Joan and Co.

As soon as Forsythe went out, Joan closed the door and stood with her back against it facing Devons.

“Now,” she said, “can’t we forget the whole incident and go on with our work?”

Devons looked up at her. He was breathing a little rapidly and his face was flushed.

“It isn’t right for you to be mixed up in such miserable affairs,” he answered.

She smiled a little.

“I didn’t mind,” she assured him. “It was rather exciting. It was a little bit like a play, wasn’t it?”

“With you as the heroine,” he said. “You fought him single-handed and won. Only—don’t you see I can’t let you take the risk again?”

“I don’t think he will come back again.”

“Not Forsythe, perhaps, but there are others. The city is full of them—of men and women eager to give an evil turn to situations of this sort. I didn’t think of it until Forsythe opened my eyes. I can thank him for that much. You see, Joan,—you don’t belong down here. That’s the truth and every one knows it.”

“Mark!” she cried.

“You’re a Fairburne,” he ran on. “Your mother reminded me of that once, and it didn’t mean very much then. We from the West are apt to laugh at names. We’re apt to scorn them, because out there a lot of us haven’t names that mean very much. But here it’s different. New York isn’t the West, after all. And a name like yours gives you certain privileges and demands certain obligations. It’s sort of a sacred thing to be guarded. And a man—if he thinks a great deal, a very great deal of the woman back of the name—has to shoulder those obligations. Joan—don’t you understand?”

He had stepped closer to her. His eyes were on fire.

“This doesn’t sound like you,” she answered.

“Because,” he went on breathlessly,—“because I’m saying things now I’ve fought back for weeks—fought back because I had no right to say them. But this last hour has changed everything. You have been so magnificent—so wonderful, Joan. I was ready to sell out to Forsythe—to take the little he would give me, cancel my debts, and go back home with my share of what was left. It was all I could do to save you from the danger I’d led you into. That meant leaving you and forgetting you. I had steeled myself to that. Then you came, and made that unnecessary. You gave me another chance. For now, with Forsythe out of the way, it’s going to be easy. You saw how badly he wanted this. He’d have committed murder, I think, to get my process. That means it is going to sweep everything before it. A few months more of hard work and the business will be doubled, trebled—there is no end to it. That’s what I see ahead of me—a fortune and then, perhaps—you.”

He seized her hand.

“You mustn’t,” she protested.

But he could not be stopped now.

“You,” he repeated. “I love you, Joan. Day after day I’ve fought against it, knowing that I wasn’t worthy of you. ’Way back in those days at your house, I knew. I dared love you then when I wasn’t anything but a penniless outcast. The beauty and gentleness and grace of you crept into my soul. I lay there while you read and marveled at you. And I gripped my jaws and swore that if I got my strength back I’d go out into the world and win for you the things you deserved.”

“Please!” she broke in.

The words hurt her. They were almost the same words Dicky had used. They sent her thoughts back to those few moments at Delmonico’s when he had leaned over the table and spoken. She had answered him that she was starting on a great adventure. So she had, and now—

“That’s what I swore,” he continued, “and that’s what I mean to do. It’s almost within my grasp now, if you’ll wait just a little while longer, Joan. You’ll do that?”

His eyes were burning into her. She turned her head to escape them. She felt the power and the earnestness of them, but they only frightened her.

“For—for what?” she asked hopelessly.

“Until I have a right to go to your father and claim you. Until I can give you all the things I’ve dreamed of giving you. It sounds wild to you? But I know now what I have here. Not New York City alone, but the whole State—the whole Nation—shall bring me tribute so that I can lay at your feet the treasures of the world. I’ll have ships sailing to India for you and other ships sailing to the land of pearls for you. They’ll come back laden with presents for you. Ah, Joan—wait a little while for me.”

And all the answer she made was this:

“Then you don’t need me here any more?”

“No, thank God. The drudgery will soon be over. But the typewriter there in the corner—” He smiled. “I shall put that away. I shall buy a new one for Miss Manning and keep the other sacred.”

“She’s to take my place?”

“I’ve engaged her to take over the bookkeeping and the correspondence. There will be a great deal of it soon.”

“So—”

“So you’re to remain safe at home.”

He raised her fingers to his hot lips. Then he threw back his shoulders and faced her with the pride of a conqueror. It was like this that Miss Manning saw him as she opened the door and came in.

Joan went back to the house as she was bidden—went back with so much of the joy gone out of her that when she came in to lunch, much to her mother’s surprise, the latter appeared distinctly worried.

“My dear!” exclaimed Mrs. Fairburne; “I trust nothing serious has occurred.”

She spoke as though she were in a frame of mind to expect most anything to happen.

Joan smiled weakly.

“To all intents and purposes I’ve been discharged, Mother,” she replied.

“You are not going down to—to that place any more?”

“No. I’m not wanted.”

“Then I shall be forced to admit that I am under a certain obligation to Devons,” declared the mother.

“How?” inquired Joan.

“For having sense enough to appreciate the fact that you were entirely out of place there.”

“But you don’t understand. If I had made myself essential, this wouldn’t have happened. He—he has found some one to do the work better—for a few dollars a week. To fail isn’t anything to be proud of, is it?”

“It’s something to be thankful for if it keeps you at home,” replied Mrs. Fairburne.

Joan lowered her head. “I’m ashamed,” she said. “Thoroughly ashamed.”

For a moment the mother studied her in amazement. It was evident the girl was sincere. That was quite the most peculiar feature. In some way her daughter was hurt—humiliated. In the end she gave up trying to explain it and crossed to her side.

“There,” she attempted to comfort. “This has been from the first an unfortunate incident, but if it has ended as well as it has, let us be thankful.”

“I tried—I tried so hard.”

“Yes, dear.”

“And I was doing better every day.”

“Yes, dear.”

“If he had given me another month—”

It was the mother heart which spoke now.

“Cry a little, dear,” she urged. “Then it will be easier to forget.”

So Joan cried a little, though in the end she smiled through her tears at her foolishness.