Joan and Co.
“I don’t want to borrow,” Devons answered quickly; “I want to open a
little account of my own. I thought you might introduce me.”
“Glad to do it,” nodded Arkwright with a trace of relief. “I’ll go up
there now. But say—that doesn’t come of getting run over?”
“Indirectly,” admitted Devons. “Through Miss Fairburne I found a
partner willing to furnish me with capital.”
“Believe me,” returned Arkwright, “you’ve certainly discovered a fresh
and original way of getting on in New York. Here’s hoping your luck
lasts.”
The experience of being introduced to a real live cashier behind a
grilled fence was, in itself, thrilling enough. With a brand-new
check-book of his own in his pocket, Devons came out feeling as
important as though instead of one hundred dollars he had deposited one
hundred thousand. There was nothing about the blank leaves to indicate
it was not the latter sum. A check-book is the most indiscreet thing in
the world. It always politely assumes its possessor is a millionaire.
Devons left Arkwright at the imposing structure which was now his bank
and went on to a real-estate office he had privately visited before on
one of those idle days when he was waiting to hear from Reed. He had
spoken then in rather larger figures than he used now. He wanted, to
start with, a small space, but one that offered room for expansion.
And he found it there waiting for him as though his coming had been
anticipated.
At the very top of a building, off Third Avenue, Dr. Dent had begun the
manufacture of a Universal Remedy on a scale which, though justified on
paper, did not work out in practice. There being some hundred million
inhabitants in these, the United States of America, the company had
estimated that at least a thousand bottles a day would be necessary to
supply the annual demand. This was allowing about one bottle to every
three hundred people. As a matter of fact, however, the demand was
considerably less and so a policy of retrenchment became necessary.
The firm having rented the entire floor was now ardently desirous of
sub-letting a portion of its space with a fair possibility of becoming
equally desirous, within six months, of sub-letting more unless the
American public suddenly turned more appreciative than it now showed
promise of doing.
Devons accompanied the agent up there at once and found it exactly what
he wanted. And the price was right! Under the circumstances it had to
be. In less than an hour he had signed a lease for a year and arranged
for certain partitions to be erected and for an inscription upon the
door to read:
=DEVONS MANUFACTURING COMPANY=
All this was accomplished on the first day.
CHAPTER XVII
UPTOWN AND DOWNTOWN
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.