,” Beatrice Alexander said. “He came there about the same time I did. He’s an awful flirt, I guess, and he gets round a good deal. I don’t know much about him, except that he’s always pleasant and agreeable, never, anything but terribly nice to me. Everybody likes him. He’s one of our best solicitors. I heard from one of the men in your composing room, who’s a kind of cousin of mine, that you were withthe Corey Company and were Mr. Corey’s private secretary, and one day I happened to hear Mr. Devlin talking to Mr. Gibbs,—Mr. Gibbs and his brother own The Gibbs Engraving Company,—and he said something about how he wished he could land your account but he didn’t know a soul he could approach. And then I mentioned I knew you. That was all there was to it, only he said you treated him something awful.”
Jeannette rehearsed the interview.
“He struck me as a very fresh young man,” she concluded.
“Oh, Mr. Devlin’s all right,” Beatrice Alexander said again. “He doesn’t mean any harm. He’s Irish, you know,—he was born here and all that,—and he just wants to be friendly with everyone. I suppose he was kind of hurt because you were so short with him.”
“I most certainly was,” Jeannette said, grimly.
“Well, he’s been begging and begging me to call you up. He wanted to take us both out to lunch, but I wouldn’t agree to that. I told him I’d see you about it first.”
“I wouldn’t consider it,” Jeannette said, indignantly. “The idea! What’s the matter with him?”
“I imagine,” Beatrice Alexander said shyly, “he likes your style.”
“Well, I don’t likehis! ... The impertinence!”
They finished their lunch and wandered into Broadway. It was Easter week, and the chimes of Grace Church were ringing out a hymn.
“Let’s not lose touch with each other again,” said Beatrice Alexander at parting. “I’ll ’phone you soon,and next time you’ll have to have luncheon withme. I always go to Wanamaker’s; they have such lovely music up there, and the food’s splendid.”
Jeannette had forgotten Mr. Devlin’s existence until one day as she was typing busily at her desk she suddenly recognized his loud, infectious and unmistakable laugh in the adjoining office. Mr. Corey had come in from lunch some ten minutes before, and had brought a man with him. She had heard their feet, their voices, and the clap of the closing door as they entered. Now the laugh startled her. She paused, her fingers suspended above the keys of her typewriter, and listened. It was Mr. Devlin; there was no mistaking him. She twisted her lips in a wry smile. He and Mr. Corey were evidently getting on.
She knew she would be called. When the buzzer summoned her, she picked up her note-book and pencils, straightened her shoulders in characteristic fashion, and went in.
Devlin rose to his feet as she entered, but she did not glance at him. Her attention was Mr. Corey’s.
“How do you do? How’s Miss Sturgis?” Devlin was all good-natured friendliness, showing his big teeth as he grinned at her.
She turned her eyes toward him gravely, gazed at him with calm deliberation, and briefly inclined her head.
“Oh, you two know each other? Friends, hey?” asked Mr. Corey, looking up.
“Well, we’re trying to be,” laughed Devlin.
Jeannette made no comment. She gazed expectantly at her chief.
“The Gibbs Engraving Company,” said Mr. Corey in his brusque businesslike voice, “wants to do our engraving. I’m going to give them a three months’ trial. I’d like to have you take a memorandum of what they’ve quoted us. Mr. Gibbs is to confirm this by letter. Now you said five cents per square inch on line cuts with a minimum of fifty cents....”
Jeannette scribbled down the figures.
“Three-color work a dollar a square inch,” supplied Devlin.
“Oh, I thought you said you’d give us a flat rate on our color work.”
“On the magazine covers, yes, but I can’t do that on general color work.”
“Well, that’s all right.” The discussion continued. Presently the girl had all the details.
“Give me a memorandum of that,” Corey said, “and send a carbon to Mr. Kipps.” He turned to the young man. “We’ll talk it over, and let you know just as soon as we hear from you.” Devlin rose. The men shook hands as Jeannette passed into her own room. She heard them saying good-bye. Their voices continued murmuring, but she did not listen. Suddenly Mr. Corey opened her door.
“Mr. Devlin wants to speak to you a minute, Miss Sturgis.” He nodded to his companion, said “Well, good-bye; hope we can get together on this,” and shook hands once more, and left Devlin confronting her.
“Please let me say just one word,” he said quickly.“I met Mr. Corey at the Quoin Club the other day and made a date for lunch. I’m after his business all right, and think I’ve got it cinched. I don’t want you to continue to be sore at me, if my outfit and yours are going to do business together. I’m sorry if I got off on the wrong foot. Please accept my apology and let’s be friends.”
“I don’t think there is any occasion——” began Jeannette icily.
“Aw shucks!” he said interrupting her, “I’m doing the best I can to square myself. I didn’t mean to annoy you. I didn’t care at first what you thought of me as long as I got in to see Mr. Corey. I confess I thought maybe I could jolly you into arranging a date for me to see him. No,—wait a minute,” he urged as the girl frowned, “hear me out. You see I’m being honest about it. I’m telling you frankly what I thought at first, but that was before I even saw you. I had no idea you were the kind of girl you are. It isn’t usual to find a person like you in an office. Oh, you think I’m jollying you! I swear I’m not. I just want to ask you to forgive me if I offended you, and be friends.”
There was something unusually ingratiating about this man. Jeannette hesitated, and Devlin continued. He pleaded very earnestly; it was impossible not to believe his sincerity.
Jeannette shrugged her shoulders when he paused for a moment. Her hands were automatically arranging the articles on her desk.
“Well,” she conceded slowly, “what do you want?”
“For you to say you’ll forgive a blundering Irish boobie, and shake hands with him.”
He wrung a dry smile from her at that. She held out her hand.
“Oh, very well. It’s easier to be friends with you than have you here interfering with my getting at my work.”
“That’s fine, now.” He held her fingers a moment, his whole face beaming. “You’ve a kind heart, Miss Sturgis, and I sha’n’t forget it.”
He took himself away with a radiant smile upon his face.
It was evident Martin Devlin proposed to be a factor in her life. When he came to the office to see Mr. Kipps or Miss Holland about the engraving,—and the work brought him, or he pretended it brought him, two or three times a week—he never failed to step to Jeannette’s door, open it, and give her the benefit of his flashing teeth and handsome eyes as he wished her good-day or asked her how she was. He did not intrude further. His visits were only for a minute or two. Only once when she was looking for a letter in the filing cabinet, he came in and lingered for a chat. He saw she was not typing, therefore ready to talk to him since he was not interrupting her. When she went to lunch with Beatrice Alexander a week or two later at Wanamaker’s he joined the two girls by the elevators as they were leaving the lunch-room, pretending, Jeannette noticed, with a great air of surprise, that the meeting was merely a fortuitous circumstance. The subway had a few days before begun to operate. Jeannette had never ridden upon it, so Martin piloted her down the stone steps, boarded the train, and rodewith her until they reached Thirty-fourth Street. Beatrice Alexander had said good-bye as they left Wanamaker’s.
Devlin had a confident, self-assured way with him. It could not be said he swaggered, but the word suggested him. He was easy, good-natured, laughing, cajoling, irresistibly merry. His good humor was contagious. Men smiled back at him; women looked at him twice. To the subway guard, to the sour-faced little Jew at the newsstand, to the burly cop with whom they collided as they climbed the stairs to the street, he was familiar, patronizing, jocular. He called the Italian subway guard “Garibaldi,” the Jewish newsdealer “Isaac,” the burly policeman “Sergeant.” One glance at him and each was won; it was impossible to resent his familiarity. Everybody liked him; he could say the most outrageous things and give no offense. It was that Irish charm of his, Jeannette decided, back once more at her desk and clicking away at her machine, that made people so lenient with him.
She began to speculate about him a good deal. It was clear he was in hot pursuit of her, and that he intended to give her no peace. He commenced to bring little boxes of candy which he slid on to her desk with a long arm when he opened her office door to say “Hello!” Then flowers put in their appearance: sweet bunches of violets, swathed in oiled paper, their stems wrapped in purple tinfoil, the fragrant ball glistening with brilliant drops of water; there were bunches of baby roses, too, and lilies-of-the-valley, and daffodils. One day she happened to mention she had never read “The Taming of the Shrew,” and the following morning there was delivered at her home acomplete set of the Temple edition of Shakespeare’s plays. She protested, she threatened to throw the flowers out of the window, she begged him with her most earnest smile not to send her anything more. She was talking into deaf ears. The very next day she found on her desk two seats for a Saturday matinée with a note scribbled on the envelope: “For you and your mother next Saturday. Have a good time and think of Martin.”
In deep distress she told her mother about him, but Mrs. Sturgis shared none of her concern.
“Well, perhaps the young man is trying to be friends with you in the only way he knows how. I wouldn’t be too hasty with him, dearie. You say he’s with an engraving company? Is that a good line of work? Does he seem well-off,—plenty of money and all that?”
“Oh,Mama!” cried Jeannette, in mild annoyance.
“There’s no harm, my dear, in a nice rich young fellow admiring a pretty girl like my daughter. If the young man’s well brought up and means what’s perfectly right and proper, I don’t see what you can object to. You’ve got to marry one of these days, lovie; you must remember that. There isn’t any sense in tying yourself down to a desk for the rest of your life! You’vegotto think about a husband!”
“Well, I don’t wanthim!”
“Perhaps not. I’m not saying anything about him. But there’s plenty of nice young men in the world, and you mustn’t shut your eyes to them. A girl should marry and have a home of her own; that’s what God intended. Doctor Fitzgibbons was saying exactly that same thing to me only yesterday. Now this Mr. Devlin,—it’s an Irish name, isn’t it?——”
“Oh, hush,—for goodness’ sakes, Mama! Don’t let’s talk any more about him.... What did Alice have to say to-day?”
“She’s really gaining very rapidly now,” Mrs. Sturgis said instantly diverted. “She says she’s going to let that woman go. She comes every day and does all the dishes and cleans up and it only costs Alice three dollars a week.”
“Why, she’s crazy,” cried Jeannette. “She isn’t half strong enough to do her own work, yet. You tell her I’ll pay the three dollars till she’s all right again. I can’t imagine what Roy Beardsley’s thinking about!”
Martin Devlin begged her to allow him to take her mother and herself to dinner, and “perhaps we’ll have time to drop in at a show afterwards,” he added. Jeannette declined. She had no wish to become on more intimate terms with him, but he would not take “No” for an answer. He persisted; she grew angry; he persisted just the same. She considered going to Mr. Corey and informing him that this representative of The Gibbs Engraving Company was annoying her, and yet it hardly seemed the thing to do. She spoke of it again to her mother, and Mrs. Sturgis at once was in a flutter of excitement at the prospect of a dinner downtown.
“But why not, dearie?” she argued. “I could wear my lavender velvet, and you’ve got your new taffeta.... I’d like to meet the young man.”
After all there were thousands of girls, reflected Jeannette, who were accepting anything and everythingfrom men, wheedling gifts out of them, sometimes even taking their money. Her mother would get much pleasure out of the event.
When Devlin urged his invitation again, she drew a long breath, and consented. There seemed no reason why she should not accept; there was nothing wrong with him; she liked him; he was agreeable and devoted; her mother would be delighted.
He called for them on the night of the party in a taxi. It was an unexpected luxury. He won Mrs. Sturgis at once. Why, he was perfectly charming, a delightful young man! What in the world was Jeannette thinking about? She laughed violently at everything he said, rocking back and forth on the hard leather seat in the stuffy interior of the cab, convulsed with mirth, her round little cheeks shaking. He was the most comical young man she’d ever known!
The taxi took them to a brilliant restaurant, gay with lights, music and hilarity. Jeannette’s blue, high-necked taffeta and her mother’s lavender velvet were sober costumes amidst the vivid apparel and low-cut toilettes of the women. But the girl was aware that no matter what her dress might be, she, herself, was beautiful. She saw the turning heads, and the eyes that trailed her as the little group followed the head-waiter to their table. The table had been reserved, the dinner ordered. Cocktails appeared, and she sipped the first she had ever tasted. Her mother was in gay spirits, and preened herself in these surroundings like a bird. Devlin seemed to know how to do everything. He was startlingly handsome in his evening clothes; the white expanse of shirt was immaculate; there were two tiny gold studs in front, and a blackbow tie tied very snugly at the opening of his collar. It was no more than conventional semi-formal evening dress, and yet somehow it impressed Jeannette as magnificent. She had never noticed how becoming the costume was to a man before. She realized, as she glanced at him, he was the first young man she had ever known, who had taken her out in the evening and worn evening dress. Roy had been too poor; the tuxedo he had had at college was shabby; she had never seen him wear it. She studied Devlin now critically. His hair was coal black, coarse, a trifle wavy; he wet it, when he combed it, and it caught a high light now and then. His eyebrows were heavy and bushy like his hair, the eyes, themselves, deep-set but alive with twinkles and laughter. They were expressive eyes, she thought, capable of subtlest meanings. His nose was straight, his mouth large and red, and his big even teeth glistened between the vivid lips with the glitter of fine wet porcelain. He had an oval-shaped face and a vigorous pointed chin. His skin was unblemished, but the jaw, chin, and cheeks were dark blue from his close-shaven beard. It was his expression, she decided, more than the regularity of his features, that made him so handsome. In his evening dress he was extraordinarily good-looking. She judged him to be twenty-six or seven.
The dinner progressed smoothly. Devlin had evidently taken pains in ordering it, and he gave a pleased smile when Mrs. Sturgis waxed enthusiastic over some particular feature, and Jeannette echoed her praise. There was, as a matter of fact, nothing spectacular about it: oysters, chickensauté sec,—a specialty of the restaurant,—a vegetable or two, salad with a red sauce—Mrs.Sturgis thought it most curious and pronounced it delicious—an ice. To his guests, it seemed the most wonderful dinner they had ever eaten. The girl was impressed; her mother flatteringly excited.
“It’s all sogood!” Mrs. Sturgis kept repeating as if she had made a surprising discovery.
Devlin called for the check, glanced at it, dropped a large bill on the silver tray, and when the change was brought, amounting to two dollars and some cents,—as both Jeannette and her mother noted,—waved it away to the waiter with a negligent gesture. It was lordly; it was magnificent!
Jeannette loved such ways of doing things, she loved the lights and music, the excellent food, the deferential service, the gorgeous restaurant, the beautifully gowned women. She would like to own one rich and sumptuous evening dress like theirs, and to be able to wear it to such a magnificent place as this, and queen it over them all. She knew she could do it; she could dazzle the entire room.
Devlin guided his guests through the revolving glass doors to the street, the taxi-cab starter blew his whistle shrilly, a car rolled up, the door was held open for them to enter, and banged shut. The starter in his gold-braided uniform and shining brass buttons, touched his cap respectfully, and the taxi rolled out into the traffic. Jeannette thrilled to the luxuriousness and extravagance of it all.
It was the same at the theatre. They had aisle seats in the sixth row; the musical comedy was delightful, spectacular, magnificent, in tune with everything else that evening. After the theatre, their escort insisted upon their going to a brilliant café where the musicwas glorious, and where Jeannette and her mother sipped ginger-ale and Devlin drank beer. Mrs. Sturgis commented half-a-dozen times upon the peel of a lemon, deftly cut into cork-screw shape, and twisted into her glass, which gave the ginger-ale quite a delightful flavor. It was Devlin’s idea; she had heard him suggest it to the waiter. He was a very remarkable young man, —very!
They were swept home in another taxi-cab, and he refused to let them thank him for the glorious evening. He hinted he would like to call, and perhaps be asked to dinner. But of course, that was not to be thought of! A grand person like him coming to one of their simple little meals, with Mrs. Sturgis or Jeannette jumping up to wait on the table? That would be perfectly ridiculous! But he might call some time, or perhaps go with them to a Sunday concert. He would be delighted, of course. He held his hat high above his head as he said good-night, and stood at the foot of the steps until they were safely inside.
It had been a memorable evening; they really had had a most wonderful time; Mr. Devlin certainly knew how to do things! Mrs. Sturgis, carefully pinning a sheet about her lavender velvet preparatory to hanging it in the closet, began planning how they could entertain him.
“Is he fond of music, do you know, dearie? I think we could get seats for some Sunday afternoon concert, and then bring him home to tea. It would be much better to ask him here than to go to any of those little tea-places; we could get some crumpets and toast them ourselves, and might buy a few little French pastries. You could see he was dying to be asked.”
Jeannette felt vaguely irritated.
“Oh, let’s not rush him, Mama.”
“Rush him? Who’s talking of rushing him, I’d like to know? The young man is a very delightful, presentable gentleman, and he’s evidently taken a great fancy to you, and he’s even been nice to your poor old mother. I declare, Janny, I can’t sometimes make you out! I just was proposing we extend him a little hospitality in return for his extremely lavish entertainment. He’s been most kind and considerate, and the least we can do....”
Jeannette’s mind wandered. It certainly would be wonderful, went her roving thoughts, to have money, and dress gorgeously, and go about to such magnificent restaurants, and then taxi off to the theatre, whenever one wanted to! It would be wonderful, too, to have somebody strong and resourceful always looking out for one’s comfort and enjoyment, paying all the bills, never bothering one about money, consulting and gratifying one’s slightest whim!
She went to sleep in a haze of golden imaginings. Her mother’s voice in the next room planning various schemes, commenting upon Mr. Devlin’s attractiveness, grew fainter and fainter, and finally dwindled silent.
But the next morning Jeannette vigorously attacked the subject. There had been nothing extraordinary about the past evening. A man in conventional evening dress had taken her mother and herself to dine in a restaurant, and afterwards had driven them in a taxi to the theatre. What was there so remarkablein that? It was being done all the time; the restaurants were packed full of such parties night after night. It had merelyseemedwonderful to a girl and her mother unused to such entertainment.
Jeannette kept reminding herself of this throughout the ensuing day. She did not propose to have her head turned, as her mother’s evidently was, by a little splurge of money. She was not in love with Martin Devlin, she did not care a snap of her finger for him, she would not marry him if he had a million! There was no sense in letting him think she would even consider such an idea. She couldn’t help it, if he was in love with her. She had done nothing to encourage him, and she didn’t propose to begin. No, the whole thing had better come to an end; it had gone quite far enough; she’d have to call off any silly plans her mother might be making.... What! Marry Martin Devlin and give up her job?Never in the world!
But Jeannette found she was dealing with a personality very different from that of Roy Beardsley. Mr. Devlin had one idea, one object: the idea was Jeannette, the object matrimony. He besieged her with attentions, he gave her no peace, he hounded her footsteps. Mrs. Sturgis threw herself whole-heartedly upon his side. She was deaf to her daughter’s remonstrances; she refused to be discourteous, as she described it, to a young man so attentive and considerate. Mother and daughter actually quarrelled about the matter, refused to speak to each other for a whole day, made up with tears and kisses, but this in no jot altered Mrs. Sturgis’ purpose of being Mr. Devlin’s friend and advocate.
Jeannette was not to be shaken. She did not desireMr. Devlin, she did not want to marry anyone, she had no intention of abandoning her work.
“Yougotto marry me, Jeannette,” this purposeful young man said to her one day.
“Never,” said Jeannette resolutely.
“Oh, yes, you will,” he told her with equal confidence.
“Well, we’ll see about that. I don’t care for you; I wouldn’t marry you if I did; you are only annoying me with your attentions. I would really like you much better if you’d leave me alone.”
The very evening this conversation took place she found a beautiful little scarab pin waiting for her when she got home. She mailed it back to him at The Gibbs Engraving Company. The next day came perfume, and a day or two later a large roll of new magazines; he sent her candy, flowers, theatre tickets. She gave the candy away, threw the flowers out of the window, tore up the theatre tickets and sent the torn paste-boards back to him in a letter in which she told him further gifts would only anger her. They kept on coming with undiminished regularity. She wept; her mother scolded her; Devlin called. There was no evading him; he was everywhere.
One day, he grabbed her, took her in his arms, beat down her resistance, strained her to him, and kissed her savagely, hungrily on the mouth. In that instant she capitulated; something broke within her; an overwhelming force rose like a great tide, welled up over her head and submerged her. She wilted in his embrace, succumbed like a crushed lily and longed for him to trample on her.
Love, glorious, intoxicating, passionate, had sprungto life in her. She resented it; she was helpless against it. She fought—fought—fought to no purpose. It rode her, rowelled her, harried her. Martin Devlin had conquered her heart, but her will was another matter.
Jeannette became miserably unhappy. She imagined she had experienced all love’s emotions when Roy Beardsley possessed her thoughts. She laughed now when she thought of them. She had been little more than a school girl then, with a school girl’s capacity for love,—a maiden’s love, virginal, immature. It was not to be compared with this flame that seethed within her now. Oh, God! Her love for Martin Devlin was an agony! For the first time in her life she knew the full meaning of fear. She feared this man with a fear like terror. Ruthlessly he obtruded himself into her life, ruthlessly he assaulted the securest fastnesses of it, ruthlessly, she dreaded, he would strike them down and subdue her will as easily as he had won her love. He was in her thoughts all day and all night; she trembled when he was near her; it was torment when they were apart. Again and again, she returned to her determination to put him out of her life; he would only cause her trouble; there was only unhappiness in store for them both. It was useless. Neither her thoughts nor Devlin had any mercy upon her. She knew at last what love, real love, was like; it was a raging fire, white-hot, scorifying, consuming.
His lips never again found hers after that first terrible moment of weakness. Sometimes he caught her to him and strained her in his arms, but her cheek orhair or neck received his eager kiss. She resisted these embraces with all her strength, struggled in his grasp. She was mortally afraid of him; mortally afraid of herself. Desire throbbed in all her veins. She clung desperately to the last redoubt in her defenses behind which every instinct told her safety lay. She would allow him no avenue of approach; she would tolerate no moment’s weakness in her fortitude.
“Janny, you love me, and, by God, I love you. You’re the finest woman I’ve ever known, Janny. When are you going to marry me?” Martin had his arms about her, but both her hands were pressed against his breast. He seemed so big and powerful as he stood holding her; she knew his clean shaven chin was rough with his beard, firm and cold; he smelled fragrantly of cigars.
Ah, love! That was one thing,—she had no control over her heart,—but marriage was another. That was very different indeed.
“Martin dear,—Idolove you,—I’m proud I love you. But I don’t want to get married!”
“Why not?”
Jeannette sighed wearily.
“I don’t suppose I can ever make you understand. I like to live my own life; I like to come and go as I please; I like to have the money I earn myself to spend the way I like. And besides that, I love my work, I love being at the office. I’ve been part of this business now for three years; I’ve helped to build it up, I know every detail; it belongs to me in a way. Does that sound unreasonable to you?”
“No, not unreasonable exactly. But I don’t think you see it right; you attach too much importance toit. You’ll be just as free and independent as my wife as you are now.”
Would she? She wondered. It was of that, that she had her gravest misgivings.
“And then there’s Mr. Corey. I wouldn’t feel right about leaving him; he depends on me so much.”
“Well, for God’s sake!” exclaimed Martin. “Do you mean to tell me you would letthatstand in the way?”
“It’s a consideration,” said Jeannette honestly. Martin’s face settled grimly.
“And then there’s Mama,” went on the girl. “She’s so happy now, living with me. She doesn’t have to work so hard any more, and she goes to concerts and visits Alice and does as she pleases. You see, if I married, that would have to come to an end. I don’t know what she would do.”
“Why, she could do a lot of things,” argued Martin. “She might go and live with your sister, for instance, or come with us; she could divide her time between the two of you.”
“Alice would love to have her,” admitted Jeannette. “Mama’s crazy about Etta, and of course it would make it easier for Allie. But I don’t think Mama would consent to live with either of her children.”
“I’ve always been a fan for your ma,” said Martin, “and that just shows how dead sensible she is. Your sister’s husband and I could each send her twenty-five dollars a month, and she could find some place to board easily for that.”
“Roy hasn’t got any twenty-five dollars.”
“We can fix up some arrangement that will be satisfactory all ’round.”
“Mama would never consent to give up her teaching. It really means too much to her.”
“Well, there you are! You haven’t got a real reason on earth for not marrying me to-morrow.”
But Jeannette felt she had, though she could find no one to agree with her.
“You’re just playing with your happiness, dearie,” her mother said to her. “Martin Devlin’s a fine young man. You could go a long way before you’d find a better husband. I want to see my dearie-girl in a little home of her own like her sister’s.”
“Oh, Janny,” said Alice, “you don’t know what fun, being married is! Why, after you’ve become a wife, you feel differently about the whole world. Why, I’d marryanybodyrather than not be married at all! ... And then, Janny, you haven’t got the faintest idea how sweet it is to have a baby of your own. Etta is just the joy of our lives. You ought to see Roy playing with her when he comes home from the office and I am getting her bath ready!”
Jeannette studied her sister’s radiant face curiously. There was a mystery here; something she did not understand. This was the girl who had borne her child in agony, who had endured nearly fifteen hours of labor, who had been torn and ripped, and had lain helpless on her back for six long months, fighting her way back to strength and normality, despairing and weakly crying! Yet here she was talking of the joy of having a baby, urging her sister to a like experience!
It was puzzling. How soon mothers forgot! Six months of helplessness already unremembered! It had not passed from Jeannette’s recollection. It had been terrible—terrible! ... And yet she would liketo have a baby of her own,—a baby without that fearful ordeal,—a little Martin Devlin. She kissed Etta on the back of her wrinkled fat neck where it was sweetly perspiry and fuzzy with the lint from her blankets.
Jeannette was equally sure of two things: she loved Martin with all her soul; she would never consent to give up her position with Mr. Corey and marry him. Martin, her mother, Alice, even Mr. Corey, who soon learned of the situation, could not persuade her.
Corey had a long talk with her about the matter.
“I don’t know very much about your young man; Gibbs speaks well of him. He tells me he’s been with them a little more than a year, and is their star salesman. I think he has more possibilities in him than that. Of course you never can tell. I confess I was impressed when I first met him. Somebody at the Quoin Club had him there as a guest and introduced us, and he talked good business from the start. I don’t think much of Gibbs’ engraving, but that’s no reflection on Devlin. Personally I think you ought to marry. I advised you the same way before. Perhaps you were right in not being too hasty in that instance. I can’t know, of course, whether you’re seriously interested or not. Your heart has got to tell you that. If you love Devlin well enough and think you’ll be happy with him, you ought to marry him. I hate to see you wasting your life down here in this office. You’re deserving a better chance. Business is no place for a girl. You ought to be building a home and rearing children of your own. If you make as good a wife as you havea secretary,” he ended with a smile, “your husband will have no occasion to find fault with you.”
But she could not bring herself to give up her independence. That was what stuck in her throat. She came back to it repeatedly. A little apartment like Alice’s to share with Martin, to fix and furnish,—it appealed to her imagination, it had its attractions,—but it would be such a leap in the dark! She was so sure of her happiness living the way she was—why alter it? Yet was there any happiness for her without Martin? She tried to picture it, and her heart misgave her.
Some of the glamor that surrounded him at first had now disappeared. He no longer seemed a scion of wealth, a prince, a lordling, to whistle menials to his beck and call, and to swagger his way in and out of restaurants, leaving a trail of scattered largess in his wake. Familiarity had stripped him of the cloak of splendor with which he first had dazzled her. She liked him all the better without it, for it had only been bluff with him, his way of trying to impress her. She knew him now for an ever merry soul, an amused and amusing companion, possessing rare thoughtfulness, a little vain, a little opinionated, vigorous, direct, domineering, who could, if he so desired, charm an angel Gabriel to softness. He had his faults; she thought she knew them all. He was happy-go-lucky, had small regard for time, appointments, or others’ feelings; he was extravagant in all his tastes; and loved pleasure inordinately. But there was a charm about him that made up to her a thousandfold for these trifling short-comings. He was the handsomest of men, generous and invariably kind-hearted, he could win a smile froman image, or accomplish the impossible, once his mind was made up.
It was a satisfaction to learn that he earned only fifty dollars a week. She had thought him a millionaire at first. He threw money about with a prodigality that distressed her. His theatre tickets, his gifts, his unceasing attentions cost money,—a great deal of money. She knew his salary did not warrant it. She was glad he got but fifty a week,—only fifteen more than she did, herself. Roy was getting forty. Martin seemed more human to her after she knew the size of his salary; he was more comprehensible.
And here, once more, was confronting her the matter of finances were she to marry. She and her mother together enjoyed an income that was never less than two hundred dollars a month. She contributed eighty, as her share towards rent and food, and had still sixty dollars a month left to spend as she chose, for clothes, for a gift to Alice, or for delightful adventures with her mother, lunches and theatres on Saturday afternoons, and the little surprises that were so delightful. Would she have anything like as much out of the two hundred dollars Martin earned if she married him? What part of his weekly pay envelope was he likely to give her to run their house, and to spend on herself?
It was only fair, since he pressed his suit so vigorously, that this all-important matter should be brought up and discussed. She did not consider herself mercenary. The question of the wife’s allowance in marriage seemed a vital one to her. She had tasted independence, and did not consider she should be expected to relinquish it in marriage. Alice and Roy got along in amiable fashion on this point. Roy kept five dollarsa week for himself and gave his wife the rest of his pay envelope. Sometimes toward the end of the week he would ask her for fifty cents or a dollar to tide him over until Saturday. That arrangement seemed to Jeannette eminently fair. Roy gave all he could be reasonably expected to, she thought; five dollars a week was about as little as he could get along on for carfare, lunches and tobacco. Of course, his clothing and the pleasures he and his wife shared, came out of what Alice was able to save from week to week,—and she did manage to save a little. But, as Jeannette had often remarked, Alice was different from her. She, Jeannette, had won for herself an economic value to be measured in dollars and cents, and it was not fair to expect her to forego this for a hazy, uncertain condition in which her wishes and wants were only to be gratified at her husband’s whim. It was better to have a frank discussion and settle the matter.
Martin shouted a delighted laugh when she expounded this thought.
“Why, my darling,” he said, “don’t bother your head about it. You can have every cent I make and if that isn’t enough, I’ll go out and steal for you.”
“But seriously, Martin, what do you think a wife should have out of her husband’s income? Now, I’m not saying I’ll marry you——”
“You darling!”
“No—no,—be sensible, Martin. I want to thresh this out. If Ishouldconsent to marry you, what would you think would be a fair proportion of what you earn that I could count on as my own?”
“What would you be wanting money for?” Martin asked, amused by her earnestness.
“What would I be wanting money for?” she repeated. “Why, what do you think? ... For clothes, for pleasures, to throw away if I liked!”
“Aw, hear her!” he laughed. “Why, my darling, I’ll buy you your clothes and everything your little heart desires if only you’ll say ‘yes’ to me.”
“Martin, I’ll never say ‘yes’ until this is settled,” she said spiritedly, her eyes with a queer light in them.
Martin was serious for a moment.
“Sweet woman,” he said earnestly, “you can have it all. Divide it any way you like. I don’t care in the least. There’s plenty for the two of us.”
But Jeannette would consider nothing so indefinite. She did not want a great deal, but she wanted to feel sure of something that would be regarded as entirely her own. With difficulty she persuaded him to talk about the matter in earnest. They agreed that if his salary were equally divided, and Jeannette paid all the table expenses out of her half while he paid the rent and everything else out of his, that would be an equitable arrangement. That satisfied Jeannette; it gave her something to think about when she considered marrying him.
But even with this much settled, she was no nearer making up her mind than she had ever been. Marriage meant giving up the office, the close affiliations she had formed there. Propinquity had made her fellow-workers her friends; she knew them all intimately, knew something of their private lives, rejoiced or sorrowed with them at the inevitable changes of fortune. When an eminent surgeon from Germany performed a miraculous operation on Mr. Featherstone’s little son and gave him the use of his legs on which he had neverwalked, she shared his father’s joy; when Mr. Cavendish married a charming Vassar girl who was the daughter of a wealthy Wall Street banker, she congratulated him with a real pleasure; when Miss Holland’s seventeen-year-old nephew secured an appointment at Annapolis and successfully passed the entrance examination, she took keen satisfaction in her friend’s delight. She was shocked and saddened when Sandy MacGregor’s wife died, and when Mr. Allister was taken ill with pneumonia no one inquired more frequently about him while he struggled desperately to live, or felt more pleasure when it was announced he had turned the corner and would before long be back again at his desk. She was glad when Francis Holme, Walt Chase and Sandy MacGregor each received a substantial gift of the company’s common stock at Christmas-time, and was correspondingly sorry that Horatio Stephens and Willis Corey shared equally in the honorarium. When Miss Peckenbaugh asked for a raise in salary, and her request was endorsed by Mr. Allister, she took it upon herself to tell Mr. Corey certain facts about the young lady that had become known to her, and when as a result, the request was refused and Miss Peckenbaugh in anger resigned, she was amused and delighted. At the same time she urged and secured a five-dollar raise per week for old Major Ticknor who had a little blind grandchild he was helping to maintain in a private sanitarium. Young Tommy Livingston in the bindery had impressed her upon a certain occasion with his brightness and ability, and she recommended him warmly to Mr. Corey, and had the satisfaction of seeing him promoted to a desk in Mr. Kipps’ department. At her suggestion, window-boxesfilled with flowers were put along the windows of the press-room that faced the street; she persuaded the firm to install a lunch-room for the women employees on the eighth floor, and it was her idea that a regular trained nurse be engaged and established in a small but complete infirmary within the building. She induced Mr. Corey to offer a certain rising young author, whose work had been her discovery and who was showing steady improvement, an increase in royalty percentage, and she prevented the publication of a certain piece of fiction, which Corey had given her to read, because she considered it vicious, despite Mr. Allister’s strong recommendation. She advised her chief to instruct Horatio Stephens to order a series of articles from a woman writer whose work in another magazine had interested her, and she urged him not to engage a certain Madame Desseau of Paris, a designer of women’s clothes, as the fashion editor ofThe Ladies’ Fortune. Jeannette had a hand in almost every important step that was taken. Mr. Corey respected her judgment, frequently consulted her, and sometimes followed her advice even when contrary to his inclinations. He often told her that he believed her intuition was unerring and the greatest possible help to him.
That particular winter proved an exceptionally strenuous and exacting one for Mr. Corey. He was worn out with work and with the ever increasing demands upon him, demands that came more and more from the outside.
The P. P. Prescott Publishing Company, a housewith a reputation of half a century of high literary output, through mismanagement was in danger of bankruptcy. While the “P P P” books were famous the world over, the bank that had financed the concern for years was tired of the arrangement; the tottering house owed the Chandler B. Corey Company nearly a hundred thousand dollars for subscription premiums Francis Holme had sold it, and it was a foregone conclusion that if the Prescott Company failed, there would be no way of collecting the debt. Mr. Corey wanted to take over the Prescott Company entirely,—it could have been bought at the time for practically nothing by assuming its obligations,—but this was one of their chief’s bold and brilliant ideas that Mr. Kipps and Mr. Featherstone opposed and, to Jeannette’s intense regret, persuaded him against. The result was that instead of absorbing the Prescott Company, and letting the Corey organization administer its various activities, Mr. Corey was forced to become chairman of the board which undertook to put the older publishing house on its feet again, and to do most of the work himself.
In addition to this he was compelled to accept the leadership of a committee appointed by the Publishers’ Association to confer with the postal authorities in Washington regarding the rates on second class mail matter which were in danger of being raised. He had been obliged to make several trips to the capital. He was one of the directors of a large paper mill which, in conjunction with some other publishers, he had purchased. He had shown an interest in local politics and had been put on the Republican State Central Committee; he was one of the governors of the SwaneeValley Golf Club, and executor of the estate of Julius Zachariah Rosenbaum, a wealthy Jewish capitalist, whose autobiography he had published during the old Hebrew’s life. No one outside the immediate members of the firm, with the exception of Jeannette, knew that Rosenbaum had taken sixty thousand subscriptions toCorey’s Commentarywhen the story of his life was appearing in serial form in that magazine, and when the book was published he ordered twenty-five thousand copies, presumably to distribute among his friends. Poor Rosenbaum! It was doubtful if he had a score, and when he died there was universal rejoicing throughout the country that the most grasping of moneyed barons, who had consistently obstructed the wheels of progress, was gone. But he left a large slice of his wealth in charitable endowments, and named Chandler B. Corey as one of the executors of his will.
These responsibilities weighed heavily upon Mr. Corey’s health and strength. He had been troubled with indigestion for several months and his general condition was not good. In addition there were domestic cares. With the increase of their fortunes, Mrs. Corey had moved herself and her family into a stone front house on Riverside Drive where she proceeded to maintain an expensive order of existence. She had begged hard for this new home, and her husband weakly had given way. He never seemed able to refuse his wife anything, Jeannette thought. He could be strong about other matters, but where Mrs. Corey and his son, Willis, were concerned he was foolishly irresolute. Mrs. Corey established herself in great feather in the new house, hired four servants in addition to a liveried chauffeur, who drove her Pope-Toledo, and began toentertain lavishly. Her special victims were authors, particularly visiting ones from England, and if any of them happened to be titled, it was always the occasion for an elaborate affair. Mr. Corey hated these entertainments, and to avoid them frequently went to Washington on the plea of pressing business connected with the postal rates. The new order was exceedingly expensive. Jeannette could not understand why Mr. Corey put up with it.
But his wife’s reckless expenditure was a matter of small concern in comparison with his anxiety for his daughter. The unfortunate girl had fallen during a sudden epileptic seizure, and struck her head upon a brass fender at the hearth. She had lain for three months in a semi-conscious condition, and though treatments had partially restored her mind, she was not wholly competent and would never again be able to go about without an attendant. It was a great grief to her father. His troubles had been further augmented at this particular time by Willis, who had been paying marked attention to a married society woman with an unenviable reputation for many affairs with young men. Mr. Corey solved this particular problem by sending Willis on a hunting expedition to South Africa with Eric Ericsson, the Norwegian explorer. Ostensibly the young man went to write articles about the trip forCorey’s Commentary. It was announced he was to be gone for a year. Jeannette was aware that Mr. Corey had paid Ericsson five thousand dollars to take his son with him; the money had been given, of course, in the form of a contribution to scientific research.
It was small wonder that Corey’s physician ordereda complete rest for him in the early spring of the year. The man was threatened with a nervous breakdown, his doctor told him; the matter of his indigestion must have his serious attention; he must take a vacation, and he must take it immediately. Affairs at the office made it impossible, at the moment, for this vacation to be of any length; even Jeannette realized that it would be hazardous for the company to be left without Mr. Corey’s guiding hand on the helm. It was decided that he should go to White Sulphur Springs, play golf as much as he was able, give especial attention to his diet, and keep in touch with the office by mail and telegraph. He would be able, it was hoped, to get a complete change of climate and a proper rest by this arrangement.
“Of course, you’ll have to go with me, Miss Sturgis,” he said, wheeling round upon her when this conclusion had been reached. “I couldn’t do a thing down there without you.”
“Why, certainly,” the girl answered. As their eyes met a moment, the same thought passed through both minds.
“We’ll take your mother along,” said Corey in his brisk, direct fashion.
Mrs. Sturgis at once was in a great state of agitation.
“But my pupils, dearie,—my little pupils!” she cried. “What will the darlings do without their lessons?”
“Well, the little darlings can get along without them,” Jeannette told her. “When their parents want to take them off to the mountains or the seashore, they just take them, and there’s never any question about paying for cancelled lessons. I guess you can do thesame for once in your life.... Anyhow, there’s no use arguing about it, Mama. Mr. Corey needs me, and if you don’t go with me, I’ll go without you. It’s perfectly ridiculous that we have to be chaperoned! He’s like my father! ... But I thought you’d enjoy the trip. You know it isn’t going to cost either of us a penny!”
“Why, of course, dearie,—but you kind of spring this on me. I haven’t had a chance to think it over.... Of course, I’d love it.”
White Sulphur Springs was beautiful, the weather perfection; Jeannette enjoyed every hour of her stay. She had wanted to get off by herself for some time, to think calmly over what she must do about Martin Devlin. He had given her one of his hungry kisses when he said good-bye, and she felt at the moment he was dearer to her than life itself. He was urging her with voice, eyes and lips to be his wife. A realization had come to her that she could temporize with the situation no longer; she must either agree to marry him, or in some way bring the intimacy to an end.
Corey played golf mornings and afternoons. Jeannette watched his mail, and answered most of it herself, only consulting him when necessary. She would give him brief memorandums of what his mail contained, and show him the carbons of the letters she had dispatched, signed with his name, “per J. S.” He did not have to give more than an hour a day to his affairs.
The doctor had warned him about his diet, and had directed him to take a hydrochloric acid prescription three times a day. Jeannette watched his food as wellas his mail; she studied the menus in the dining-room and ordered his meals in advance, so that he would be sure to eat the proper food; she made him take his medicine, and persuaded him to try some electric baths that were operated in connection with the hotel. She kept a chart of his weight, and when they met at the breakfast table she would inquire about his night. She saw with satisfaction that he was improving steadily; his face, neck and hands were turning a healthy bronze color, his appetite was excellent, his sleep undisturbed.
At first a problem presented itself in Mrs. Sturgis. The little woman was intensely excited at being so closely associated with Mr. Corey. His presence agitated her; she felt it was her duty to entertain him, to evince an interest in his comings and goings, to maintain a pleasant and polite ripple of conversation at the table or whenever they were together. She believed it was expected of her to show an interest equal to her daughter’s in the state of his health, and that she must always inquire how he felt and how he had passed the night. Jeannette knew Mr. Corey hated this kind of fussy solicitude; it annoyed and irritated him. The girl suffered acutely whenever her mother commenced to ply him with her prim inquiries, or when she pretended to be interested in his golf game about which she knew, and her daughter and Mr. Corey knew she knew, not one thing. Jeannette suspected there were moments when Mr. Corey could have strangled her with delight.
There came a distressing hour eventually to mother and daughter. Jeannette had to tell her that Mr. Corey did not like her concern as to his welfare,that he had come down to White Sulphur Springs to rest, and that he must be spared all possible conversation. Mrs. Sturgis wept. She declared she had never been so “insulted” in her life, that she was going to pack her trunk and go home at once.
It was in the midst of this scene that a bell-boy of the hotel brought Jeannette a telegram addressed to Mr. Corey. She tore it open. It was from his wife.