Joan and Co.
When Devons talked of her like that he was repeating almost the
very words of her mother. He was quite as blind as the latter had
been—quite as narrow. He had failed utterly to realize what these
months had really meant to her. It was not the work which had worried
her, but his attitude toward it. And from him she had looked for
something different. She had expected him to understand her—to see the
facts her mother and Dicky had missed. She had been happy—supremely
happy—with the joy that comes of service. That is the only happiness
that lasts—that can perpetuate itself. For a little while she had felt
herself useful, and it was this that had given significance to those
days. To be sure, she had done a very little, and perhaps had not done
that little as well as Miss Manning was doing it. But that little—he
had permitted Miss Manning to take that little away from her. There
was nothing left. That is what she felt as he wrote to her. There was
nothing left between them to give point to his later letters.
For the next few days he talked only of Hartley. He admired the man. He
stood almost in awe of the way he was taking hold of the business and
pushing through the negotiations with Burnett.
“Hartley is a genius,” he wrote. “And his man Starling shows the result
of training under him. The two are putting in ten hours a day and I am
spending most of my time with them. I’m turning out only just enough
enamel for Hartley to use because it seems a waste of time to putter
around in a small way after listening to the plans they have ahead. And
the letters are coming in every day clamoring for the stuff. I tell
you, Joan, we have a market bigger than I ever realized. We’ve got them
going.
“There isn’t much doubt but what we’ll get the Burnett plant. The only
question is one of price and Hartley is driving a sharp bargain.”
And so on and so on and so on. Those details did not interest her in
the slightest. She frowned at every mention of the name of Burnett.
There were times when she felt as though involved in some plot against
him—and against the little woman she had met who was so proud of Dicky
and against Dicky himself. She wished Dicky would write to her. She had
dropped him a note saying that she was going to Atlantic City and hoped
to hear from him. But she did not hear. At the end of a week she was
going through her morning mail looking for his boyish handwriting with
an eagerness that surprised her. When instead of that she found the
businesslike scrawl of Devons, she was always brought up with something
of a shock. It was odd, but down here the whole affair with Devons was
fast becoming more and more a detached episode. It was probably due
to the fact that it began so abruptly and ended so abruptly and had
so little to do with her present existence, while Dicky went back in
her life several years. Then, too, one could not imagine Devons here
without spoiling him. On the other hand, this was just the sort of
place into which Dicky would fit. He would like nothing better than to
sprawl out in a steamer chair beside her with a rug over his knees and
talk of nothing in particular. She would like to hear him talk again of
nothing in particular.
Then when finally the deal was consummated—Devons sent her a wire the
day the purchase of the Burnett plant was made—he began to write an
entirely different sort of letter. She had anticipated this. She had
dreaded just this. Her cheeks burned as she read the first one—burned
with shame as though she were reading another woman’s letters. It would
have been better had he told her these things. With his eyes back of
the words and his vibrant voice they would not have sounded quite so—so
crude. They would have seemed more personal. Besides, she could have
checked him then at the beginning. As it was, he had his own way—taking
everything for granted. Even when in her replies she did not reply
at all, he retained his confidence. It was as though he assumed her
consent to all he wrote. Once she tried to write him what she felt, but
it sounded as crude as his own letters, so she tore it up. She felt
quite helpless, and in this emergency turned in her thoughts again to
Dicky—of all men. It was, under the circumstances, rather absurd.
In the end it was Dicky rather than Devons that brought her back to
town. She had begun to get worried about him. In the two weeks she
had been away she had not heard a single word. This was unlike him,
for even when she had treated him most badly he had never ceased to
keep her posted about what he was doing. He had written her daily from
Florida at a time when she had been so occupied with other matters that
she had not deigned to reply at all to most of them. But it had not
been because she did not like to hear from him. Even when he was most
foolish she had not objected to reading his outpourings. There were a
great many things Dicky did not understand, but now that no one in the
world understood that seemed less significant. He, at any rate, was
consistent. And whatever it was now that prevented him from writing,
she had no doubt whatever but that if she could see him she would find
him exactly the same old Dicky. It was with an unexpressed desire to
prove this that she came back to town instead of remaining another week
as her mother urged.
She had not intended to tell Devons of her plans, but meant to have a
day or so to herself. That morning, however, he called her up over the
long distance just as she was starting, and insisted upon seeing her
that afternoon.
“I want to take you all over the new plant,” he said. “We are fairly
well installed now, and you must see for yourself what progress we’ve
made. It will open your eyes.”
It was the last thing in the world she desired to do, but she knew that
if she refused now it would be only to postpone the inevitable, so she
consented. He was to call at the house for her at three.
When he stepped into the drawing-room she felt as though he had
undergone some metamorphosis. It was almost as though he had changed
physically. He was quicker in his movements—more aggressive in his
attitude. He carried himself like a nervous man of affairs. But perhaps
these peculiarities were given undue emphasis by his dress. She had
never seen him except in the old pepper-and-salt suit he had first worn
and the somewhat battered gray felt hat. They had to her grown to be
a part of him. These had now been discarded for a new blue serge that
fitted perfectly and a new Panama. She noticed, too, that his low shoes
were new and that he was wearing gloves. It was a conventional enough
costume, but it made him over into a modern young New York business man
of a type. Much that characterized him as Mark Devons had vanished. To
be sure, all this was superficial, but it had its effect.
It was clear that he was impatient to show her at once the tangible
result of his success, and so after scarcely more than commonplace
greetings they started in the waiting taxi in which he had driven up.
On the way it was of Hartley again that he talked—of Hartley and the
prospect that lay ahead.
“It’s like a fairy story coming true!” he exclaimed. “I can hardly
believe it yet. It is only a few months ago that I was wandering around
these streets on foot and penniless. And now—”
He turned to her as though this were the first time he had seen her
since her return.
“You’re looking very much better,” he said abruptly. “The rest has done
you good.”
“Yes?”
“At the rate things are going now, I ought to be able to get away
myself for a little while this summer. If it’s possible I’d like to
get home for a week.”
She tried to show some interest.
“They’ll be glad to see you.”
“They will when they see what I bring them.”
The cab had stopped before a fair-sized building. As she stepped out he
pointed to a freshly painted inscription. It read
=DEVONS MANUFACTURING COMPANY=
“I wanted to make it Devons, Fairburne & Hartley,” he explained. “But
Hartley thought this was the better trade name. Every time I look at it
I’m half afraid it’s only an optical illusion. Read it for me.”
She repeated the words, “Devons Manufacturing Company.”
“That’s it,” he nodded. “Some different from the one crowded room we
started with, eh?”
“It looks very imposing,” she answered.
“We’ve taken over two or three standard kinds of blacking Burnett was
making. But as soon as I get time I’m going to try to improve on those.
I believe I can do it.”
“I believe you can,” she said.
He led her in as proudly as he might have escorted her into a palace.
After all, it stood for that. From this old building was coming the
wherewithal to build the Arkwright house which was to be his real
palace. He took her into the general offices where Burnett used to sit
and introduced her to Starling—a clean-cut young fellow.
“One of the partners in the firm,” he explained.
Starling, with a batch of letters in his hand, paused long enough to
be decent, and then stepped over to Miss Manning who sat behind her
machine in a corner of the office. In another minute he was dictating
and she was watching Miss Manning’s quick fingers taking down the
letters in shorthand. Devons was forced to call her twice to get her
attention.
“We’ll begin at the ground floor and go up,” he announced. “I want you
to see it all.”
So they went down again to a big room filled with kettles where a
half-dozen men stained with black, sticky stuff were about their tasks.
It was difficult to distinguish one of them from another, but as she
watched them one of the men lifted his head. His face was that of a
negro minstrel. She caught her breath as her eyes met his. He, too,
appeared taken aback for a second and then he grinned. He paused only
long enough to nod and turned to his work. She clutched Devons’s arm.
“That man—over there?” she questioned.
She pointed him out to Devons, but the latter only shook his head.
“I don’t know one of them from another,” he answered. “Some of them are
Burnett’s men, and I believe Starling has taken on one or two new ones.”
“But that,” she said,—“that is Dicky Burnett.”
“Don’t know him,” he answered indifferently and started on.
But she left his side and hurried over to Dicky Burnett and touched his
arm as he was bending over his work.
“Dicky!” she cried.
He looked up.
“Hello,” he answered.
“You—what are you doing here?” she demanded.
“I’ve taken a job—to learn the business,” he replied, unabashed.
“But you—surely that wasn’t necessary?”
“It was,” he answered.
“I don’t understand. You must come and tell me about it. You must come
this evening.”
“I’m afraid—”
“No. I insist. You will come this evening.”
“Very well,” he consented. “Only—”
“I shall expect you at eight. You promise?”
“Yes.”
Devons in astonishment had reached her side. She turned back with him.
“You know the fellow?”
“He is Mr. Burnett’s son,” she answered. “I—oh, it’s all so topsy-turvy
I want to go home.”
“But you haven’t seen half.”
“I’ve seen enough,” she pleaded. “I want to go home.”
CHAPTER XXXV
LOVE
When Dicky strolled in at eight, his old immaculate, nonchalant self,
it was hard for her to believe that he was the same man she had seen
a few hours before smudge-covered and in greasy overalls. As she came
forward excitedly to greet him, her big eyes were full of questions.
“Tell me,” she said eagerly, “from the beginning.”
His own eyes took fire at the beauty of her. In all the years he had
known her he had never seen her look fairer. She was all she had ever
been at her best and something more. It was that something more that
puzzled him. It was as though all her superficial charms had suddenly