Joan and Co.

The plant of the Devons Manufacturing Company was running to capacity, such as that was. Devons was working twelve hours a day trying to fill his orders—orders that came in unsolicited. And Joan was trying her best to keep up her end of the work, though, as the correspondence increased, this was becoming more difficult. She had rented a typewriter, and, though by exceeding care and close application, she could in the course of an hour pick out with fair, if wobbly, success whole practice sentences, she still found it considerably easier to write her letters in long hand. The result in a way was effective, because there were few men who did not instinctively select first from their mail envelopes addressed in her bold, feminine handwriting.

The bookkeeping, too, had become considerably more complicated since she made her first entry, and not all the new customers were as eager to pay cash as Forsythe had been. Then she had to keep another book for the supplies purchased, and they developed daily into a longer and longer list. Take it all in all, she had enough to do.

From Devons’s point of view she had too much to do. Whenever he had a minute to glance in her direction he found her scowling over the ledgers like a worried school-girl. Sometimes he had to speak two or three times to call her attention to the fact that it was the lunch hour. Had he not kept track of it himself, there would have been days when she would not have lunched at all. Neither would he, had he only himself to consider. It was an effort to stop, but, hang it all, he was responsible for having got her down here and the least he could do now was to take care of her.

Not that this was by any means an unpleasant duty. Rather was it a disconcertingly agreeable task. When it is necessary to observe a thermostat to the fraction of a degree, watch in hand, and keep in mind at the same time sundry other details marking the difference between success and failure, it may be pleasant enough to have in the rear of the office quite the most beautiful and adorable and altogether the most wonderful woman in the world; but not to be distracted by that fact requires a degree of self-control that in time amounts to a strain. Scientific laboratory processes are not supposed to be involved with dark eyes and a pretty mouth unjustly disturbed by a set of books concerned with figures. Whenever he saw her puzzling over a column, or whenever he heard the timid click of the typewriter as she laboriously strove to strike the right key, he kept saying to himself that she did not belong there. She was not meant to be disturbed by anything. Because she was, he felt guilty.

Even when his thoughts took a pleasanter course and ran ahead to what the future promised, to keep track of the temperature of a kettle of linseed oil at the same time got on his nerves. Whether the stuff became too hot or not hot enough appeared an indifferent matter as soon as he indulged in the pastime of multiplying the profit per gallon by the number of gallons he was manufacturing at present, and multiplying that again by the number he could legitimately look forward to, based on the increase of orders this last week. And that was not touching the wide market beyond this single city. It was enough to make a man dizzy in and of itself. Translate that income into terms of what it meant to him for her—she being at that very moment within calling distance of his voice—and the wonder is that he succeeded in doing anything at all.

Yet he held himself amazingly steady. Day after day she came into the office in the morning like some breath of spring, and though the man within him leaped to meet her with eager, unsatisfied kisses,—there were moments when he had to hold himself rigid not to venture after not having seen her since the day before,—he merely nodded a curt good-morning and went on with his work. It was not easy. Nor was it easy, when at noon he went out to lunch with her, to remember that after all she was only loaning herself to him for a little while. Contingencies might arise at any time that would sweep her entirely out of his life again. To be sure, he felt more and more secure as the days went by, but he never allowed himself to be over-optimistic. As his process bade fair to supersede the old, another process might appear to supersede his. It was too soon to feel secure. But when that time arrived, and he could look her fair in the eyes and bid her come with him back into the world in which she belonged, then—it was a heady dream. It sounded at times like an impossible dream. Yet if you multiplied the profit per gallon with the number of gallons—

He had been looking around for the last few days. The doctor in the next office had spoken to him about a very good stenographer and bookkeeper whom he was afraid he must soon let go. If Devons could use her, he would find her an exceptionally efficient girl. It was not the nine dollars a week that made Devons hesitate—he would take that much out of his hide if necessary to relieve Joan,—but it was the fear that if she did not have something to do here she would not stay at all. His ideal would be to have her come in during the forenoon of every day and just stay around for an hour or two.

“Is the work getting too hard for you?” he asked her one day.

“No,” she answered unhesitatingly.

“I don’t want you to get all tired out,” he said solicitously.

She laughed at that. “Do I look tired?”

He was forced to admit that she did not. On the contrary, she seemed to be vitalized by a new alertness. She entered the office in the morning with a quicker step and a fresher glow in her cheeks. This was partly explained by the fact that now she walked some of the way downtown, generally leaving Charles at Third Avenue and Thirtieth Street, and continuing the remainder of the distance on foot. This necessitated arising a little earlier, but that was no hardship, because she found herself waking at seven. With no evening engagements she retired by ten, which gave her a longer rest than she had enjoyed for five years—or at least a different sort of rest. She woke up refreshed in body and soul. She sprang from bed with the zest of an athlete, and, forgetting that such a person as Henriette existed, completed her own toilet in half an hour. To be able to do this was in itself no small luxury. It was good to be alone in the early morning with all the world about her fresh and noiseless. It gave her a feeling of intimacy with herself and her surroundings. This was her room and these were her things in the daytime as before they had been only in the dark at night. She felt herself a part of the day now—a part of the big, stirring city which she knew was also awakening at this hour. She was one of the hundred thousands that came to life like Nature with the rising sun—that took their part in the day’s work, and so, in a sense, became an integral part of the universe. It gave significance to details which had been merely negative. Her little four-posted bed became a positive factor in her life because it offered her rest after the day’s work; the dimity curtains at the window, the paper on the wall, the rugs on the floor, became associated with the personal side of her because they were there when she came in with her mind still active with the finished business of the day just gone, and greeted her in the morning when she rose with all her thoughts of the work which lay ahead. They did not mean anything when she came in listless or merely physically tired. It is doubtful if before she could have described minutely any of these exterior things. Now she could have sketched with accuracy the pattern in the rugs.

It was to a less extent so downstairs. She had her breakfast alone in the big dining-room, and she came to know that room—to feel at home in that room just because it was helping to make her ready for the tasks ahead. Breakfast itself ceased to be merely a concession to nature. She enjoyed her toast and coffee and eggs. She ate with a relish that caused Jeffrey to temper in his own mind the verdict of madness with which in the kitchen his mistress was being accused. To be sure, it was most unusual for a young lady to rise at seven and dress herself unassisted; it was most unusual for a young lady, not starting on a journey, to leave the house shortly after half-past seven; it was most unusual for a young lady to remain at home after dinner night after night. But if such a strange procedure not only improved the young lady’s appetite and color, but her spirits as well, it was going a bit far to hint that she was losing her mind. Stranger methods than this were resorted to in search of just such results. He had heard of barefoot walking at dawn in the parks, to mention only one.

It was when Joan left Charles at Third Avenue and hurried on alone, that the color in her cheeks deepened. It was curious how, to so tiny an adventure, she responded. But until these last few weeks it is doubtful if ever she had walked alone three blocks in New York City, and then only upon the one avenue. The other avenues were but numerical facts lying either side of Fifth, made necessary by Fifth, as of course one may not have five without one, two, three, and four, or, counting backwards, one reaches fifth again through ten, nine, eight, seven, and six.

But this Third Avenue was now taking on an individuality of its own. It seemed to have nothing whatever to do with Fifth. It was almost like a street in another city. She was surprised by the number of other girls she met and with whom she walked shoulder to shoulder in silence—all hurrying into buildings similar to the building she now called hers. Many were of her own age, and in time there were some she felt as though she knew. They were in a way like Mildred—like sisters of Mildred. She would have liked to speak to them if only to say “Good-morning.” Sometimes she met their eyes and sometimes she smiled back into them, but more often than not they turned away without response, as though refusing to admit her as one of them. At first she did not understand this. It was a trim, confident little body from the next office, whom she met several times in the elevator, who gave her a hint by staring one day overlong at the sables she wore. She never wore those down here again because she noticed that none of the other girls wore sables. After that—it may have been merely an illusion—she thought the girls became more friendly.

It was at about this time that the elevator boy began to call her by name in the morning. It was always, “Good-morning, Miss Fairburne.”

And she answered, “Good-morning, Jimmy.”

She did not know how he learned her name or where she learned his name. There seemed to be some vague bond of brotherhood among those who met on their way to work in the morning. It was a little bit like on shipboard, where somehow people come to know each other before the end of the voyage even without formal introductions.

All these things Joan appreciated. These new faces and interests enlarged her world as, to a lesser degree, did all those unknown people with whom she corresponded in the name of the Devons Manufacturing Company. They all helped to take her out of herself.

Just as Mark Devons did. She never thought of herself—her old self—in connection with him. She did not associate him any longer with that room he had occupied in her own home. Since the evening she had visited him in Mullen Court he had always remained there in her thoughts—there and in the office. It was much pleasanter to think of him in his own surroundings. They were part of him and he a part of them. In their simplicity and unconventionality they typified him. She liked the directness of the life they stood for. They emphasized the man rather than his trappings. In remembering the little attic room with its refreshing bareness, it seemed as though he could not possibly live anywhere else.

Here in the office he wore the long olive-green laboratory coat he had used at Tech. It buttoned to his chin and came to his feet, and was all stained with oil and burned full of holes by acids. It neutralized all of him but his hands and his face, so that one was never conscious of his dress. She liked him so. And she liked to watch him at work when he was not aware of her gaze. She had to be careful about this because every now and then he looked suddenly. Once or twice he had caught her, and then she was never able to control the rush of color to her cheeks. After she turned back to her work, she was sometimes left quite breathless for a full minute or two.

Yet it was difficult not to admire the confident way in which he went about his tasks. He was so sure of every movement of his steady hands. He was so coolly accurate, so alert, so intense. This business was an expression in him of his desire to do, to accomplish, to play his part in the big, vibrant world of doers about him.

And she in her little way was playing her part also. As yet she could not do very much and that little clumsily, but she thought she saw every day an improvement in her typewriting. Doubtless the girl in the next office would have laughed could she have seen her stabbing erratically with her forefingers at the keys, forgetting very often to strike the space bar at all between words. Doubtless the girl in the next office could have done the same work better in one half the time and with half the effort. She was a very capable-looking young lady of a sharp, precise type. Joan had overheard the doctor recommending her highly to Devons.

“She is quick and accurate,” he had said, “but if business doesn’t pick up I may have to let her go. If I do, you’d better grab her.”

“Thanks,” Devons had answered; “I’ll keep her in mind.”

For a day or two Joan had felt more or less piqued by that conversation. Devons had not replied as she expected him to reply. He seemed to admit that in the future this other might be a possibility. She applied herself more industriously than ever to the sentence, “Now is the time for all good men to rally to the aid of their country,” with the result that she cut down her slips from ten to six and in the process almost forgot Miss Manning entirely.

Then, coming in one morning a little later than usual, she found Miss Manning sitting in her chair, behind her typewriter, busily opening the early mail. Dazed she looked swiftly about the office for Devons. He was not there.

“This is Miss Fairburne?” inquired Miss Manning.

Joan must have answered, though she was not conscious of it.

“I am Miss Manning,” the girl informed her. “Mr. Devons asked me to give you this note.”

Joan took the note and for a moment held it in her hand.

“Where is Mr. Devons?” she asked.

“He has gone out.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Perhaps the note will explain,” suggested Miss Manning indifferently.

Joan tore open the envelope. The note was brief.

“Dear Joan,” it read, “please to go home. I will try to get in touch with you there some time to-day.”