Joan and Co.

Devons awoke at odd times during the night, and every time he did so Arkwright got up from the chair where he was sleeping, lighted the alcohol lamp and brewed a tin dipper of beef tea. Devons protested, but Arkwright only answered, stubbornly:

“That’s all right, old man. Only drink it. I was ordered to see that you had this, so the least said the better.”

Even after Devons consented to swallow the stuff, Arkwright refused to talk, but sank back in his chair, stretched his long legs out in front of him, and went to sleep.

After this had occurred twice, Devons refused to let Arkwright know when he woke up, but lay quietly staring into the dark at the chair, where he could have sworn she had been sitting, in the early evening. He found this such a pleasant thing to do that always he went to sleep again. The last time he awoke it was seven and broad daylight. Arkwright, too, was awake and saw him when he opened his eyes. So once again he rose and made for the alcohol lamp.

“If you give me another dipper of that—” began Devons.

“It’s her orders.”

“Whose orders?”

“Miss Fairburne’s,” answered Arkwright as he lighted the lamp.

Devons rose to his elbow.

“Then she was here!”

“Of course, she was, man! Have you been as bad as that?”

“No, only—look here, Arkwright, if you’ll cut out that stuff I’ll eat an egg.”

Arkwright hesitated.

“I’ll eat two eggs,” Devons promised.

“I don’t know.”

“She won’t care. I know she won’t. I’m feeling great this morning.”

His eye caught the note in the book. He reached for it and read it. Then he threw back the covers and started out of bed.

“What you going to do?” demanded Arkwright.

“She’s coming back!” exclaimed Devons. “She’ll be here at ten.”

“What of it?”

“She mustn’t, that’s all. I—I can’t let her see this place in the daylight.”

Arkwright glanced about.

“Does look kind of rowdy, now that you speak of it,” he admitted.

“So I must get shaved and dressed and—and meet her downstairs. I’ll take her to the office—anywhere but here.”

“Steady,” warned Arkwright; “I’m not so sure she would like that. If we dressed the place up a little—”

“It can’t be done,” groaned Devons. “I’ve got to get out before she comes, I tell you.”

“Just a minute, old man. I could wash the windows, for one thing. I have a rug or two and some pictures, and in my trunk some things in the way of table-covers my good aunt sent me. If you’ll just sit tight I have a hunch quite a bit could be done in three hours. When a lady makes an appointment at a certain place, you have to keep it, that’s all.”

“I can telephone.”

“I don’t think I would,” replied Arkwright thoughtfully. “I’d shave and eat my two eggs and keep cool, and watch what your Uncle Dudley can accomplish.”

When Devons came to stand up he discovered that after all he had no other choice. His legs were decidedly weak. By the time he had shaved and dressed and swallowed the eggs, he was quite helpless. But Arkwright took off his coat and went at his undertaking like a man. At the end of an hour he had the place as clean as soap and water could make it, and in another half-hour had stripped his own room of about everything in the way of rugs and pictures and brought them up here. He even included his best chair and an ottoman covering for the bed. Then he stood back and surveyed his handiwork.

“Eh?” he asked with considerable satisfaction.

For the twentieth time Devons exclaimed:

“It’s darned good of you!”

“Not a mite of it,” answered Arkwright. “If fairy princesses will call on careless bachelors, the only decent way is to make things as respectable as possible. And then,” he concluded, glancing at his watch, “the next proper thing is to get out.”

“Look here,” protested Devons, “there’s no need of that.”

“Anyway, I want to smoke.”

“Can’t you smoke here?”

“Certainly not,” declared Arkwright. “You have to make your sacrifices for princesses. Good luck.”

With that he went out and left Devons alone, whereupon the latter immediately began to believe that she would not come, anyway. He took that stand, not because it was what he wished to believe, but, perversely, because it was very much what he did not wish to believe. He sat in a chair with his eyes fixed on the door and felt his heart jump like a startled rabbit at every sound he heard below. It was disconcerting how much he wished her to come. It took him back to those few moments before the open fire when he had been forced to run in order not to speak the words that surged up hotly clamoring for speech. He had been glad ever since that he had remained dumb. But he knew that never again would it be as easy as it was then, though then it had not been easy. He knew that every time he saw her it was going to be harder. This is why he had kept away these last two weeks and confined himself merely to business notes. He must keep in mind always the fact that this was with her purely a business proposition. She and that other, whoever he might be, were his silent partners, that was all. So they must remain until he had won his success and repaid his debt and stood free and clear with a bank account of his own big enough to be worthy of her. When he was ready to take her to Arkwright and show her those blue-prints—then, and not until then, would he have any right to speak.

“You have to make your sacrifices for princesses,” Arkwright had said jokingly.

But that was true in a larger way than Arkwright had meant.

At five minutes of ten Devons heard steps coming up the stairs. He sprang to his feet and tried to stand steady. The steps paused at the landing below and then came on again. They came on to his very door. Then it seemed an eternity before he heard the rap of a gloved hand.

With his heart in his mouth he crossed the room.

It was she, Joan, and behind her Henriette, and behind Henriette, Charles with a large wicker basket.

“You may put that down here,” she said to Charles, “and wait outside.”

Then she turned and saw Devons where she had expected to see Arkwright.

“Why are you up?” she demanded ominously.

“Because—because I am feeling so much better,” he stammered.

“That is the beef tea,” she decided.

“It is in spite of the beef tea,” he replied. “Please to come in.”

She turned to help Henriette with the basket, and he instinctively made his way past her to take the burden himself. And he could not lift the thing. Actually he could not. He was obliged to stand by and see the two women stagger into the room with it. Humiliated, he was forced to watch his princess do the thing he should have been strong enough to do. It gave him further proof, if any were needed, that he must keep his lips tight closed.

He heard her exclamation of surprise as she passed over the threshold.

“What have you been doing here?” she asked.

“Nothing much,” he tried to answer carelessly; “Arkwright has been fixing up a little.”

“But it isn’t the same room!” she exclaimed, as though in disappointment. “It isn’t your room!”

“It doesn’t always look as badly as it did last night.”

“I liked it as it was,” she insisted. “Except you should have a spoon, of course.”

Now it was Arkwright’s room—anybody’s room. Half the dramatic contrast was gone. Even Devons himself, now that he was shaved and up, no longer made the urgent claim upon her sympathy that had so roused her as he lay prone and unkempt in his bed. Not that she analyzed her emotions to this extent, but she was aware of a certain disappointment. It was as though she were no longer needed quite as much as she had been needed last night.

But that feeling passed when she saw the man totter a trifle as he tried to keep his feet. She took his arm and led him to a chair.

“I had Henriette pack a basket with some things I thought you might need,” she explained. “You might take them out, Henriette.”

Henriette brought forth from that basket a linen tablecloth with an embroidered “F” in one corner; a collection of china with which Devons was familiar; a monogrammed silver knife, fork, and spoon; a crystal drinking-glass; several aluminum cooking-dishes which he was sure the Fairburne chef would have to account for some day; and then a cold chicken, some dainty biscuits, a box of fresh eggs, and several different kinds of jellies and jams, and finally a bottle of milk.

“I didn’t know whether you could get fresh milk here or not,” she explained. “Dad has this sent in every day from the country.”

“But why,” he exclaimed, “should you do this?”

He saw her cheeks color.

“Why shouldn’t I?” she challenged.

“It has put you to so much trouble.”

“It hasn’t done even that!” she exclaimed. “But if it had?”

Then she should not have undertaken it, is what he had meant, but he did not say it. Instead he said:

“If Charles is still about he might take us down to the factory. The machinery ought to be unpacked to-day.”

“Are you strong enough to go?”

“Certainly,” he answered steadily. “It’s only a matter of directing the men. I arranged for two of them to come to-day. They are probably waiting for me.”

She hesitated. But he rose and reached for his hat.

“I must go,” he said earnestly. “It will save a whole day. We—we could come back here for lunch.”

“I told mother I should need Charles until evening.”

“Then come on,” he insisted, with something of his old-time spirit.

If she had been thinking of him alone, it would have been against her best judgment to permit this, but she was thinking also a little bit of herself. To spend part of the day with him there would be a beginning. At the moment his thoughts were less upon her than the business in hand, so that he would be scarcely conscious of whether she was about or not.

So with a nod to Henriette to follow she went down the stairs with him and to the machine. Five minutes later they were in the elevator leading to the twelfth story and soon were standing before the door to which he pointed proudly. She read the inscription “Devons Manufacturing Company” with a glow of enthusiasm.

“It sounds very important,” she smiled.

But it looked decidedly more like a real business from the outside than it did on the inside. Here she found herself in a large room containing nothing but several large packing-cases and odds and ends of smaller bundles. These, like the door, were all marked impressively, “Devons Manufacturing Company.”

The sight of them seemed to inspire Devons. They brought back the color to his cheeks and strength to his legs. He offered her a seat upon one of the smaller cases and stepped into the next office to telephone to his men. When he came back he took a jack-knife from his pocket and began to cut the strings on the bundles. Instantly she jumped up.

“Please sit down and let me undo them,” she requested.

“You may help,” he condescended, “but be careful of the ones marked ‘glass’.”

Soon from the chaos of excelsior and brown paper, measuring-glasses began to appear and large bottles containing mysterious liquids. Then, when the men appeared, they attacked the big cases. Even Henriette caught something of the enthusiasm and began to pick up the loose papers and smooth them out and fold them.

But the fact Joan noticed was that within half an hour—as soon as the big mixing-kettles began to emerge—Devons forgot she was there. There was not much then left for her to do. She stood around rather helplessly, spending most of her time trying to keep from underfoot. Often he stood by her side as he gave his orders, but if she ventured to speak to him then he only answered vaguely, “Eh?”

He was Devons of the Devons Manufacturing Company and none else. He might almost have been stenciled like the boxes with that label. She had planned not to allow him to do too much, but she found herself powerless. He neither heard her nor saw her.

So he worked for two hours, and so he might have gone on working until night if left to himself. It was clear enough to her now why at the end of ten days he had been forced to his bed. With a smile of satisfaction it was clear enough to her now in just what way she might be useful.

At twelve o’clock the men had stopped for lunch, but impatiently he had urged them on.

“I’ll pay you double to put this through,” he promised.

At a little after one, one of the three big kettles was in place and the men moved toward the second. It was then that Joan stepped forward to Devons and insisted upon being heard.

“Come,” she said.

“Eh?”

She put her hand upon his arm.

“Come. We must go back to lunch now.”

“You and Henriette run along,” he said; “I’ll have something sent up.”

“No, you must come too.”

“But I can’t!” he broke out nervously. “If I get this done to-day I can begin work to-morrow.”

She shook her head.

“If you keep on like this you won’t begin work for a month.”

“You don’t understand.”

“I do understand. Come.”

“I—”

“Come.”

She found his hat for him and placed it on his head, while he went on giving instructions to cover the time he would be away. He glanced at his watch.

“I’ll be back in half an hour,” he told the men.

“I doubt if that is quite accurate,” she contradicted.

“But, Joan—” he began.

He had used the name often enough to himself, but as it slipped from his lips so unconsciously the sound of it checked him. He met her eyes. She was smiling.

“Yes?” she answered.

“There is so much still to be done,” he finished.

“I know, but there is to-morrow and after that another to-morrow and after that—”

His lips tightened.

“It’s those to-morrows I want to do away with,” he replied. “I want to get into the now.”

“Come,” she repeated.

Reluctantly he followed her into the elevator and to the machine and let himself be whisked back to his room—back there in the middle of the day. It was absurd. Yet the moment he was there he realized it was well. He sank into a chair quite done up.

Arkwright came up and offered his apartment to the ladies as a dressing-room, and as soon as they went out turned to Devons.

“You been at it again so soon?” he demanded.

“Got a bully start,” nodded Devons. “Machinery all unpacked and some of it set up.”

“You’d better go slow.” Arkwright shrugged his shoulders. Then his eyes caught the array upon the table.

“Some style,” he observed.

“She did it,” nodded Devons. “It’s an improvement on your darned old beef cubes.”

“Right! The doctor came, by the way, while you were gone. He allowed you were crazy.”

“Thank God, I was out. Tell him I’ll see him a month from now. Stay to lunch with us?”

“Thanks,” answered Arkwright thoughtfully. “I don’t think I will.”

But he remained a few moments just to watch Joan as she helped to set the table. Had it been possible for him to make himself invisible he would have liked to stay longer, but as he weighed two hundred pounds there seemed to be no practicable way for him to accomplish this, so he backed out.

He should have remained and seen how deftly Henriette mastered the same problem. To be sure, she had some advantage in the matter of size, but this was partly offset by the fact that she served as waitress, though there was not very much for her to do, except to make a cup of tea for her mistress. Everything was so compact and convenient here that really it would have been possible to do away with servants altogether.

It was no time before Devons forgot she was in the room. Only Joan was here—opposite him. It might be said with equal truth that in no time he forgot there was any one else in the world but Joan. Yet there were quite a number of other persons in the world. In this city alone there were some four million. One had only to refer to any book of statistics.

He was aware of her eyes and her smile and the dainty curves of her fingers as she lifted the teacup to her lips, and looking at these it was almost as though the to-morrows had really gone and the Now was here. It was rather a dangerous delusion to labor under. To enjoy it fully he was forced to watch himself carefully.

This was difficult because with her the temptation always was to speak from within as one thought—to talk direct to the center of her big, clear eyes. But if he had done that, there were moments when he would have leaned across the table and said to her:

“I love you.”

He would have said no more. Just that—bluntly.

But he had no right to say that. It took away his breath every time he thought of it and left him white about the lips. It was at one of these moments, after they had finished their lunch and Henriette had cleared away all the things and they were just sitting on, that she suddenly rose.

“You must rest,” she said. “You look tired. I don’t think you had better go back to the factory to-day.”

“But—”

“No,” she insisted firmly; “I will stop there with Henriette on my way home and tell the men to go for the day. I shall lock the door and take the key.”

“Then,” he asked helplessly, “how shall I get in to-morrow?”

“I will be there at nine and unlock the door for you,” she smiled.

And before he fully recovered, she went out and left him sitting alone like a blind man who has had his cane removed.