Joan and Co.

Under the spur of Hartley and Starling, Devons found himself working as hard as he had ever worked in his life. In the flood of new orders that came in there was no help for it. As yet, no one had been trained to do his work, so that it meant for him actual supervision of the process during its various manufacturing stages. Hartley was as merciless with him as he was with himself. Ten hours, fifteen hours, even twenty hours a day meant nothing. As a matter of fact, at the end of two weeks they had a night shift at work, and Hartley often remained at the plant until one in the morning. So did Starling and so did Devons.

“We want to break into this market with a rush,” said Hartley. “A little later, when we are firmly established, we can lay back on our oars.”

This left Devons little time for Joan, but with the assurance that came each day at the nightly conference with Hartley, who went over in conference with him the new business of the preceding twenty-four hours, it seemed less and less necessary to see her. Always she remained in the background, and he rested content in the knowledge that hour by hour he was strengthening the guarantee of a success that in the end should make her his. He had given up his little attic room and taken an apartment in a rather pretentious hotel more convenient to the plant. On the salary of one hundred dollars a week that Hartley had suggested was fair for his services, there was no reason in the world why he should not make the change. This gave him a living-room, a bedroom and bath. In what time he could spare from the factory he thoroughly enjoyed the luxury of these new quarters, and in a few days found himself consistently living up to them to the extent of dropping into the hotel barber shop for his morning shave, and naturally enough strolling from there to the hotel dining-room for his breakfast. It was costing him as much a day as formerly it did a week, and yet he had considerably more left over. Some of this he deposited in the bank and some of it he converted into crisp new dollar bills which he locked up in his dress-suit-case. For, though he smiled a little at it now as a bit of eccentric foolishness, he still clung to his original idea of going back home with his bulging bag of money. He could have put it more conveniently in the form of a check, but the effect would not have been the same. A bit of paper bearing a signature was neither as impressive nor as dramatic as crisp new bills. Silver would have been even better because there was a ring to it, but it was not so easily handled.

The strain of the long hours began to tell on Devons at the end of a couple of weeks. He held on grimly and without complaint, but the past had drawn heavily on his physique and the unusual mental excitement kept him awake nights. Often he came back to his apartment at two in the morning only to lie awake until four with his brain running riot over Joan and home and the figures that to Hartley served merely as a tonic. Then a fitful sleep of three hours and he was up again.

Hartley did not understand what those figures meant to Devons. To him they remained merely figures. He did not translate them into terms of life. Even when he saw in them the prospect of doubling his income, that meant scarcely more than a fresh problem of reinvestment. With his wants already well cared for, there was a pleasant satisfaction in piling up a larger reserve, but it was nothing to grow breathless about. As they increased, the dollars became more and more abstract.

But Devons was still in the concrete stage where every dollar stood for something tangible. To see them come flooding down in the form of things for her, in the form of an increasing number of bills in his suit-case, in the form of constantly increasing additions to his own comfort, was a type of intoxication.

He held on during the long days of June until toward the end he found the kettles and the thermostat begin slowly to revolve so that he was forced to cling to something to keep himself upright. He held on when at night he heard Hartley’s voice coming as from a distance and found that he remembered nothing of what he said. He held on when at odd moments he found himself seized with uncontrollable fits of laughter. He held on until one evening he reeled and fell in front of Hartley.

Devons recovered in a few minutes, and Hartley escorted him to his apartments and sat up with him the rest of the night. Devons protested, but Hartley sat on and listened to his hysterical chatter and watched him. In the morning Hartley gave his verdict.

“What you’ll do will be to take a month’s vacation,” he determined. “Get out of the city. Go back home.”

“I’ll be all right by to-morrow.”

“You won’t.”

“But I can’t leave. I—”

“You can leave as well as not,” answered Hartley. “Starling is in a position now to go on with your work with the help of the men you’ve trained. You’re going, that’s all there is to it. You’re going to-morrow. I’ll make out a check for a thousand dollars and send it round to you. Don’t you dare step into the factory again until you come back.”

Coming from Hartley this was in the nature of a mandate. It left him nothing else to do. So, in relief, he turned over and slept intermittently the remainder of that day and night. He woke the following morning considerably rested and with a sense of exhilaration. In his mail he found his check and a brief note from Hartley.

“Dear Devons,” it read. “Forget the plant and have a good time. Everything went along swimmingly yesterday. The best of luck to you.”

He was on a vacation—the first vacation for ten years. All day long he had nothing to do except what he wished to do. And he was going home—going back with his dress-suit-case almost filled and enough on hand to quite fill it. And he was going to see Joan!

The day had come. There was no reason now why he could not go to her and claim her. Even on the basis of the unfilled orders the firm had at present, there would be ten thousand dollars coming to him at the end of the year. The chances were that this would be doubled. In the meanwhile it might be possible to worry along on his present salary as long as there was the assurance of the future dividends. The Arkwright house might have to wait another year or two, but this would give them time to select a site and perfect details.

He wanted her to come home with him on his first visit. Never after this would conditions be the same. If, in addition to the tangible evidence of his business success, he could bring her—then he would arrive as a conqueror. He was thinking of himself—not of her nor of the home folk. Always he occupied the center of the stage. Perhaps this was not much to be wondered at. He was hungry for this sort of thing. For ten years he had been starved of all the little minor successes that come to most men—that lead up to the final big success. He had been in the background watching enviously those at the fore. Now it was his turn and he was going to make the most of it.

He dressed carefully that morning and gave the barber carte blanche to do what he wished with him. Then he strolled into the dining-room and ate a leisurely and rather elaborate breakfast. It was the beginning of the day of which he had so long dreamed. After this he strolled uptown and made several purchases—among them a box of flowers which he ordered sent to her. He did not dare telephone until eleven, and then he begged her to lunch with him. She tried to avoid the engagement, but he was insistent.

“I’m on my vacation, Joan,” he said. “I’ve looked forward to this a long time.”

There was a note of pathos in his plea that won her. So she consented to be ready at one.

During the next two waiting hours he walked slowly downtown and back along Fifth Avenue as far as Washington Square. He walked proudly, swinging a light stick with an air. There were many who turned to look at him. He made rather a striking appearance in his smart tailored clothes. To many he passed as a bridegroom. There was an atmosphere of confidence and prosperity about him that made him seem to embody something of the spirit of the June morning. To the young men he established a sort of standard and to the young women he stood for a dream.

At one he drove up to the Fairburne house, feeling buoyant after his walk and showing hardly any effect of his illness of the day before. In the magic of his new hopes he had thrown it off.

She had dressed a little for him in honor of the occasion and was more like her old self.

“I’m so glad you’re to have a rest,” she greeted him.

“I guess I’ve earned it,” he answered.

She nodded.

“Where are we going?”

“You’re to follow me to-day,” he replied. “I’m going to make one more dream come true.”

“I’ll do what I can to help you,” she agreed.

Yet she frowned a little when the taxi stopped before Delmonico’s. Most any place he might have chosen would have been preferable to that. Still she was willing to humor him even to this extent. After all this was his vacation, and she must do what she could to start him on it happily.

But as she went in by his side the whole place became tensely reminiscent of Dicky. They had come here together the last time they had gone anywhere together. They had been here many times before that. It had become so associated with him that she felt almost disloyal in coming with any one else. And somehow Dicky fitted better here than this man now with her. For the life of her she could not tell why, but Devons appeared slightly out of place. As they moved on to the dining-room she studied him and wondered why. As far as his personal appearance went, he was a little better-dressed than others at the tables. Perhaps that was it. She almost expected to hear his shoes squeak.

That was a ridiculous thought—so ridiculous that it made her smile.

He was quite serious about ordering the lunch and consulted her taste in everything. Personally she desired nothing but a salad and tea, but he was insistent upon making it as elaborate as possible.

“This is part of the dream,” he reminded her.

So before he had more than begun his order he had converted the waiter from an indifferent bystander into a most attentive and obsequious servant. If the latter had been asked to characterize his guest, he would have done it in a sentence.

“Ranch-owner from the West on his honeymoon.”

This was at the moment when Devons was flattering himself that he was the embodiment of New York.

During the lunch, of which she ate little, he talked again of the factory and of Hartley and the details of the last month. Then he ran on to the possibilities of the future, which led him up to Arkwright.

“You remember him?” he asked.

She shook her head.

“It was he who helped fix up my attic for you,” he reminded her.

“Oh, the big fellow?”

He nodded.

“He’s an architect. Did I ever tell you about the house he designed?”

“No.”

“It’s a wonderful house. ’Way back in the winter he told me he had done it for me. It was a joke then, but it begins to look as though it might turn out serious.”

In detail he described it to her, watching her eyes to see if she responded. At least she appeared attentive.

“That’s part of the dream, too,” he concluded. “Some day I’m going to build that. Where do you think we ought to put it?”

She started.

“It sounds very grand,” she answered. “Would you really enjoy that sort of house?”

“With acres of land around it.”

“Oh, dear,” she smiled. “It will be quite a royal estate.”

“Yes,” he answered soberly. “It must be that—for you.”

“For me!” she cried.

“Didn’t you understand that?”

“No, no,” she said quickly.

“Who else did you think I was going to build it for?”

“I—I don’t know. You—we mustn’t stay here any longer.”

The orchestra began to play a valse hésitation. She looked about in alarm—as though in search of Dicky.

“I came here just to tell you these things,” he hurried on. “I—I thought you would be pleased.”

“It’s all my fault!” she exclaimed. “I shouldn’t have come. I—I should have written you the truth from Atlantic City.”

“The truth?”

“When you wrote me as you did. I won’t pretend. I knew then you were coming to care for me—in a way that was impossible. Only I didn’t want to hurt you. I thought that if I said nothing you would see.”

“See what?”

“That—” she hesitated.

“That you don’t love me?” he put in.

She hung her head as though ashamed.

“Yes,” she answered.

He leaned forward.

“After all these months that I have been working for you?”

She raised her head at that. She met his eyes.

“You thought you were working for me, but—but after all is that true?”

“For you!” he cried fiercely. “For you alone! From the first week you were so kind to me it was that and nothing else. It’s been part of the dream—the biggest part. I’ve looked forward to taking you home with me. You were coming back to the little farm as my wife. I was to be so proud of you. It’s true! It must be true!”

“You—you dreamed those things all by yourself,” she warned.

“Because I had no right to share them with you until I had made good. I—I couldn’t talk about such things in an attic, could I?”

She thought a second.

“No,” she answered. “And yet if you had—”

“They would have sounded absurd,” he broke in. “I had to wait until I could give you all the things you deserved. I had to wait until now.”

“And now,” she answered, moving back her chair, “we mustn’t talk about them any more.”

“You mean you won’t marry me?”

“It’s impossible,” she answered. “I—I don’t love you.”

“But if I wait a little longer—”

“It would make no difference.”

She was firm now. She was direct. She felt this must be over with at once.

“Don’t go yet,” he pleaded as she rose.

But she stood where she was as he paid his check. Then she started for the door. He took her arm—holding it so tightly it hurt.

“Joan,” he choked. “You’re spoiling the dream.”

“I’m sorry,” she answered. “I’m very sorry.”

“Then come with me. Oh, I’ll make a princess of you. I’ll work all my life to get you things. I want so to buy you things.”

“You only make it worse,” she replied.

They had reached the coat-room, and he would have gone right on talking like that had she not warned him of the eager listeners. Then they were outside again and she felt freer, though he was still holding her arm. She herself motioned for a cab.

“You mustn’t leave me like this,” he muttered.

She held out her hand as she had held out her hand to Dicky. But he refused to take it.

“This isn’t right!” he cried.

“It is necessary. You are making it more necessary every minute.”

“I? It’s you. This isn’t fair of you.”

His face showed both fear and anger. She had never seen him like this. She was sorry to have to remember him like this.

“Mark,” she whispered, “I wanted to keep you as a friend.”

He laughed harshly.

“Friend? After what I’d planned! But I might have known!”

“Yes,” she answered quietly, “you might have known. Good-bye.”

She stepped into the cab and closed the door. He reached for the knob, but she gave a sharp order to the driver. She closed her eyes and leaned back. It was not so Dicky had left her.

Where was Dicky? She needed him now.