menu_book Chapter 19

Book 2, Chapter 3, Sections 6-9 of Bread. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Read by Wild Shimmering Path. Bread by Charles G. Norris. Book 2, Chapter 3, Sections 6-9.

Some six weeks after her return to New York from Atlantic City, Jeanette arrayed herself in her braided broadcloth tailor suit, drew on her tan silk stockings and tan shoes, set the gray hat at a smart angle upon her head, added the touch of a fine meshed veil that brought the curling gray cox feather close to her hair, and paid her long deferred visit to the office. As she turned in at the familiar portals she was astonished at the difference

between her present feelings and those of old. A year before she had entered the building with a hurried step, a preoccupied manner, her mind busy as she hastened to her work with ways of attacking and dispatching it. She had been conscious then that she was the President's secretary, and had borne herself accordingly as she made her way through the groups of gossiping girls, aware they thought her haughty and unapproachable. Today she was Mrs. Martin

Devlin, a matron, smartly dressed, come to pay a visit to the publishing house with the air of a lady who had perhaps arrived to select a book in the retail department, or to enter a subscription. The dusty office atmosphere was alien to her now. The bustling, eager clerks intent upon their affairs seemed pettily employed. There was something ridiculous about it all to her. Yet less than three months ago, this had been her world. All the vital interests of her life

had been centered within these square walls. She still loved it, loved the building, the cold cement floors, the bare ceilings studded with sprinkler valves, loved what evidences of her own handiwork she recognized. The window boxes and the miniature close-clipped trees that stood in the entrance, the name of the house in neat gold lettering on the street windows. Ellis, the colored elevator man, was the first to recognize her. He grinned, flashing his white

teeth out of his black face, chuckling largely. Well, it certainly is good to see you. It certainly is like old times to see you round, he said, rolling back the clanging door. She stepped out upon the familiar fourth floor. It was the same, no different, the old racket, the old hum, and confusion. A minute or two passed before she was seen. Then there was a general whispering. Machines stopped clicking, heads turned. There were smiles and nods from all parts of the big room. Mrs. O'Brien,

Mr. Kipps' stenographer, rose and came to greet her. Miss Sylvester and Miss Kate Smith followed suit. Presently there was a small crowd around her with questions, laughter, little cooing cries of pleasure, a feminine chatter. She caught Mr. Alistair's eye as she was leaving Mr. Corey's office. Upon my word! She could not hear him say it, but she saw his lips from the phrase and noted his pleased surprise. He came forward at once, smiling broadly, pushing his way through the

women who gave place to him. Glad to see you, Miss Sturgis, he said, beaming. Only by Jove you're not Miss Sturgis anymore. Devlin, isn't it? Does Mr. Corey know you're here? He'll be delighted, I know. Wants to see you badly. Two or three matters have come up he'd like to ask you about. Nobody around here seems to know a thing about them. Come in, he'll be mighty glad to see you. He pulled back the swing gate in the counter and walked with her toward Mr. Corey's office.

As Jeanette passed within a few feet of Miss Holland's desk and as their eyes met, she mouthed, See you in just a minute. Here's an old friend of ours, said Mr. Alistair, opening Mr. Corey's door. The white head came up, and immediately a pleased flush spread over the face of the man at the desk. Well, well, well, he said, getting to his feet and coming to take both her hands. Miss Sturgis, it's good to see you again. She's not Miss Sturgis anymore, laughed Mr. Alistair.

That's so, that's so, it's Devlin, of course. Well, Mrs. Devlin, you surely look as though marriage agreed with you. They were all laughing in good spirits. A few moments of inconsequential remarks, and then Alistair withdrew while Mr. Corey made Jeanette sit down. Oh, I must have a talk, he insisted, and hear all about you.

The door opened and young Tommy Livingston came in with a question on his lips. His eyes lighted as he recognized the caller. My new secretary, said Corey, smiling. Oh, is that so? Jeanette was pleased. The boy had always been a protege of hers. Well, Tommy, this is a step up for you. Yes, indeed, he said, grinning. I'm doing the best I know how. Tommy does very well, approved Mr. Corey. I didn't know you

understood dictation, said Jeanette. I don't very well. I've got a stenographer in my office. Remember, Miss Bates? And I'm going to night school and learning shorthand. I can run a machine fairly decently now. Well, isn't that splendid?

Presently she was alone with Mr. Corey again. He asked about her, about Martin, about her married life. She was frank with her answers. I shall never thank you enough, she said, for persuading me to accept Mr. Devlin. I never would have married if you hadn't made me, and I never would have known what I missed.

I guess I'd have been here for the rest of my days. She was eager for his news, too. Yes, he and Mrs. Corey were quite reconciled. She was very sorry she had maligned Jeanette. He was going to England in ten days and was taking her with him. Babs was about the same. She would never be any better. They had an excellent trained nurse for her, and she was to spend the rest of the summer at a camp in the Adirondacks. Willis had written

a most interesting letter from Johannesburg. He and Erickson were trekking north through Metabolaland and Bolowayo. Mr. Corey did not expect to hear from him again for three months. Affairs at the office were about as usual. They expected to publish a big novel in the fall by Hobart Hauser. Garrett Farrington Trent had left his former publishers and come over to them. Advertising was bad. There was some talk of a printer's strike. The lady's fortune had been

selling excellently on the stands. The pattern business was booming. There were one or two matters he wanted to ask her about. What was the arrangement with Hardy as to the dramatic rights of Harnessed? No record could be found of the agreement. And did she recall from what concern they had bought that last stock of special craft wrapper? In the folder containing all the correspondence with the electrical manufacturing company had disappeared. What could have become

of it? She answered as best she could. When she got up to go, he accompanied her to the door of his office. I can't begin to tell you how we all miss you here, he said gravely, and how much I do especially. It's been hard sledding without you. I've thought a hundred times, oh a thousand times, of how much you did for me to make the work easier, and how much you lifted from my shoulders. I got used to it, I'm afraid, and took a good deal for granted, but I'm glad you're married.

That's where you belong, making a home for yourself and leading your own life. There was moisture in Jeanette's eyes as she turned away. She loved Chandler Corey. She said to herself, he was a wonderful man. She knew she was the only person in the world who truly appreciated him, and she knew he loved her too. It was this glimpse of his affection for her that moved her. Theirs had been a rare comradeship, a fine communion, a beautiful relationship. It was

ended. It was past and done. They could no longer be together or even find an excuse to see one another without having their actions misinterpreted. It had been the business, the common interest, that had wrought the tie between them, and now that there was no office, the intimacy and companionship was at an end, the bond sundered. Soon they would have but a casual interest in one another, and she had been closer to him than anyone else in the world, like a daughter,

and he a father to her. It was sad, a matter to be mourned, each going a different way, only memories of a splendid cooperation and friendship remaining to remind them of happy years together. Jeanette stopped at Miss Holland's desk and made her promise to take lunch with her at the noon hour when they could have a good talk. As she left the scene of her former activities, her progress through the aisles between the desks was once again a succession of hand clasps,

congratulations, well wishes, nods, and smiles. It touched her deeply. She had no idea she had been so well-liked. Everyone there seemed to be her friend. Miss Holland joined her at half past 12 in the lobby of the Park Avenue Hotel, and they had a delightful luncheon together at one of the little tables edging the balcony about the court. News was exchanged eagerly. Jeanette's was scant, but her companion had endless gossip to retail. Miss Holland's nephew, Jerry Sedgwick,

was a midshipman now, and on his summer cruise in Cuban waters aboard a big battleship, she and Mrs. O'Brien had a little apartment down on Waverly Place and managed quite comfortably. The office was getting dreadfully on Miss Holland's nerves. It was so different from what it used to be. In the old days, everyone had done the best that was in him, or her, to make the business a success. No one had cared what the returns were to be. The idea of doing more and better work had been the thought actuating all. Now that the Corrie Company had become one of the largest and most prosperous publishing houses in the country, the spirit had changed. Everyone thought about profits.

They had conferences of all the heads of departments each week and no one was interested in learning what was going on in the different branches of the business. What commanded their attention was how much profit was to be shown. It disgusted Miss Holland. There was no get-together club anymore. Mr. Kipps was becoming more and more critical and fault-finding.

He had headaches all the time. Miss Holland believed he was a sick man. He never took any exercise. The pattern business had grown enormously. Mr. Cruikshanks had done wonders with it. They had had to lease a whole big building over on 10th Avenue to take care of it. The lady's fortune had a circulation of nearly half a million. Horatio Stevens had had a very substantial raise and had grown awfully opinionated and disagreeable.

There was more gossip of lesser significance. Miss Hagenheimer of the mailing department had gone on the stage, and had a part now in It Happened in Nordland, while Miss Gleason had married that big George Robinson of the press room, and Tommy Livingston would soon be engaged, if he wasn't already, to Mrs. O'Brien's little sister, Agnes, who worked in the mail order department. Oh yes, and had Jeanette heard what had happened to Van Alstine, it was terrible.

He was in the penitentiary at Atlanta for using the United States mail for fraudulent purposes. He had become involved with some unscrupulous men who advertised worthless stock, and the federal authorities had put them all in jail. And poor Mrs. Innes was dead. She died at her brother's house in Weehawken. Jeanette devoured these details. She sat absorbed, fascinated, listening to every word that came from her companion's lips. She could not get enough

of this chatter about her old associates. She was hungry for every scrap of information, fearful that Miss Holland might neglect to tell her everything. She walked back with her friend to the office and would not let her go for another ten minutes until she had heard the final details of a violent quarrel between Miss Rubens and Mr. Cavendish. Miss Holland promised to dine with her and Martin soon, and Jeanette promised in return to come with her husband

to dinner with Miss Holland and Mrs. O'Brien in the Waverly Place apartment. They parted with many such assurances. Jeanette walked all the way home in a daze of memories, thoughts of the old times crowded upon her brain, her interest in business affairs and personal happenings in the Chandler B. Corey Company awake again, stirring with all its former keenness. The dinner to which Mr. and Mrs. Herbert Gibbs were invited, and to which after various postponements they ultimately

came, was a dismal failure from Jeanette's point of view. First of all, she was late with the meal itself, and in hurryings spattered grease on her gown. The yeast-powder biscuits would not rise, and the leg of lamb was underdone, the meat pink when Martin carved it. Then Martin himself was nervous and excited, and the cocktails he had with his guests before they sat down went to his head and made him talk and act sillily. Lastly, and most important, the Gibbs were hopeless. Herbert

Gibbs was flat-headed, and there was no curve at the back of his neck while the hair grew down under his collar, sparse and short. He had an expressionless, stupid face, and it was impossible to tell whether he was being bored or amused at the attempt of young Mr. and Mrs. Devlin to entertain him and his wife. Mrs. Gibbs was even less prepossessing. She was a plump German girl, with thin yellow hair done up in a knob on top of her head, which frankly showed her white scalp

through wide gaps. She was irritatingly voluble, had a piercing, sharp, nervous laugh, and exclaimed shrilly about whatever Jeanette said or did. She chatted unceasingly about her child, little Herbie, who it seemed was only ten months old but could already both walk and talk, and she embarrassed Jeanette by asking in a whisper how soon there was going to be a little Devlin. There was nothing spontaneous in the conversation during the whole evening,

neither while they sat at table nor later in the living room, where Mr. Gibbs sat stolidly puffing at cigars, sipping the red burgundy with which Martin kept his glass filled, and Mrs. Gibbs rattled on about how they had found their home at Cohasset Beach on Long Island, and the involved circumstances connected with its eventual purchase. Mercifully, they were obliged to take an early train home on account of Herbie, but did not depart until they had warned their young hosts

that they would soon be expected to spend a Sunday with them in the country. That night, going to bed, Martin and Jeanette had their first quarrel. It left her shaken and unhappy all the next day. She ridiculed their guests, and Martin defended them. She declared they were stupid and common. He, that she didn't know them, that they were a very good-hearted sort, that she had been cold and patronizing with Mrs. Gibbs, that her husband had noticed it and become awfully sore. It would

have been a damn sight better, Martin concluded stormily if they had never been asked. And after all the trouble I went to, raged Jeanette to herself, hugging her side of the bed, rebellion strong within her, cooking all day long, planning everything out, going over to Columbus Avenue twice, getting flowers for the table, working myself dizzy and ruining my organdy, just so he could make a good impression on them and perhaps help himself a little at the office.

A tear trickled down her nose, and she wiped it off with a fingertip. She would never give in to him. Never. She would make him beg and beg and beg for her forgiveness. It would be a long, long time. With head aching and trying to choke down a sniffle that threatened to betray her, she fell asleep.

There was an eager reconciliation the next night. Promises, vows, assurances, harsh self-accusations, and Martin carried her off after dinner to two-dollar seats at the Broadway, where Jeanette whispering penitently, hugging his arm in the dark of the theatre, that if the Gibses did ask them to visit them some Sunday, she would go and be her nicest to both. The occasion when Sandy

McGregor had the young Devlins to dine with him in style on the roof garden of the new Astor Hotel was another affair that turned out unfortunately. The lady whom Sandy asked to be fourth in the party, a Mrs. Fontella, was not the type with whom Jeanette had been accustomed to associate. She was boldly handsome, with great round black eyes, masses of auburn hair, a cavernous red mouth, and a large, prominent bust. She was noisy and coarse, and when she laughed she showed a

great deal of gum and rows of glittering gold-filled teeth. Jeanette froze into her most rigid and uncommunicative self. Just before dessert was served, Martin and Sandy excused themselves from the table and disappeared, leaving her sitting for almost half an hour alone with her noisy and conspicuous companion. It was evident when the men returned, they had been downstairs to the bar, where they had had drinks, and had been shaking dice. Jeanette was thoroughly incensed,

and although Sandy had seats for the theater, she complained she was ill and insisted upon going home. There was another quarrel between her husband and herself that night, but before they went to sleep he won her forgiveness, abused himself for treating her shabbily, told her again and again he was sorry, and promised never to be guilty of neglecting her again. He could be irresistibly winning when he wanted to be.

End of Book 2, Chapter 3, Sections 6-9