CHAPTER IV
“Dent—Department—Derrick—Desmond—Deutsch—Deveraux—Deverley—De Vinne—Devlin....”
There it was: “Martin Devlin, Motor Cars,—North Broad Street.” Jeannette’s polished finger-nail rested beneath the name and her lips formed the words without a sound. She closed the Philadelphia Directory, turned from the telephone desk in the big New York hotel, and walked slowly out into the bright autumn glare of the street.
Thanksgiving was next week; there would be no difficulty in securing leave at the office to be absent from Wednesday night until Monday morning.
“I’d just like to see,” she kept repeating to herself. “There’d be no harm inseeingwhat kind of a place he has. I could learn so much just walking by.”
An odd excitement took possession of her. She saw herself in the train, she saw herself in a large, comfortable room at the Bellevue-Stratford, saw herself in her smartest costume, sauntering up Broad Street.
“I’ve a good mind to do it,” she whispered. “It could do no possible harm. I’d just like to see.”
She was unable to reach any definite conclusion, but she inspected her wardrobe carefully, deciding exactly what she would wear if she went to Philadelphia, and then did a very reckless thing: she bought herself asumptuous garment, a short outer jacket of broadtail and kolinsky, a regal mantle fit for a millionaire’s wife. A giddy madness seemed to settle upon her after this; her savings in the bank,—the savings which were to buy another bond,—were almost wiped out, and she deliberately drew a check for what remained. Some power outside of herself seemed to take charge of her actions; she moved from one step to another as if hypnotized; she spoke to Mr. Allister about two extra days at Thanksgiving, she bought her ticket and chair-car reservation at the Pennsylvania Station, she wrote the Bellevue-Stratford to hold one of their best outside rooms for her, she explained with simulated carelessness to Beatrice Alexander that there was a Book-Dealers’ Convention in Philadelphia which the firm had requested her to attend, and the four o’clock train on the afternoon of the holiday found her bound for the Quaker city.
As she sat stiffly upright in her luxurious armchair, staring out upon the dreary New Jersey marshes, panic suddenly came upon her.
What was she doing? Was shecrazy? Was Miss Sturgis of the Mail Order Department this woman, so elegantly clad, speeding toward Philadelphia? And on what mad errand? After years of careful living, after years of prudent saving, was it actually she, Jeannette Sturgis, who had recklessly flung to the four winds the bank account of which she had been so proud? Oh, she must be mad, indeed!
She grasped the arms of her chair and instinctively glanced from one end to the other of the palatial car. She was seized with a violent impulse to get off. There was Manhattan Transfer; she could take atrain back to the city from there. Determinedly, she gazed out upon the empty, cold-looking platform when the train reached the station, but she made no move, and as the wheels commenced to rumble beneath her once more, she sank back resignedly into her seat, and a measure of calmness returned.
She was not committing herself merely by going to Philadelphia and walking past Martin’s place of business! Suppose shedidmeet him! Suppose they actually encountered one another, face to face! What then? There was nothing compromising in that! She could explain her presence in Philadelphia in a thousand ways should he be interested. She blessed the judgment that had prompted her to confide in no one; Beatrice believed she was attending a Book-Dealers’ Convention, Alice that she was having her Thanksgiving dinner with Miss Holland.
As she left the overheated parlor car at Broad Street Station her composure was thoroughly restored. There was a tingling nimbleness in the air; the clear, November day was bright with metallic sunshine. Jeannette tipped the “red-cap” for carrying her bags, climbed into a taxi-cab and with a casual air that seemed to spring from familiarity with such proceedings, directed to be driven to her hotel.
The cold bare streets, deserted on account of the holiday, the brilliant foyer of the Bellevue, the urbane room-clerk, the gilded elevator cage, the large high-ceilinged bedroom with its trim, orderly furniture, its double-bed, glistening with white linen, its discreet engravingsof Watteau ladies in the gardens of Versailles, followed in quick succession. Then she was standing at the window looking down into the wide, dismal gray street far below, and the departing bell-boy softly closed the door behind him.
She was here; she was in Philadelphia; she would have that to remember always. If nothing else happened, she could never forget she had come this far.... Somewhere in the city was Martin; he was preparing to eat his Thanksgiving Dinner; it was a quarter past six, he was probably dressing! ... Suppose he elected to eat the meal with friends in the main dining-room of her hotel! Her throat tightened convulsively and her fingers twitched. Well, she would be equal to facing him if he saw her; she would not be frightened into abandoning the course that was natural for her to follow. If it had been actually the case that she was here in Philadelphia to attend a Book-Dealers’ Convention, she would put on her black satin dinner frock and go down to dinner with her book; she did not propose to allow herself to do differently.... It would be ridiculous to eat her Thanksgiving dinner upstairs in her rooms!
She bathed, she did her hair with unusual success, she powdered her neck and arms, she donned the black satin with the square neck and jet trimming, and with her book beneath her arm, mesh bag in her hand, descended to the dining-room at half past seven. There was an instant’s terror as she stood in the curtained doorway of the brilliantly-lit dining-room. There rushed upon her impressions of flowers, music, the odor of food, a wave of heat, the flash of napery, the gleam of cutlery, faces, faces everywhere,—headsturning,—eyes following,—whispers,—a hush as she made her way in the wake of the obsequious head-waiter.
Steeling her nerves, measuring every movement, she seated herself with deliberation, deliberately set her bag and book at her right hand, deliberately turned her attention to the menu, deliberately raised her eyes, and gazed about the room as she deliberately ordered.
But there was nothing! There was nobody! No one was looking at her; no one had noticed her entrance! The music was wailing in waltz measure, the diners were talking and laughing, attendants hurrying to and fro. He was not there; there was no one faintly resembling him in the room.
She cleared her throat and raised a tumbler of water to her lips, but as she did so, her teeth chattered an instant against the thin glass.
Philadelphia awoke the next day with the bustle of business. Feet clip-clipped on the pavements, taxies chugged and honked, trucks bumped and rattled, street-cars rumbled and clanged their bells. Life, teeming, bustling, rushing, burst from every corner and doorway.
Mechanically Jeannette moved through her early morning routine; she dressed, breakfasted, read her newspapers; she drew upon her shoulders the handsome fur jacket, as, gloved, hatted and gaitered, she stepped out on the street.
“Taxi, lady?” No, she preferred to walk. Her number was only a few squares away.
An intent and hurrying tide of pedestrians set against her, congested traffic choked the street. She was an interested observer, and made but a leisurely progress, stopping at the shop windows, studying their displays. Nothing unusual in any of them attracted her; New York was more up-to-the minute in fads and fancies; the merchants there were more enterprising; they knew what was what; these Philadelphia shop-keepers merely aped their ways and followed their leads. There was no city in the world, she thought with pride, where merchandising was such a fine art and where novelties so quickly caught on as in New York. She wondered why people lived in Philadelphia when they could just as well live in New York. She passed a theatre and read the announcement on the bill-board; the play had been in New York six months ago!
She captured her wandering thoughts and looked about her, wondering how far she had walked.
“Vine Garden?”
“The next cross-street, Madam.”
Her pulses stirred and unconsciously she quickened her pace. She was presently in the neighborhood of the number she sought. It ought to be right here.... She edged her way towards the curb and gazed up at the façades of stores and buildings. Strange,—there was nothing here that resembled an automobile agency! That building was a piano store, and in the next sewing machines were sold.... Suddenly the name leaped at her in a window’s reflection. It was across the street! She wheeled about and there it was: Martin Devlin—Motor Cars. The name was in flowing script, the letters rounded and bright with gold,and the sign tilted out slightly over the sidewalk. Her heart plunged and stood still. That was her husband’s place of business! There it was: Martin Devlin—Motor Cars!
The appearance of the agency impressed her. Across its front were four large plate-glass windows, two on each side of the entrance. On these also appeared Martin’s name in the same style of flowing script, and beneath, in Roman type, the name of the automobile he handled. The show-room was spacious and softly illuminated with reflected light from alabaster bowls hung from the ceiling by brass chains. There were a half dozen models of the motor car, ranged within, three on a side, their noses pointing toward one another obliquely. The high polish of nickel and varnish, here and there, reflected the bright electric radiance above. The place had the air of elegance.
Curious, but with galloping pulses, Jeannette picked her way across the street, and slowly strolled past. Through the plate-glass windows she could see two young men standing, their arms folded, talking. Neither was Martin. She turned and retraced her steps, swiftly inspecting. Every moment her confidence increased. She noted the walls of the show-room were of cream-tinted terra-cotta brick, the floor of smooth cement with rich rugs defining the aisles; in the rear was a balcony where she could see yellow electric lights burning over desks, and make out the faces and figures of two or three girls. That was where the offices were located, no doubt, where Martin would have his desk.
Was he in? Would she risk a meeting? Did she have nerve enough to go inside and say: “Miss Sturgis would like to see Mr. Devlin!” ... It was extraordinary, amazing! ... How utterly overcome he would be! ... To have his wife, whom he hadn’t seen for fourteen years, walk in upon him that way! ... It wasn’t fair to him, after all. She had better go back to the hotel and write him,—or perhaps it would be better to telephone.
Emotions, impulses, strange and contradictory, pulled her one way and another. The apprehension, the misgivings of yesterday were absent now. There was no longer any question in her mind as to whether or not she wanted to see Martin; she knew she wanted to see him very much; in fact, her mind was made up, she must see him. It would be a thrilling experience, after so many years.... When they parted, it had not been because they had ceased to be fond of one another. They had liked,—yes, even loved each other, at the very moment of separation.... How was it to be managed? How could she arrange to meet him with propriety? Her appearance, she was aware, would make an impression upon him; that effect would be lost in writing or telephoning.... Perhaps she had better go back to the hotel and think it over, but then she might never again find the courage which was hers at that moment.... She must do something; she could not stand there indefinitely gazing through the window at the motor cars inside! The young men within, she observed, had noticed her.
With heart that hammered at her throat, she steppedto the heavy door; it swung back at her touch. There was a pleasant warmth within. One of the young men came hurrying forward, rubbing his hands, one over the other, bowing politely, a beaming smile upon his face.
“Good morning, Madam. Interested in theParrott?”
Jeannette swept the show-room with a quick look before answering. There was no one there remotely like Martin.
“I was thinking about one,” she admitted.
“Most happy to arrange a demonstration at any time.... What model did you fancy?”
Jeannette moved about the cars, peering into the interiors of their tonneaus, commenting upon the upholstery and finish, pretending an attention to the young salesman’s glib explanations.
“Shift here is automatic ... cylinders ... compression ... hundred-and-eighteen-inch wheel-base, ... equipment just as you see it, ... rear tire extra, of course, ... lovely car for a lady to drive ... rides like a gazelle ... just like a gazelle ... you wouldn’t know you were moving.... Lovely engine, isn’t it, Madam? ... A child could easily take it apart.”
Jeannette nodded and appeared interested. All the time she was thinking: “I wonder if he’s up there—I wonder if he’s up there.”
“Mr. Devlin ...?” she hazarded.
“Oh, you know Mr. Devlin?” The possibility seemed to fill the salesman with rare pleasure; it was a discovery, unexpected, delightful.
“I—I used to know him years ago,” Jeannette faltered.
“He’s a splendid man, isn’t he?” glowed the youth. “Wonderful personality,—a regular ‘good fellow.’ He’s made quite a record with theParrott, you know. Unfortunately he’s out just now, but he’s expected. I’m sure he’ll be glad to know you called, and I’ll be very pleased to tell him. You didn’t mention.... May I ask the name?”
Jeannette hesitated. This was not the way she would have him hear of her.
“No,—I’ll call again; I’ll come in later. I’m—- I’m stopping at the Bellevue; it isn’t far.”
“Couldn’t I arrange a demonstration for you this afternoon? At any hour you say. I’d like to show you the way theParrottrides,—just like a gazelle. I’ll have our driver come with the limousine, or perhaps you’d prefer the landaulet model.... You might like to pay some calls this afternoon; it would give you a chance to test theParrottand see how you like it.... Ah, here’s Mr. Devlin!”
The heavy glass front door opened. Jeannette felt the cold air from the street. She gave a quick glance as she turned her back, her heart plunging. It was Martin all right, but what a changed and different Martin! So much older, so much larger than she remembered him! He wore a Derby hat and had a cigar.
The salesman had left her side and was communicating her presence to his employer. Jeannette stood with both hands pressed tightly against her heart and fought for self-possession.
She heard Martin speak. That voice ...! That voice ...! It suffocated her. An avalanche of memories and forgotten emotions swept down uponher.... He was coming! She even recognized his step!
“’Morning, Madam,”—there was the old briskness, and alertness in his tone!—“what can I——”
She straightened herself and turned regally.
“Good morning, Martin,” she said smiling. Her color was high, she was trembling, her pulses racing.
There was a quick jerk of his head,—a well-remembered mannerism,—and a lightning survey of her features.
“Good God! ...Jan!”
Emotions played in his face, his eyes darted about her, his color faded and flamed darkly. His confusion gave her composure. He was handsome still, smooth-shaven and clean; his cheeks were fuller, a trifle florid, he had a well-defined double-chin, his black, thick hair was streaked with wiry, white threads; he had grown stouter, had acquired a girth, but his fatness was robust and healthy. He had gained in presence, in firmness of feature, in polish,—a man of business and affairs, energetic, a leader.
“Are you surprised to see me, Martin?”
“Well, of course, ... well, ... I should say!”
She was conscious that her beauty and stateliness, her costume, her fashionableness overwhelmed him.
“I’ll be ... I’ll be damned!” he enunciated. “Excuse me, Jan,—but I’ll be ... I’ll be damned!”
An amused sound escaped Jeannette. She was smiling broadly; she felt she had the situation well in hand.
“I’m sorry I startled you, Martin. I happened to be passing and I saw your name and thought I’d drop in.... How’ve you been after all these years?”
“Oh,—all right, I guess. Sure, I’ve been fine.... And you? I guess there’s no need of asking.”
“I’ve been quite well. I’m never sick. I came down to Philadelphia to attend a Book-Dealers’ Convention.... I’m stopping at the Bellevue.”
“Well—er, you going to be in town long?”
“Oh,—two or three days. I’m going back to New York Sunday, I guess. I think I can get away by that time.... This is a fine car you handle; its lines are really very beautiful.”
“It’s a good car, all right. I had a big year this year,—and last year, too.”
“Well, that’s good; I’m glad to hear it.... I never heard of theParrottbefore.”
“Youdidn’t? ... Well, we think we advertise a good deal. It ranks up among the best.... Are you—are you married or anything like that?”
Jeannette laughed richly.
“Not since an experience I had some fourteen years ago that didn’t take!”
Martin echoed her amusement. He was regaining his ease; she could see he was beginning to enjoy himself.
“You know I took my maiden name when I went back to work; everybody knew me there as ‘Miss Sturgis’; it seemed easier.”
“Yes, I see,” Martin agreed.
“I’m still with the old company.”
“What,—the same old publishing outfit?”
“Yes; I’m in charge of the Mail Order Department now.... We do quite a business.”
“Is that so? And how do you like it?”
“Oh, I like it all right. They think a lot of me there,and I do about as I please.... I’m thinking of resigning though; one of these days, pretty soon, I’ll quit. It gets on your nerves after awhile, you know.”
“Yes, I guess it does.”
A momentary embarrassment came upon them.
“Well, it was pleasant to catch a glimpse of you, again, Martin. If you’re ever in New York, ring me up. You know the office——”
“Well, say,—I don’t like to have you go away like this! I’d like to see something of you while you’re in town,—and talk over old times. There’s a lot of things I’ll bet we’d find interesting to tell one another.”
“I shouldn’t wonder,” she said lightly.
“I got a business engagement for lunch unfortunately”; he scowled in troubled fashion. “I can’t very well get out of it.... You’re at the Bellevue? ... Well, how about dinner? Couldn’t we get together for dinner?”
“Why, I guess so. Yes,—that would be lovely,” said Jeannette with an air of careful consideration.
“I’ll bring my wife; Ruthie will be glad to meet you. You knew I married again, didn’t you?”
Jeannette’s expression did not alter by the quiver of an eyelash; she continued to regard Martin with smiling eyes.
“No, I hadn’t heard.... I didn’t suppose.... So you married, again?”
“Yes, I married a widow,—a widow with two kids: girl and a boy,—splendid youngsters.... Say, yougotto see those kids; they’re Jim-dandies!”
“That’s ... that’s fine.”
“And I think you’ll like Ruthie, too, Jan. Sheisn’t your style exactly, but she’s all right. There’s no side to Ruthie. I think you’ll like her; she’s a fine little woman and a great little mother. You’ll like her, I’ll bet a hat.”
“I’m sure I shall.”
“Then it’s all right for to-night? Ruthie’ll join me downtown and we’ll come over to the hotel, and the three of us will have a great little dinner together and chew the rag about old times.... Say, d’you ever see that old ragamuffin, Zeb Kline?”
“Oh, yes, indeed. I saw him two or three weeks ago. He’s quite successful, now, you know; he’s made a great deal of money; married Nick Birdsell’s daughter.”
“Isthatso! Well, isthatso! He was a card all right, a great old scout.... And d’you ever see any of the rest of the old gang: Adolph Kuntz, an’ Fritz Wiggens, an’ Steve Teschemacher an’ old Gibbsy?”
“Oh, yes, occasionally.”
“Say, what’s old Gibbsy doing? He was a wormy little rat, all right, wasn’t he?”
“He’s got a very fine place, now, down on the Point,—quite an estate.”
“Well, wouldn’t you know it! He’d be just the kind of a little tightwad that would build himself a swell house! ... And what happened to old Doc French?”
Jeannette’s countenance changed and she shook her head.
“Don’t bother to tell me now. Save it up for to-night. We’ll have a great talk-fest.... Ruthie and I will show up at the hotel,—what time? Let’smake it early so we can have all evening. Six-thirty? How’s that?”
Jeannette smiled assent.
“We’ll be there at six-thirty, and say, Jan, you know this is going to be my party all right—all right.”
He accompanied her to the door, knocking the Derby hat nervously against his knee, his cigar gone out.
“Then we’ll see you to-night, Jan. Six-thirty, hey? ... Gee, I’m glad you dropped in! We’ll have a great little old talk-fest.”
“To-night, then.”
“Sure. At the Bellevue. We’ll be there. Six-thirty.”
Married? Married? It couldn’t be possible! Why, they had never been divorced! ... How could he be married again?
A great weariness came over Jeannette. It was disgusting! What had he wanted to get married again for? Pugh! It was most disappointing.... Another woman! ... She had never imagined anything like this.... Was he living with her without a ceremony? Probably. She must be a cheap sort of creature.... But it didn’t make any difference whether she was legally his wife or not; it was the same thing. The fact remained he had taken up with someone else. No doubt she was known as “Mrs. Devlin.”
Jeannette went back to the hotel and upstairs to her room, laid aside her beautiful fur jacket, her hat, took off her dress, put on her kimona. Her mind, like a squirrel in a cage, went around and around over thesame ground. Howcouldhe be married? Why, they had never been divorced!
The prospect of the evening suddenly palled upon her. Even though hehadmarried, a dinner and chat alone with Martin would have had some piquancy; it would have been quite exciting and amusing to have recalled old friends, old memories. But there would be no spontaneity in their talk with another woman beside them, a bored and critical listener! It would be dreadful! An intolerable situation! ... She thought of a hurried return to New York, a telephone to Martin that she had been unexpectedly called home. Yet that seemed undignified; he would be sure to guess her reason, or if he did not, “Ruthie” could be depended upon to enlighten him. She shook her head in distaste. She was committed to this unpalatable program, now; she would be obliged to see it through,—but oh, how she was going to hate it! How she was going to despise every moment of it!
She considered the other woman, trying to imagine what she would be like.... Well, Ruthie might be comfortably established in her place, but she should have no ground for believing she was envied!
A reflection of herself at this moment in the mirror forced a smile from Jeannette’s lips as she detected upon her face a look of haughty condescension. She had been fancying the encounter with Ruthie and had unconsciously assumed the expression that would suit that moment.... Well, Ruthie would have the benefit of that withering, imperious glance; she would realize the minute she saw Jeannette Sturgis that here was a woman that would brook no patronizing airs from her, and in the course of the evening she wouldhave it pointed out to her, in a manner which would leave no room for misunderstanding, that it was she, Jeannette, who had left Martin; hers had never been the rôle of the deserted wife; as far as “leavings” were concerned, Ruthie had them and welcome! ... Ah! Shehatedher!
The telephone trilled. Jeannette’s heart plunged as she heard Martin’s voice.
“Hello, Jan! Say,—I ’phoned Ruthie and she says for me to bring you out to our house to-night; she says it will be much pleasanter there and we can talk a whole lot better. I rang her up and explained about our having dinner with you at the Bellevue, but she insists that you come on out to our house. She said by all manner of means to bring you. She said she’d ’phone you, herself, but I said I didn’t think that was necessary.”
“Why-y,—I’m afraid——”
“You know we live out at Jenkintown; it’s an awful pretty suburb. I’d like you to see it and I’m crazy to have you see the kids. They’ll still be up by the time we get there. I’ll call for you a little after six and drive you out.”
Jeannette’s mind worked rapidly. There was nothing for her to do but to accept, and to accept graciously.
“That will be lovely, Mart. As you say it will be much nicer in the country. I shall really like to see your home and to meet—” she cleared her throat,—“Mrs. Devlin.”
“Well, that’ll be fine, Jan,—that will be great. Say, you couldn’t make that five-thirty just as well, could you? You see the office closes at five, and I’ll justhave to bum ’round here doing nothing until it’s time to call for you,—and then besides you’ll have a little light left so you c’n see something of the country, and I want to tell you, Jan, Jenkintown’s a swell little suburb.”
“Why, yes, Martin. Five-thirty will be perfectly all right for me.”
“That’s fine then; I call for you at five-thirty.”
She hung up the receiver and bent forward so that her brow rested lightly against the mouthpiece of the instrument, her eyes closed, and after a moment she squeezed them tight shut.... Ah, what pain! ... What heart stabs! ... The prick of tears stung her eyeballs like needle points.
She powdered her shoulders and did her hair; she red-lipped her mouth; she hooked the black satin dress about her; she hung her generous string of artificial pearls around her neck and screwed the large artificial pearl ear-rings upon her ears. At five o’clock she was ready, and for the ensuing thirty minutes she studied her reflection in the glass, turning first to one side, then to the other, noting various effects. She wore no hat, but to-night her hair, with its distinguished touch of white, was dressed high, and thrust into its thick coil at the back of her head were three large brilliant, rhinestone combs.
Promptly at the half-hour, Martin was announced, and slipping on the marvellous jacket, rolling the fur luxuriously against her neck, Jeannette descended in the elevator and met him in the foyer. The glance hegave her satisfied her; she knew Martin; he had not changed. There remained only Ruthie, and in that instant it came to Jeannette a cold, disdainful manner would put herself, bound and helpless, at Ruthie’s mercy. They were two shrewd and clever women,—she assumed Ruthie would be shrewd and clever,—meeting one another under strange and difficult circumstances; any hint of condescension, any suggestion of a patronizing air, and Ruthie would be laughing at her. No, the part for her to play was one of all sweetness and amiability; graciousness was her only salvation.
Martin guided her out of the hotel, his fingers at her elbow. A limousine swept up to the door. It was aParrott, and there was a liveried chauffeur at the wheel.
“Get right in, Jan.”
He stooped through the doorway and sank heavily against the upholstered cushions beside her. The “starter” touched his cap, and banged the door. Memories swept back upon Jeannette, memories of another motor-car, a taxi-cab, and another “starter” who had banged shut an automobile door upon the two of them, and of a night pulsing with high emotions, hopes and young love. Her little excited mother with her pendent, trembling cheeks, dressed in her lavender velvet, had been with them on that other night, and she had sat beside her daughter where Martin now was sitting, and Martin had occupied the small collapsible seat opposite, and had balanced himself there with his knees uncomfortably hunched up, to keep his feet out of the way!
“... what we call theParrottConvertible; it’sjust out this year,” Martin was explaining. “You see with a little manipulation of the glass windows and seats you can turn it from a limousine into a Sedan and drive it yourself.”
“How clever!” she said. “You know, Martin, it delights me to think of your being so successful. It was coming to you. You were born to be a good salesman, and I’m glad you’ve gotten into a line of business where your talents count for something. You were entirely out of your element with that Engraving Company; they didn’t begin to appreciate you.”
“They didn’t, did they? That younger Gibbs,—Herbert Gibbs,—he was certainly a little rat, if there ever was one. You know I had a terrible row with him after—after....”
“And I’m glad, too,” proceeded Jeannette hastily, “that you’ve married again and ’ve got your son and daughter. You were always crazy about children. Remember how you used to rave about Alice’s Etta and Ralph when they were babies?”
“You bet you. How are——?”
“And then you were much too fine and too good for that Cohasset Beach crowd——”
“They were a bunch of good scouts, all right.”
“Weren’t they?” Jeannette said veering quickly. “Every one of them has made good. Steve Teschemacher’s quite wealthy.”
“Tell me about him,—tell me about ’em all. Say, do you ever go down to Cohasset Beach any more?”
“Oh, yes; frequently. Alice and Roy bought there, you know.”
“The deuce they did! You don’t mean to say so?Well, say, Jan, who’s living in the bungalow? ... Say, Janny, I often think....”
They were busy in reminiscences, interrupting one another, laughing, ejaculating, now and then arrested by a memory that was not altogether mirth-provoking and unexpectedly stirred them. At times Martin swayed in his seat and pounded his knee.
“By God!” he would shout gleefully, “by God, I’d forgotten that!—by God, that was a hot one, all right! Say,—that had gone completely out of my mind. You’re a wonder for remembering little things, Jan! ... By golly!”
The car rolled smoothly out over the paved highway that circled through the hills. Large, handsome houses with lights shining here and there from windows, and surrounded by tall, gaunt, leafless trees, alternated on either side of the road and fled past. Their own vehicle was but one link in a long chain of nimble bugs with glowing antennæ which crawled hard upon one another along the winding course.
There came an abrupt turn, the motor car swung up a steep driveway, slid on to crunching gravel, and stopped.
“Here we are!” exclaimed Martin. The chauffeur leaped from his seat and attentively opened the car door.
A large frame house of gracious lines, with exterior stone chimneys, many windows, and a precipitous lawn that swept down to the roadway a hundred feet or more below.
“We get a splendid view of the valley here,” said Martin, coming to stand beside Jeannette as she looked out across the country. The landscape wasshrouded in dusk, pricked with a myriad of lights; there was a jagged silhouette of distant tree-tops and beyond a pale, mother-of-pearl sky touched faintly with dying pink.
They turned to the house and as Martin stooped to insert his latch-key there was the quick run of small feet within, the door was flung open and a little girl hurled herself upon him with a violent silent hug.
“Well, well,” said Martin, “how’s my darling?” He kissed her with equal vigor, his hat knocked at an angle upon his head.
“This is ‘Tinker,’” he said, smiling at Jeannette. “Everybody calls her ‘Tinker,’ but her real name’s ‘Elizabeth.’ Where’s your brother, Tinker?”
An answering clatter and rush came from an interior region, and a small boy flung himself upon the man.
“And this is Joe, Janny. He has a nickname, too; sometimes we call him ‘Josephus,’—don’t we, old blunderbuss?”
There was another vigorous embrace.
The two children regarded Jeannette with shy but friendly glances. The little girl was about nine, the boy two or three years younger. Tinker was brown of skin and brown of eye; her hair was short and tawny and swept off her face in an old-fashioned way, held back by an encircling comb that reached from one temple to the other. She was freckled and had an alert, engaging expression, while her brown eyes were sharp as shoe buttons, and twinkled between long tawny eyelashes. Simply, she approached Jeannette and held up her brown arms as she offered her lips. The boy was diminutive and wiry with furtive glance and grinning mouth that displayed a gaping hole leftby two missing front teeth. He hung his head as he held out his small hand, but as Jeannette took it, he darted a quick upward look into her face and gave her a friendly elfish grin.
Jeannette was moved, captivated at once by the charm of both.
“They’re darlings!” came involuntarily from her, and then there was the sound of descending feet upon the stairs and Jeannette straightened herself from the crouching position in which she had greeted the children to face their mother.
“A pretty woman—and sweet—younger than I expected,” went Jeannette’s thoughts; “nothing to fear here.”
Ruthie was in truth a pretty woman, pretty without being either beautiful or handsome. Her expression was bright, alert, eager, her manner friendly and effusive. She resembled her small son.
“This is Ruthie, Jeannette——” began Martin.
“How do you do?” said Ruthie, hurrying forward, leaving no doubt of her cordiality. “It was very nice of you to come to us to-night.”
“Not at all,” Jeannette responded with her best smile. “It was nice of you to want me.”
“I was anxious to know you,” said Ruthie.
She could afford to be gracious thought Jeannette. She had everything: the home, the children, money, position,—she had Martin! ... Was it possible they were really married? Or did Ruthie merelythinkshe was his wife?
Jeannette was piloted upstairs to a large, pleasant bedroom. The chairs, the tables, the bureau andchiffonier, the twin beds were all of bright bird’s-eye maple; rose hangings were at the windows, rose silk comforters were neatly folded at the foot of each bed, rose shades on the wall lights diffused a soft rosy radiance. The dressing-table glittered with silver toilet articles, and Jeannette noticed they were all monogramed “R.T.D.” Flanking them were large silver-framed photographs, one of Martin,—a handsome, fierce-looking Martin in evening dress,—the other of the two children, Tinker with her arm about her brother. Domesticity radiated everywhere.
“I never looked better,” Jeannette thought consolingly as she caught a full-length reflection of herself in the long mirror impanelled in the bathroom door. Her hair pleased her; her high color was most becoming; she knew herself to be beautiful. She went downstairs, serene and confident, sure of being able to carry off the evening with lightness and ease.
“I thought it would be quieter and perhaps a little pleasanter without the children at table,” said Ruthie brightly as Jeannette joined her, “so I arranged to give them an early supper, and now Martin’s been scolding me. He thinks you’ll be disappointed.”
“Oh, it doesn’t matter,” Jeannette murmured.
“Martin’s almost unreasonable about them; he wants them all the time,” continued Ruthie. “I tell him if he had them on his hands all day, perhaps he wouldn’t be quite so enthusiastic!” She laughed an amused little laugh like the twittering of a bird. “He couldn’t be fonder of them if they were his own,” she added.
There was a moment’s pause.
“You see, I’d lost my first husband before I met Martin,” Ruthie continued thoughtfully. “My first marriage wasn’t very successful.”
Shedidthink she was married then!
“You were divorced?” asked Jeannette. If there was a barb to the question it failed in effect.
“No; Mr. Mason was killed. He was—was rather intemperate, and there was an accident. I met Martin some time afterwards and he was wonderful to me.”
“You’ve known him long?”
“Let me see. About seven years. Joe was only a baby, and we were living in Scranton. Martin and I married about a year after my husband’s death. I was having a very hard time of it; Mr. Mason carried but very little life insurance and I took up manicuring; I had to; there was no other way for us to get along.”
She smiled at the last.
He was sorry for her, thought Jeannette; that was the way of it.
“That had been your—your profession formerly?” Jeannette asked with an innocent air.
“No, I had to learn it,” Ruthie said, unruffled. “I had to do something. I only did private work, you know.” She cast a quick glance at Jeannette’s face. “Martin and I didn’t meet in a barber shop!” she added with a bright laugh.
Jeannette could think of nothing to say to this, so she nodded, and gazed into the red coals of the grate-fire before which the two women were standing.
“Here he is!” Ruthie said, suddenly.
Martin’s step could be heard approaching and in a moment he entered the living-room. Jeannette noticed he had changed into dinner clothes.
“Well, Jan, it’s mighty darned nice to see you here,” he said advancing, rubbing his hands. He appeared well-groomed, was freshly shaved, his clothes fitted him to perfection, his thick neck and swarthy skin seemed clean and wholesome.
“Have a little cocktail?” he suggested. “I’ve got a cracker-jack bootlegger that brings me the stuff direct from New York,—real old Gordon! If this damned governor of ours has his way, we’re not likely to get any more of it. This prohibition stuff makes me sick, doesn’t it you?”
“It doesn’t bother me, Martin,” Jeannette answered lightly. “I never drink anything.”
“Well, how about having a little cocktail to-night? Just by way of celebration? Huh? What d’you say?”
“No-o, thank you, Martin; not to-night. I really never touch it, but don’t let me stop you two.”
“Ruthie doesn’t drink either. She’s a plumb tee-totaler,—believes in it! What do you know about that?”
Martin laughed good-naturedly. His mirth had the old-time extraordinary infectious quality.
“Don’t bother about mixing a cocktail to-night, Martin dear,” Ruthie said in a persuasive voice. “It takes you so long with the ice and everything, and dinner’s late, now.”
“I’ll have a little of the straight stuff, then,” he said, still rubbing his hands in high good humor.
They went together into the dining-room through the double glass doors, curtained in shirred folds of pink silk. The table was glittering with polished silverware and sparkling glass; in the center was a low fern in a metal fern-dish. Martin unlocked a door inthe sideboard, took out a whisky bottle, held it up a moment to the light to inspect the measure of its contents, and poured himself an inch into a tumbler.
“D’you remember that guy who used always to say ‘Saloon’ when he was taking a drink?” asked Martin, grinning at Jeannette. “He was a card all right? ... Well, ‘saloon!’”
He drained the drink in two gulps, followed it with a draught of water, and sat down, smacking his lips.
A maid appeared, bearing a tureen of soup, and presently passed cheese straws. Jeannette observed her spotless white bibbed apron and black dress, and she took note of the fine sprays of celery and olives in side dishes on the table, twinkling with ice. The dinner proceeded comfortably,—well-served, well-cooked, stereotyped: a roast of beef, with potatoes browned in the pan, canned French peas, a salad of chopped apples and nuts, a dessert of cake and ice-cream. She recalled with a sharp twinge the “company” dinners she had struggled so hard to prepare for Martin and his friends, and the effort she had made to serve him things he liked so as to make him want to stay at home.... Ah, she had tried, she reminded herself, she had really tried hard to be a good wife to him! ... It was all so much easier for Ruthie; she had her cook, her waitress, and there was even the chauffeur. So easy to sit still and merely tell them what to do! ... And Martin? ... Well, he had matured, he had settled down, was more seasoned, more reasonable, more disciplined.... She noticed for the first time a jagged white scar on his right temple; it had not been there when she had known him!
Throughout dinner he was in the gayest of spirits;Ruthie turned bright alert eyes from one face to the other; Jeannette felt the last vestige of constraint slip from her. The talk was all of Tinker and Josephus, of the good schools of Jenkintown, of motor cars and the future of the automobile industry, of traffic laws and Philadelphia and things in general. Every once in awhile a chance remark would sound a personal note, but the three with one accord would veer away from it and pursue another topic. There was no telling where rocks of disaster might be hidden.
But after dinner, when Martin stood before the sucking coal fire in the living-room, stirring his coffee, a fresh cigar tilted up in the corner of his mouth, his head twisted to one side to avoid the smoke, it was evident the moment had arrived when he wanted to hear news of his old friends and start recalling old times. Tinker and her brother presented themselves to say good-night and their mother made them an excuse for leaving her husband and her guest together.
“She’s far smarter than one would ever suspect from that affected bright expression,” thought Jeannette smiling at the children as they tumbled themselves out of the room.
Ruthie did not reappear until nearly ten o’clock, and then came in with many apologies for having been detained. Martin, by that time, had heard all the news, had heard of Roy and Alice, of poor unfortunate Doc French, of ’Dolph Kuntz, and Fritz and Steve, and even of some of the changes in the publishing company which interested him. He was far from satisfied, however, and wanted to go over it all once more.
“Say, do you remember that night, Jan, you and I and that Scotch friend of yours and that awful frighthe took along with him had dinner up on the Astor roof? What became of that guy?”
And——
“D’you ’member that time we got stuck out in the Sound aboard the Websters’ yacht? ... Say, do they have any more racing down there? ... What’s become of all the little A-boats?”
But Jeannette knew the time for leave-taking had come. She rose smiling.
“I’m sorry, Martin; I shall have to say good-night. I really must be going. My day’s very full to-morrow.”
He was loud in protest, a little unnecessarily loud, Jeannette thought. She tried to dissuade him from accompanying her back to the hotel, but he insisted.
“I wouldn’tthinkof you riding back all by yourself, Jan! That wouldn’t do at all. The car’s right here; the man’s waiting. He’ll run me in and run me out again in less than an hour; I’ll be home again in no time.”
Ruthie urged, too.
“Oh, yes,” she insisted brightly. “You must let Martin take you back to town; it won’t hurt him a bit, and you two have such a lot to talk over together about old times and everything.”
The little woman’s face was wreathed with smiles; she was confident, solicitous. She was sure of herself; sure of Martin; her concern had every semblance of sincerity. Jeannette felt baffled, vaguely irritated.
The two women said good-night to one another with appropriate phrases and amiability. Ruthie stood in the shining arch of the doorway as the motor car swept up to the steps, crunching on the fine gravel of thedrive, and Jeannette and Martin got in. She even managed a little wave of the hand as its door slammed and the car started.
Jeannette hated her. It was impossible to guess what thoughts were behind that alert expression of innocent pleasure.
“You’ve come on in the world, Martin,” she observed.
“Yes, I’ve made a little money, but I’m going to make more,—a good deal more. You know, I often think of the old man and the old woman up there in Watertown settling down forty, or I guess it’s fifty, years ago, to running that little grocery business of theirs, and I can’t help wishing sometimes they were round to see how good I’ve made. They’d get an eyefull, all right! But I’ve worked for my success, Jan,—that is, I’ve worked hard the last five years. You know I was down and out for awhile?”
“Were you? I didn’t know that. How did that happen?”
Martin cleared his throat and twisted a little in his seat so as to talk more directly at her.
“I was pretty badly cut-up, Jan, when you ran out on me!”
“Were you?”
“You bet I was, and I began hitting her up there for awhile; I let things go to the devil and I was boozing a good deal. There were two or three years there when I wasn’t much better than a bum.”
“Martin!”
“Well, I was sore at the world,—and sore, I guess, at you. Yes, pretty damn sore. You know, Jan, I didn’t think you treated me quite right, and then Iblamed myself an awful lot for the way I treated you.”
“It was too bad,” Jeannette said slowly. “I think maybe we were both wrong. We were very young and inexperienced, Mart.”
“Yes, that’s right. We pulled the wrong way.”
“I’m sorry you took it so badly. I didn’t feel extra good about it myself. I’ve often wished since....”
“Oh, there’s no use going over the old ground now. It’s all over and done with, but I was mighty fond of you, Janny.”
“Don’t, Martin.”
“You bet I was. I took it pretty hard when you left me; I didn’t care what happened to me.”
“I’m sorry. It wasn’t easy for me either. If you’d only come back,—or sent word....”
“You don’t understand, Jan. I was down and out then. I had nothing to offer you. I’d punched Gibbsy’s face and I’d lost my job and I was driving a truck,—that is, when I was working at all.”
“Martin!”
“Oh, what’s the use of going back over old times!” he said with sudden harshness. “You’ve changed and I’ve changed. I’m married now,—got a home and family,—and I’m happy, Jan. Ruthie’s a good little woman.”
“When did you marry, Mart?”
“In—let’s see!—in 1917; just before we got into the war. I got a job as a salesman in an automobile agency in Scranton. Tinker and her mother were living next door to my boarding-house; it was Tinker that caught my eye first; she and I used to have great times together; I was crazy about that kid, and then I met Ruthie.”
“And after that you were married?”
“Well, not right away. I had to get free first. You were awfully decent about not contesting the suit, Jan, but then I was pretty sure you wouldn’t.”
“And was there a suit?”
“Why, sure. I got a decree in New York. They gave it to me. You never showed up.”
“I don’t remember,” said Jeannette vaguely.
“You were served with a summons; we had the testimony of the process server! You let the case go by default.”
“Did I? ... I can’t ... I don’t seem to remember. What were the grounds? I thought in New York State you had to prove——”
Martin leaned forward in his seat and stared at her through the dimness in the car, trying to see her face.
“Say, what is this?” he asked. “Are you trying to kid me,—rub it in, or something like that?”
“No, Martin,” she answered earnestly. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. I never supposed we’d been divorced.”
“Good God! Did you think we were still married?”
“Why, certainly.”
The man dropped back against the upholstery with a short explosion of breath.
“Tell me about it, Martin.”
“You make it damned hard, Jan. If you’re trying to rub it in, you’re certainly doing a nifty job.”
“No, Martin, truly. I’m quite honest.”
He was silent and Jeannette had to plead again for enlightenment.
“I don’t understand this,” he said, troubled.
“But tell me. I want to know.”
“Well, you know I was damned sore at you,” he began at length. “I wanted to get married; Ruthie, Tinker and the baby needed me. She was up against it and was having a tough time trying to make ends meet. I wanted to help out but she wouldn’t let me and the only thing for it was to get married. So I went to a lawyer there in Scranton and asked him if he’d fix it so I could get a divorce from you. He got in touch with a firm in New York and they dug up all that rot about you and Corey——”
“Oh, my God!” gasped Jeannette in a whisper.
“Oh, I knew it was the bunk; you’d told me the story and I knew you’d given me the straight dope. But there was the evidence and the sworn affidavits of the hotel employees that Corey’s wife had secured. It made enough of a case. I’m damned ashamed of it now, Jan. I wish to God, I’d never done it, but I was sore, remember, and I wanted to get married to Ruthie.”
There was painful silence in the swaying car. Jeannette sat very still, two fingers of each hand pressed against either cheek.
“I was pretty certain you’d let it go by default,” Martin went on after awhile in a distressed voice. “It was no case you’d want to contest, and I thought you probably wanted your freedom as much as I did.... I thought surely you’d married long ago.”
Silence reigned again, Jeannette struggling with herself, Martin concerned at her voicelessness.
“By God, Jan, I thought you knew all about it,—I swear to God I did! The process server stated in court he’d handed you the summons, and saw you pickit up; I heard him say it with my own ears. The referee warned him about perjury, thought he smelled collusion, or something of that sort; he ragged me something fierce.... It was rotten the way it turned out, for the case came up right after your friend Corey died, and I felt pretty mean blackening a man’s character when he wasn’t more ’an cold in his grave, ’specially as I knew it was a frame-up.”
A pent-up breath escaped Jeannette like a moan. A scene flashed before her mind: a dark street,—the street just in front of the office—it was late and the crowd of clerks and workers was pouring out of the doorway, hurrying homeward with gravity in their hearts and the news on their lips that Chandler B. Corey, the president of the company, had that day dropped dead at his desk. And among these sobered men and women walked herself, shocked and shaken, trying to realize that the best friend she had in the world was gone, and would never be at hand again to advise her nor be interested in what befell her. As she stepped into the street a man in a slouch hat confronted her, demanding to know if she was Mrs. Martin Devlin, thrust a folded paper at her, and disappeared. She remembered drawing back, frightened and affronted, and after the man had made off, rescuing the paper from the sidewalk at her feet where it had fallen. It was dark in the street,—too dark to read. She recalled holding the paper up to decipher what was printed on the first page, and then, indifferent, her heart and mind heavy with the tragedy of the day, had thrust it into her muff and sorrowfully made her way homeward. Days later, when she rememberedthe incident and searched her muff, the paper had disappeared. It had fallen out; it was gone; and she dismissed the matter from her mind.
Now she realized the folded paper had been the summons bidding her come to court to defend herself against calumny, and to show reason why Martin Devlin should not be free to take unto himself another wife!
Suddenly something very precious died within her dismally. The excitement of the night dwindled and departed; the piquancy of her adventure drooped and faded; her interest in a situation that had up to that minute stirred pulse and imagination, shrivelled and evaporated. She was weary and bored; she felt disgusted and sick; she wanted to be quit of the whole affair, of smiling, alert, complacent Ruthie, of the homely, clumsy children, of this sleek, fat, selfish man beside her! ... Ah, she had been a fool ever to think ... ever to imagine.... A woman of her position, sensible, capable, independent,—stout, settled, middle-aged and gray! ... Oh, it was detestable,—it was humiliating,—insufferable!
They were at the hotel.
“You don’t want to let what I told you bother you, Jan. I never stopped to think how you’d feel about it. And you want to remember that those things never get out; they’re all kept strictly Q.T. It happened six or seven years ago and there isn’t a soul—Here, I’m coming in with you.”
“You needn’t bother, Martin.”
“That’s all right. I’ll see you inside.”
They moved through the revolving glass doors and mounted the steps into the brilliant lobby.
“Well, it’s been great to see you, and I surely have enjoyed talking over old times. By God, it’s been a great evening.”
“Yes, indeed. It’s been very amusing.”
“I’m awfully glad you looked me up.... And say, Jan, you like Ruthie, don’t you? Don’t you think she’s a nice little woman? Not your style exactly,—no side, or anything like that,—but she’s a damned agreeable little person, hey? ... You’re not sore at me now, are you, for that rotten trick I played on you? I’d never have done it if it had been up to me. It was the lawyers, you know. They dug up the story and put it over. I’d never have done it,—I swear to God, Jan, I wouldn’t! I’m—I’m sorry as the devil, now; by God, I am!”
“Let’s not talk about it, Martin; it’s all past and forgotten.”
“Well, that’s damned white of you, Jan,—damned white! I always said you were a sensible woman.”
Jeannette turned and held out her hand.
“Aw, say,” Martin protested, “aren’t you going in to the café with me and have some ginger ale or something? I hate to say good-night so soon. There’s a lot of things I want to ask you. I’d like to keep this evening going forever.”
But Jeannette’s one desire was to end it. She wanted her room, to have the door shut and locked behind her, to be alone.
“I’m sorry, Martin——”
“Just a small glass of ginger ale?” he pleaded.
“Thank you, no, Martin; I think I’d better go up.”
“Well, am I not to see you again? You’re not going, until Sunday, are you?”
“I shall be busy to-morrow; I’m engaged all day.”
“How about to-morrow night?”
“I’m not free then either.”
A frown settled on the man’s face.
“Damn it ...” he began disgustedly. She continued to smile pleasantly but offered no suggestion.
“Well, I’ll see you in New York some time soon,” he asserted finally; “I have to go up there once in awhile.”
“Yes, do that,” Jeannette said without enthusiasm.
“I’ll ’phone you? I’ll give you a ring at the office.”
“Yes, do that,” she repeated.
“Well, then, I guess I’d better say good-night.”
“Good-night, Martin.”
She turned toward the elevators, giving him a nod and a brief smile over her shoulder. As the gate of the cage slid shut, she caught another glimpse of him, standing where she had left him, perplexed, frowning, disconsolate,—staring after her.
The train was crowded. Jeannette had chosen one at midday, thinking to have her lunch in the dining-car and so beguile away part of the tedium of the trip. It was Saturday; she had decided to return home at once rather than wait until Sunday; there was nothing to hold her in Philadelphia and she was anxious to get back to the little apartment in Waverly Place. Many other travellers had apparently conceived the same idea of having the noon meal on the way, and Jeannette discovered there were no seats left in the chair-car, so she was obliged to share onein a day coach with a short, plump lady with a prominent bust and short fat arms who sat up very straight beside her and wheezed audibly at every breath. Jeannette’s heavy suit-case was stowed in front of her, and pressed uncomfortably against her knees, while there was no place for her hat-box except in the aisle where it was stumbled over and cursed by every passing passenger. There were cinders embedded in the plush covering of the seat, the car was badly ventilated and smelled of warm, crowded humanity. At Trenton, feeling dirty and dishevelled, she made a swaying progress toward the dining-car only to find twenty people ahead of her. Disheartened, she returned to her seat, concluding to wait until she reached the city before she lunched. Perhaps she would go directly home and persuade Beatrice to make her some tea and toast.
The day was leaden, the country forlorn and dreary; the trees stood bare and black upon bare and blackened ground; the houses seemed cold, desolate and grimy. It began to rain as the train slowed down through smoky Newark, and long diagonal streaks of water slashed the dirty window-panes. Waiting travellers on platforms huddled under station sheds or bent their heads and umbrellas against the sharp wind and driving drops as they struggled toward the cars. The train grew steadily more crowded; people stood in the aisles, swayed and were pitched against those in the seats. Jeannette’s head began to ache dully and at every knock or kick her offending hat-box received she winced as though struck. In the tube beneath the Hudson River, the train came to a standstill and there was a long wait; women grew nervous, anda man said in a loud, laughing voice to a neighbor:
“Say, Bill, it’d be some pickings, all right, if the river came in on us while we were stuck here.”
“Oh, Jesus Mary!” gasped the woman next to Jeannette, and for some minutes the wheeze of her breathing rose to a higher key.
Finally, with much whirring, jerking and dancing of lights, the train rolled into the Pennsylvania Station.
“I’ll go home and get into bed, and Beatrice will bring me some tea and toast,” Jeannette whispered to herself, cramped and weary, fighting the pain in her head that grew steadily worse. She stumbled into a taxi-cab and went bumping and racketing down Seventh Avenue. The rain was now coming down in a forest of lances, and was driven in through the three-inch opening at the top of one of the windows. Jeannette tried to close it; her attempt was pitiful. The taxi skidded violently into Eighth Street and she was thrown to her knees, her hat jammed against the opposite side of the car.
“That’s all right, lady; nothin’ happened!” yelled the driver.
“In five minutes!” breathed Jeannette, one hand pressed hard against her breast.
Ah, here she was! Here she was, at last!
Her fingers shook as she fumbled with the key to the street door.
“Thank you, so much,” she said to the taxi-driver who brought her bags up to the landing. She handed him his fare. “Keep the change; I can manage the rest.”
Inside, she grasped her luggage with either hand, and resolutely mounted the two long flights of stairs,forcing herself to go to the top without pausing. She was panting, then, her head splitting.
She tried the apartment door; it was locked.
“Beatrice! Beatrice!” she called, rapping impatiently upon the panels.
A faint mewing came to her ears. There was no other answer.
“Oh, God,—she’s out!” Her cry was almost a sob. Of course! it was still the Thanksgiving vacation; Beatrice would be with her cousins in Plainfield; she wouldn’t be home until Sunday night!
Jeannette fumbled for her door-key. There was little light and she was obliged to kneel before she could find the hole in the lock. With a gasp she finally threw open the door and stumbled into the flat. It was cold, unaired, deserted. Mitzi, tail on end, welcomed her with shrill, complaining cries.
“Oh, you baby you,” Jeannette said aloud, blinking through her own distress and eyeing the cat. “You’ve been shut up in here since the day before yesterday and you’re just about starving.”
Mitzi confirmed this with a wail. Jeannette scooped the animal up with a long arm and carried her into the kitchen. It was cold and bleak in here, too, smelling foully of Mitzi’s incarceration.
A groan was wrung from Jeannette’s lips.
In the ice-box she found only a bowl half full of pickled beets, a plate of butter, two rather shrivelled bananas, and a few pieces of dried toast. She clapped the kettle on the stove, lighted the gas, and stood caressing the cat until the water had warmed; then she moistened the toast and set it in a soup plate on the floor.
“Here, you poor critter, eat that until I get you something decent.” Mitzi leaped at the meal, jerking the food into her mouth, growling gluttonously.
Jeannette put her fingers to her head and watched the performance, breathing hard.
“I must,” she said aloud. “It won’t kill me.”
She went into her own room, laid aside her fur coat, put on an old mackintosh and felt hat, once more went out into the rain, and presently dragged herself up the stairs again with a bottle of milk and a bag of provisions.
Her temples throbbing and little streaks of pain darting through her eyeballs, she moved resolutely through the next few minutes. While the kettle was heating, she got herself into her kimona, and braided her hair. Then she returned to the kitchen, mixed a large bowl of bread and milk for the cat, and dutifully made herself tea which she drank, munching between sips some saltine crackers warmed in the oven.
Peace gradually descended upon her. Mitzi, replete and satisfied, licked milk-stained whiskers, and eyed her comfortably from the floor. The pain in Jeannette’s head was less violent, but she was very cold.
“I’ll get a hot-water bottle and go to bed,” she said. “I think I’ll go crazy if I keep on this way.”
She proceeded to her room, made her bed, then commenced to unpack her bags and put away her things. When she was about finished, she came upon the fur coat where she had left it on a chair. She picked it up and stared at it, observing its brilliant silk lining, its smooth, plushy surface, the soft texture of its fur collar. Suddenly she flung it from her into a far corner on the floor, and for a moment stood a tragic figurewith clenched hands, flashing eyes and heaving breast.
There was a diversion,—a sound close at hand that startled her. Mitzi had jumped on the bed, and was gazing up at her with head twisted to one side, glassy eyes fixed inquiringly upon her face, long tail alert, the tip waving gently. The cat opened her mouth and mewed plaintively. Jeannette relaxed, gathered the animal into her arms, and slowly sank down upon the bed. Mitzi, nestling comfortably against her, began to purr rhythmically. A slow trembling came to the woman, and her fingers shook as they stroked Mitzi’s back. She fought desperately to check the gathering tempest within her, and for a moment struggled with firm pressed lips and shut teeth as the tears welled up into her eyes, rolled down her cheeks, and splashed upon her hand. Then suddenly the floodgates of her heart burst, grief overwhelmed her, and she sank sideways on the bed, carrying the cat to her neck, cuddling and stroking it, while burying her face against the soft fur, and passionately sobbing: