Joan and Co.
had come out of the West a poor boy, and with naked hands had fought
and won from it the choicest of its gifts. It was the moment before
possession, and that sometimes brings keener reactions than actual
possession. The past was still vivid enough to afford its full contrast
to the future. He went back, gloating over the climax, to his hard luck
when he staggered cold and hungry and penniless and friendless along
streets similar to these—to that time when the city seemed to be on
top. He remembered the indifference of the passers-by. He might have
dropped dead among them and they would scarcely have turned to see him
drop. Now in a few months, possibly in a few weeks, they would watch
him go by with envious eyes.
He was on the threshold of success. He stood before the door which had
reluctantly swung open admitting him to the sultan’s palace. Within lay
all the treasures of the world—everything that money could buy. And a
little way farther in lived the princess waiting for him.
His thoughts flashed back to his father and mother and brother and
sisters plodding along the dull routine of their lives on the Western
farm. He had not written for several weeks. He had wished to wait until
he had something definite to tell them. Now—when he wrote again—how
he would make their eyes open. He could go back with his suit-case
bulging with ten-dollar bills. Actually that was no longer a fantastic
dream. He _would_ do it. He would do just that. Only he would not go
alone. He must wait until Joan could go with him.
Joan! Joan! Joan! How the name sang to him! He allowed it to sing to
him. He had suppressed the music long enough. He was going a great deal
farther than he had any right, but with the right so near he could
hardly be blamed. It was as though she were by his side now.
A little way farther he mounted a Fifth Avenue ’bus and climbed to the
top. He could see better up there. And the elevation fitted better into
his mood. He could look down on the streets—look down with Joan by his
side. It was almost as if they were in their limousine together—the
limousine he meant to buy. For he meant to buy for her all the choice
things of the world.
To be sure she had most of them now, but they were not his gifts. That
is what was going to make the difference. She must leave behind her all
she had now and let them come fresh from him. What jewels she now had
would count for nothing against the jewels he would buy for her. And
her gowns and her hats and her dainty shoes—from head to foot he wished
them all to come from him. Only by giving could he express in tangible,
concrete form his love for her. Only by buying. He was no poet. He
must get beautiful stones and silks and satins to express his sonnets
for him.
This was possible only through the medium of money—through a king’s
fortune. And that was now almost within his grasp. There were those
who affected to scorn money, but they did not know what he knew. He
recalled with a certain uneasiness one of his gentle-souled professors
who had given his life to the investigation of abstract theories—to
pure science. The man had taken an interest in him during his first
two years at Tech and had sometimes asked him to his rooms at night.
There he talked wisely and encouragingly to him. One evening as he
was leaving the professor had placed his hand upon his shoulder and
searched his eyes.
“Devons,” he had said, “there is a great future ahead of you. I wish
I might look forward to seeing you take up my work where I shall be
obliged to leave it.”
Devons had looked around the barren bachelor quarters crowded with
books and had not answered. Here was a man who did not need money—who
found a full life within himself and his work. But Devons wondered then
and he wondered now if the man had any such past as his own.
All his life Mark Devons had seen money stand for the difference
between a full life and an empty life. In the West it stood for the
difference between some one and no one. The stature of a man was
reckoned in terms of his fortune. That standard had been bred in him.
He had seen it exemplified in his father’s life. He accepted it. He
was forced to accept it. In and of itself money meant nothing, but
interpreted in life it meant everything. In his own case it meant Joan.
It meant Joan! Once again his thoughts swirled dizzily about her. They
were speeding along upper Fifth Avenue—past shop-windows laden with the
choice things of the world for those with money. The world had been
scoured to bring them here. Most of them were for the women—for the men
to buy for their women. Here was the one opportunity for men who were
not poets to materialize their thoughts for the women they loved. In a
few months now he would be in a position to do just that.
He climbed down and jumped off the ’bus and made his way to the house
he had not visited since that day he drove away from it. He had been
humble then. But now he held his head well up and walked boldly. He
would not be afraid to meet Fairburne to-day. He would not be afraid to
meet Mrs. Fairburne.
Jeffrey at the door recognized him and greeted him with a respectful
smile. He thought Miss Fairburne was in. If Mr. Devons would step into
the drawing-room he would make sure. Devons stepped in. The room had
not been changed in any detail. It was as familiar as his own home.
There was the fireplace before which he had sat so often with her—where
he had fought back the thoughts that flooded in upon him. But he could
think them now as much as he pleased. He stood with his hands behind
his back and smiled with satisfaction. He took note of details. In his
new home he must duplicate as nearly as possible what he saw here. He
could vary them in color and design, but here was a standard.
In the midst of this pleasant pastime she came in. She seemed somewhat
disconcerted, but she was always at her best when startled out of her
calm self-possession. It gave alertness to her eyes and color to her
cheeks and eagerness to her sensitive lips. In her way she was as
suspicious at having him appear in mid-afternoon as Mrs. Burnett had
been to see her men-folk at this time. She paused halfway to him, but
he was at her side in two strides.
“Joan!” he exclaimed, “it’s business this time—for the last time, I
hope.”
“I know,” she nodded. “You’ve sold after all, then.”
“Sold?” he exclaimed. “I wouldn’t take a million dollars for the
process to-day.”
She moved away from him and sat down. She felt safer sitting down.
He went back to his position before the fireplace. He stood there so
confidently, almost with such an air of proprietorship that she feared.
“Well?” she inquired.
“Hartley sent for me,” he announced, as though that in itself were
something to be proud of. “I’ve told you of Hartley.”
“Yes.”
“He—he wants to go into partnership with us.”
“With us?”
It was as though she failed to connect herself at all with the “us.”
“With you and me. He made an offer to undertake the full management and
furnish capital, for a one-third interest. Do you realize what that
means?”
She considered a moment and then replied, “I’m afraid I don’t, Mark.”
“It means success!” he exclaimed. “With a man like him with us we can
accomplish in weeks what it would take us months to do alone. Why, he
has a scheme in mind already to buy the Burnett plant—”
She raised her eyes quickly at that name.
“The Burnett plant?”
“They were our big rivals,” he explained. “Forsythe was with them.”
She frowned at the recollection.
“Now Burnett has lost his money in the market.”
“I—I hadn’t heard anything about that!” she exclaimed.
“There is no reason why you should, is there? Hartley told me. The man
is practically bankrupt, and we expect to buy it in at our own price.”
“This is Joshua Burnett you are talking about?”
“It’s Burnett, of the Burnett Manufacturing Company. I don’t know
anything more about him than that. But Hartley says it’s our great
opportunity. He is willing to put up the money provided we’ll take him
in. He sent me up to you to get your consent.”
“I—I don’t see what I have to do with it,” she answered.
“You? Everything,” he ran on. “Why, we’re partners, you and I. I can’t
put through any deal without you. I told Hartley that we each held a
half interest. Without you I couldn’t even have made a beginning. And
now that success is within our grasp, why, we’re going to share that,
too.”
She was leaning forward, staring at the floor.
“You—you don’t seem as glad as I thought you’d be,” he complained.
She roused herself.
“I was thinking of Burnett,” she answered. “It—it seems sort of hard on
him.”
“If he speculated and lost—that isn’t our fault, is it?”
“No, Mark.”
“And after what Forsythe attempted—”
“But Mr. Burnett had nothing to do with that,” she protested.
“I only know he needed my process and tried that way to get it.”
“It was Forsythe,” she cut in.
“You know this Burnett, then?”
“I have met his wife,” she faltered. “And I have met his son. Forsythe
must have acted without their knowledge. I am absolutely certain.”
He glanced impatiently at his watch.
“Well, we’ll admit as much,” he concluded. “I must get back to Hartley.
You give your consent?”
“I—I don’t know anything about what to do,” she stammered. “You must
act upon your own judgment.”
“Right,” he nodded briskly. “Then I shall accept the offer. And
now,”—he stepped nearer her,—“I hope I won’t ever have to bother you
again with such details. They disturb you. I’m sorry to have had to
come to you to-day. I’ll be glad when I shan’t have to be bothered
myself. Hartley is going to take over just those things.”
She was sitting back in her chair a bit rigid.
“You don’t know what this means to me, Joan,” he said.
“I’m glad if it makes you happy.”
“It won’t make me completely happy until I’m able to make you happy.”
She rose now.
“Me? Please not to worry about me.”
“The next time I come it won’t be as your business partner,” he
whispered. “The next time—”
“We mustn’t look forward to the next time,” she warned.
He frowned.
“What do you mean?”
“Things happen in such a queer way,” she replied.
When he found himself again outside the house he was repeating that
last sentence to himself.
CHAPTER XXXIV
A BUSY MAN
For a week Joan tried at odd times to get hold of Dicky, but as near
as she could make out, there was not a busier man in New York. In
just what way he was busy she could not discover. He was never in
when she telephoned, and in reply to a note he answered only that it
took so much time trying to see that his father did not play too much
golf that he was left with scarcely a minute of his own. Under those
circumstances, and some others, she was glad enough when her father
proposed a couple of weeks at Atlantic City. So they motored down there
and stopped at the Traymore. It was just before the season, so that the
Board Walk was not yet too crowded to be unpleasant and one could still
sit on the hotel deck in decent seclusion. Here she relaxed and baked
herself in the sun or listened to the band concerts on the Pier, gazing
out to sea. It was an indolent, hazy existence, and was undoubtedly
just what she needed.
The one disturbing factor was the long letters she received every
morning from Devons. He was glad she had left town. He saw now that
the strain of the last month had told on her, and he blamed himself
for that. He should not have allowed her to undertake anything so
arduous. She was not accustomed to anything of the sort. She was not
hardened to it as Miss Manning was. The latter made no effort and left
the office at night as fresh as when she came in. She was proving very
satisfactory.