Joan and Co.

From a purely business point of view the letters Joan received from Devons, during the next few weeks, were wholly satisfactory. No promoter could have asked in a new enterprise for better progress upon which to base reports to his clients. The very next morning after he left she received the following note:

My dear Miss Fairburne:

I opened yesterday an account with the —— National Bank and would suggest that you make a deposit there at once of fifteen hundred dollars, so that I may draw on it for payment of lease and for chemicals which I must purchase at once. I have secured most desirable manufacturing quarters at 43 Blank Street and have ordered certain necessary changes to be made there as soon as possible. I hope, within a very short time, to be able to report to you that active manufacturing on a small scale has begun.

Very sincerely yours
Mark Devons

Certainly a business woman had no right to quarrel with such progress as this. She had supposed that it would take Devons a fortnight, at least, to recuperate sufficiently to be able even to consider plans for the future. It would seem, then, that instead of being more or less vexed after reading the note which Henriette handed her, with coffee and toast, before she was dressed, she should have been highly elated. It began to look as though at this rate the firm, within six months, would be paying dividends.

Joan ran through the note again. She had never before in her life had anything so impersonal addressed to her. Had it been printed it could not have sounded any more frigidly distant. He had deliberately put in all the details about which she cared nothing and with equal deliberation left out all that would have been interesting. What she wanted to know was how he had stood the ride and if his shoulder felt as stiff as it did on Sunday after the bandages were removed. He had told her about Arkwright and she wanted to hear what Arkwright had said to him when he came back and what he had said to Arkwright. And she wanted to know if he had found everything in his room all right. Particularly if he found his books about which he had worried. And if there was a letter from home waiting for him. Unconsciously and bit by bit he had made his life in Mullen Court extremely vivid to her in their rambling conversations. It sounded like an impossible place to live in, but interesting. He had left off, inevitably enough, in his narrative of his life there at the point where he had joined Arkwright in a cup of coffee and gone out to see Sawyer. She had looked forward to a description of his home-coming as to a new installment of a serial. And he had not said a word about it. He had cut her off abruptly from everything but the sordid details of the business itself. It was as though in going back into the world he had left her behind.

She sent her check to the bank that morning and waited for the second letter. It was possible, after all, that in the press of business he had not found time to write more fully. She waited three days and received the following:

My dear Miss Fairburne:

Thanks for the deposit. I have been extremely fortunate in being able to secure, without waiting, my raw materials and machinery. I expect to have the latter delivered within ten days. I enclose an inventory of what I have contracted for.

Then followed a page of weird-sounding chemicals and parts of machinery with all the costs itemized. Nothing could have been more stupid. It was as stupid as his close.

Very sincerely yours
Mark Devons

It was stupid even to Dicky when, in a general way, she tried to give him an idea of what was being done.

“We’re getting on,” he nodded indifferently. “It sounds as though we were making patent medicine.”

“It isn’t that,” she assured him.

“Then bombs, perhaps.”

“Nor bombs.”

“Well, here’s hoping, whatever it is.”

That apparently was as much as he cared about his new business. On the whole it was probably better so.

Joan was forced to admit, for one thing, that she missed—really missed—not seeing Devons around the house. That was only natural. For six weeks he had occupied the front room, which was now closed. And for the last few weeks he had occupied a great deal of the rest of the house. Whenever she had come from her own room it was with the prospect of meeting him, either on the stairs or in the library. And always she was glad to find him. Always, too, he appeared glad to see her. He gave piquancy to her everyday life.

Now she wandered all around the house with nothing to look forward to. Her parents and the servants were still about, to be sure, but they involved no expectancy. She met them as unemotionally as her own reflection in the mirror. So she turned back to Dicky and for a week made life for him worth living. She went wherever he asked her to go, picking up her social obligations where she had dropped them, so unceremoniously, many weeks before.

Dicky could not understand the change. He did not try. He accepted it as a miracle and let it go at that. He was coming to be firmly of the opinion that it was not possible to explain Joan. One took her as she was from day to day and played in luck or out of luck according as she smiled or frowned.

Of course, this called for most of his time that week, but it cannot be truthfully said that he begrudged it. Neither for that matter did any one else. For several days he never came near the office at all, but when, toward the middle of the week, he did drop in one afternoon, his father’s only comment was:

“Busy these days?”

“Very,” answered Dicky.

“How’s the new business going?”

“We’re getting on.”

“Stick to it,” his father encouraged him. “When you start a thing, jump in with both feet.”

“You bet.”

“If you need more money—”

“Thanks, Dad, I’ll let you know.”

His father seemed so much in earnest that the next time Dicky met Joan he felt it his duty to introduce the subject himself with a view to showing more real interest. So he did, between the numbers of a concert the next afternoon, to which he accompanied her at some genuine sacrifice. His personal taste in music did not run to the classics as interpreted on the violin by long-haired prodigies. Neither did hers, as far as one could judge by the lack of attention she gave to the successive numbers.

“How is everything downtown?” he inquired.

She appeared at first rather confused by the question, because her thoughts, at that moment, had been downtown, though not particularly in the business world.

“Everything getting on all right?”

“Yes,” she answered with a trace of color. “The machinery arrived day before yesterday. We’re—we’re setting it up.”

“Good!” he exclaimed, trying his best to show enthusiasm. “Need any help?”

She shook her head.

“I’m afraid not,” she answered.

“Afraid?”

“He won’t let any one help.”

“He—being our partner?”

“Yes, Dicky.”

“Sort of an independent chap?”

“Yes.”

That was in his favor. On the whole, it was a virtue, Dicky was convinced, which should be encouraged.

“Nothing like doing a thing yourself if you want it well done,” he declared.

“Only sometimes it’s selfish, isn’t it?” she asked.

“It’s business,” he insisted.

Dicky thought a moment.

“Maybe most every one is selfish,” he went on.

“Except you,” she smiled.

That was the end of the conference because the long-haired violinist began again. When a little later Dicky attempted to pick up the conversation where it was dropped, he found it difficult.

But he treasured that little remark of hers, even though he was not fully convinced it was justified—treasured it because it was the last thing of the sort he had from her for some time. He took her back to the house after the concert, expecting to call for her again that evening for a dance given by the Devereauxs. He had particularly looked forward to this because it was here the little courtyard was, and if ever again she ventured out there with him looking as beautiful as she had been looking lately—

But there is not much use dealing with “ifs.” Before eight o’clock that evening he received from her a telephone message at the house which read simply:

“Miss Fairburne is very sorry, indeed, but must ask to be excused from her engagement of this evening.”

It sounded ominous. When he tried to get her on the ’phone he received from Jeffrey the curt reply:

“Miss Fairburne is not in, sir.”

It was literally true this time. Shortly before eight Joan had been sitting in her room fully dressed for the evening, looking such a perfect thing that Henriette, in her pride, had taken the great liberty of hurrying below to Mrs. Fairburne, who, herself, was on her way out.

“Madame—you should see. Never has Mam’selle looked more beautiful.”

So Madame Fairburne mounted the stairs and stepped in, and, in her joy, kissed her daughter on the forehead.

“It is charming, my dear,” she said. “Mr. Burnett should be proud.”

“Of the gown?” she had asked.

“Only you could wear the gown.”

Joan shrugged her white shoulders ever so slightly and went downstairs to the library where she used to wait for Devons. Alone she sat before the fire. She had heard nothing from him yesterday, nothing to-day, and she was a bit worried. Considered in connection with machinery this silence might mean almost anything. To her, machinery signified a disordered medley of whirling wheels and noises, which, like some inhuman monster, was ever seeking the limbs and lives of those around it.

Of course, in one way it could not be said that she was seriously disturbed about the remote possibility of his having met with an accident of this nature, but it served as an excuse for worrying about him at all. In many ways not to have had some such concrete explanation of her present frame of mind would have been to admit a fact that might have turned out still more disturbing.

Until now she had heard from Devons every day. The communications were nothing she need be ashamed of. They could have been published in the daily paper without compromising any one. Still they were always in his own handwriting and to that extent were personal. It was only natural, then, that a lapse of forty-eight hours should seem significant. She rather clung to that word “natural.” When honestly used it may mean a great deal by the process of elimination. It is only the unnatural mental phenomena that need give any one cause for concern.

Then to muse at some length over the possible causes that would lead one’s business partner suddenly to cut all lines of communication was perfectly legitimate—perfectly natural. This much being established she felt free to stare into the flames and day-dream as much as she liked. She dismissed the accident theory almost as soon as she became fully at ease. He did not write because he was too busy and because he refused to associate her with his work except in his idle moments. It was not a flattering admission, but she was not seeking flattery. She was trying to see straight and clear. He refused to take her seriously. He saw her only as Henriette saw her—a dressmaker’s form upon which to hang clothes. She could scarcely blame him for that. If he had walked into the room at this moment, he would have had the evidence of his two eyes. If he had followed her about during this past week, he would have seen her living true to his conception. If—he had gone no deeper than externals. If, on the other hand, he had shared her thoughts—she raised her head quickly at the suggestion as though fearing he might by some chance appear and demand that privilege.

At that moment Jeffrey went by to answer a ring at the door. She sprang to her feet. It was Dicky—earlier than he should have come. She resented this as an intrusion. She was of half a mind to refuse to see him for another hour.

But it turned out not to be Dicky, after all, but a messenger with a note for her.

Jeffrey entered with it on a silver tray and she tore open the yellow envelope. She read with shortened breath:

8 Mullen Court
New York City

My dear Miss Fairburne:

Not having seen Mark Devons for a couple of days, I just went upstairs to learn what had become of him. He lives above me in the same house. I found him in bed and, against his wishes, sent for a doctor. He seemed to be worried because he had not been able to report to you for a couple of days, so I’m taking a chance and am doing it for him. I have a notion he may be in bed for some time if he doesn’t take care, and so thought that perhaps for business reasons you ought to know just how he is situated.

If you wish, I could send you a postal now and then, informing you how he is getting on. In the meanwhile if I can be of any other service, I trust you will call on me.

Very sincerely yours
Henry Arkwright

Joan summoned Jeffrey.

“The machine,” she ordered.

Then she hurried upstairs to Henriette.

“Get ready to come out with me at once.”

She picked up the telephone in her room and notified Dicky, slipped into the wrap Henriette held for her, and went down to the car. To Charles she gave the order:

“Eight Mullen Court.”

The information the latter had lately acquired was becoming useful sooner than he had expected.