menu_book Chapter 25

Book 2, Chapter 7, Sections 1-4 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 7, Sections 1-4. September brought an end to the yacht racing, and a few weeks later Martin's beloved A-boat

was towed with a number of others a mile or two down the sound to be housed in winter quarters. Jeanette earnestly hoped that this would mean her husband would spend more time with her at weekends. He was gone from Monday till Friday, all day, and she felt that at least part of his Saturday afternoons and Sundays should be hers. But Martin always wanted to do things on these days. He wanted some active form of amusement, some excitement, a party, as he called it,

and he was never content to sit at home and read or go for a walk with his wife. He asserted he needed the exercise, and if he missed it between Saturday noon and Sunday night, he was stale for the rest of the week. Sometimes Jeanette came into the city by train on a Saturday, met him after the office closed at noon, and together they went to lunch and later to a matinee. Then the alternative presented itself of either remaining in town for dinner and going to another

show, or of taking a late afternoon train back to Cohasset Beach. Such a program, of course, cost money, but unless Jeanette did this, Martin would go off to the yacht club Saturday afternoon and return there in the evening after dinner to play poker. The Saturday night dances gave place at the close of the yachting season to smokers, which only the men attended. A certain group called itself The Gang, and prominent in it were such club lights as Herbert Gibbs, Zeb Klein, Fritz

Wiggins, Steve Teschenmacher, and Doc French. Martin Devlin was warmly hailed as one of them. They played poker every Saturday night, and the session lasted until an early hour Sunday morning. Jeanette came to hate these men. She resented their taking her husband from her. She begrudged his gambling when he could not afford to lose. When she protested, the only answer from him was a testy, quit your crabbing. He almost invariably won, and divided his winnings with her, or at

least divided what purported to be his winnings. His wife despised herself for taking the money. It made her want him to win, though she wished to be indifferent to his card playing, since she did not approve of it. She tried to justify her acceptance of the money on the ground that it went to pay off some of their bills, but sometimes she bought a small piece of finery for herself with it. She was becoming very shabby in appearance. She reminded herself almost daily

that she had not bought any new clothes since she was married, and the bride's wardrobe, though ample, was now worn and much depleted. It was towards the end of summer, when already there was a brisk touch of fall in the air, that Roy Beardsley fell ill with typhoid, and for three weeks was a desperately sick man. Martin, who had various talks with the physician, told Jeanette that there was small hope of his recovery. Certain phases of the case made it

appear very grave. Jeanette took Etta and Ralph to stay with her in the country, and Mrs. Sturgis moved out to the flat in the Bronx to help Alice fight for Roy's life. Jeanette, from the first, believed he was going to die. Destiny, it seemed to her, had ordained it. For the first time in many years she got down on her knees in her bedroom and prayed. She realized more clearly than anyone else in the family what a tragedy Roy's death would be to them all. To helpless Alice,

and his helpless children, to her little mother, to Martin, to herself, she did not know what would become of Alice and her babies. How would they live? She and Martin would have to shoulder the responsibility, and they had difficulty in making ends meet as it was. Where would Martin get fifty or even twenty-five dollars a month to send Alice? And how could Alice and the children manage on so small a sum. Roy, she knew, had a $3,000 life insurance policy, hardly more than enough to

bury him decently. Alice could not go to work. She had not the faintest notion of how to earn a living. She was clever with her needle, but that was all. It was impossible to imagine her as seamstress. But she would either have to go into that work and let Jeanette keep the children, or she would have to live with her mother, while Mrs. Sturgis and Martin, between them, would have to contribute what they were able to their support. It was a terrible prospect in any

case. Jeanette was ridden with fear of the catastrophe. How different it would be, she reminded herself, were she in Alice's situation. She with her profession and her experience in business. She had nothing to fear on that score. She could always take care of herself. Poor Alice. Poor little brown bird. There would be nothing for her to do. She could not support herself. not to mention her two children.

Jeanette remembered that once she had begged to be allowed to follow her sister's example and go to work, and she recalled how she and her mother had vigorously opposed her. She wondered now if that had been right. Perhaps every woman ought to have a profession, or at least a recognized means of earning her livelihood.

How secure Alice would feel now in that case if Roy died. Grief-stricken, yes, but with the comforting knowledge that neither she nor her children need be dependent on anyone. All day long, as Jeanette watched Etta and Ralph playing under the apple trees, which had begun to shed their yellow leaves and the scant wizened fruit from their scraggy branches, she thought of Roy's possible death

and her sister's plight. Any one of the family group could be spared better than he. Yes, even Alice. Oh, it would be a calamity, a dreadful, horrible calamity if Roy died. Twenty times a day she closed her eyes and thought a prayer. She enjoyed having the children with her. Etta was an affectionate, ebullient child, always ready with hugs and kisses.

Little Ralph placidly viewed the world with reposeful solemnity, made no demands, was amiably satisfied with any arrangement his elders or even his big sister thought wise, and in his gentleness was extraordinarily appealing. Late in the afternoons, Jeanette would dress them in clean rompers, pull on their sweaters and set them out on the lower step of the front stoop to wait for Martin.

There they would sit for sometimes an hour or even longer, watching for him, and at the first glimpse, Etta would run screaming to meet him with arms flung wide, Ralph following as best he could. Martin was particularly in love with the boy, and he would hold the baby in his lap for long periods, neither of them making a sound,

or the child would grasp his finger and toddle beside him, seesawing from one slightly bowed leg to another to inspect the pool and perhaps capture a frog. Only a miracle would stay death's hand, the doctor had said, but the miracle happened. Very slowly the tide began to turn, and inch by inch the flood of life came back to the wasted body of Roy Beardsley. Jeanette shed tears of gratitude when it was definitely asserted he

would get well. She left the children in Hilda's care and went to the city to rejoice with her mother and sister. They clung together the way they used to do before either of the girls was married, wept and sniffled and kissed one another again and again. Roy's blue eyes seemed enormously large and dark when his sister-in-law saw him. His lip was drawn tight across his teeth, and these protruded like the fangs of a famished dog. His cheeks were sunk in great hollows beneath

his cheekbones, and his hands were the hands of the starved. He was a living skeleton, but his great eyes acknowledged her presence and her smile, and there was a faint twitching of the tight-drawn lip. Although she had been prepared, she could not keep from betraying the shock his altered appearance gave her. He was indeed ghastly. The averted tragedy sobered them all. Roy would be many weeks getting back his health, and he must take particular care of himself during

the approaching winter, the doctor cautioned. No one ever whispered the word tuberculosis, but each knew it was that which Roy must guard against. If it could be managed, he ought to be taken to a warmer climate, the physician advised, and he must make no effort but rest, drink milk, and eat nourishing food for a long time until he had entirely regained his strength. His father eagerly wrote him to come to California. Jeanette and Martin asked to keep the children.

Everyone urged Alice to take her husband to the Golden State. So just before the first snow of the year, she and Roy departed westward, waving goodbye through the iron grill at the station to the little group behind it, who waved vigorously in return until, All aboard! was shouted. The porter helped Alice up into the vestibule, and the train began slowly to move. The winter was hard. It was unusually cold, and snow lay heavy in great mounds along the edges of the village streets,

and between trails of it meandered through the frozen fields. Soot from the trains blackened the white drifts and the roadbeds were rutted in sharp ridges and gray ice that crackled and shivered like glass underfoot, formed in the hollows. The leafless trees spread their branches in black nakedness against the bleak sky, and the wind blew chilly across the bare countryside from the icy waters of the Sound. Yet Jeanette knew her first happiness at Cohasset Beach. Her days

were full of the care of her small niece and nephew. They were endearing mites, exacting, but warmly affectionate. She had had no experience in bringing up children, but her mother came down to stay with her for a while, and Mrs. Drigo, who lived a hundred yards or so down the street and had four healthy youngsters of her own, gave counsel in emergencies. Jeanette devoted herself to her task. She attacked the problem much as she would have met some untoward circumstance in

business. She considered herself efficient, set great store by efficiency, and proposed to apply it to the care of her sister's children. She devised a system and adhered to it. In the cold mornings when the children woke, they might look at their picture books until she came in to dress them. They must not make any noise, and Martin must not go in to play with them or even open their door to say hello when he got up early to fix the furnace. They had their poggy and milk at

eight, and immediately thereafter were bundled into their woolly leggings, sweaters, hooded caps, and mittens, and sent out to play in the snow. They were to amuse themselves, until eleven, when furred and properly shod their aunt appeared to take them with her to market, wheeling Ralph in his go-cart while Etta trailed along beside them. Upon returning, the children had their luncheon, always a good full meal of baked potato,

cut up meat and vegetables, and a little dessert. Jeanette believed small children should have light suppers, and that their dinner should come at midday. After they had eaten, it was nap-time, and this was the blessed interval of relaxation for herself. Her charges must stay in bed until three o'clock, when they were redressed in their woolly leggings, sweaters, and caps, and permitted to go out again to play in the snow. For the rest of her life, bits of watery ice stuck

to the fine hairs of woolen garments always brought back to Jeanette with poignant emotion the memory of these days. When the children stamped into the house at the end of their play, their skins hard and coldly fresh, their breaths puff of vapor, their cheeks crimson, the little sweaters and leggings would be encrusted with hard, icy snow. Jeanette would have a log fire going, and she would undress them before its crackling blaze

and hang their damp outer garments on the fire screen to dry. The little naked figures dancing in the warm room in the flickering firelight was always a delightful sight to her. They were their merriest at this hour and said their cutest things with which she remembered later to regale Martin. Upstairs the oil heater would be warming the

bathroom, which Hilda had made ready, and presently there would come a mad dash into the dining room and up the cold stairway to the grateful temperature of the little room. And there began a great splashing with shrieks and admonitions, and here Jeanette dried their sweet little bodies and slipped them into their cotton flannel double gowns. Then downstairs once more, before the replenished log fire to sit on either side of her and empty their warmed bowls of crackers and milk,

and listen to the stories she either read or told them until Martin came in to find them so. Then followed kisses and hugs all round, and immediately thereafter the children were dispatched to bed with a final warning from their aunt that there must positively be no talking. Thus it was, day after day, always the same, relentlessly the same, undeviating monotony. Martin always praised Jeanette.

Her mother praised her. Even the neighbors praised her. Alice wrote loving messages of deep gratitude. She responded to the general approval, delighted in the applause, the thought that she was proving herself equal to this unfamiliar role,

that she was doing her job efficiently, comforted, and inspired her. Reveling in her righteous duty, she threw herself passionately into its perfect execution. She gave it all her energy, thought, and time. She told her husband and mother with much emphasis that Etta and Ralph were far better behaved now than they ever had been with their own father and mother.

It's routine, I tell you, she would say. Children respond to routine, and this business of deviating from a strict schedule is demoralizing. A little firmness is all that is necessary in making children good. They really are very adaptable. I confess I was surprised.

They learned so quickly. The minute Etta and Ralph saw when they first came that I wouldn't stand for any foolishness, they were as meek as lambs, I declare. Alice is so soft and easygoing with them. I hate to think of their being spoiled when they go back. It was another surprise to Jeanette to discover how little the presence of the children in the

house disturbed Martin. She had thought he would grow restless after a time, and that they would be certain to annoy him. She had been sure he would soon object to ties which would chain her to the house. Martin loved children, loved them particularly well for a man, perhaps, but he was often unreasonable where her time and movements were concerned, and had always rebelled at restraint. Now he mildly accepted the new element in their lives without protest,

and as time passed, continued amiable. If she could not go out with him, or accept an invitation, he did not reproach or even urge her, but praised her for her devotion, and often stayed at home to keep her company. Saturday nights, however, when the gang gathered at the yacht club, he went off to join them, but since the children were with her, Jeanette did not mind being alone in the house. Come home early, she would say to him. It's such fun to have you in the house on

Sundays, and the children love it. I hate to have you wake up tired and hollow-eyed, and you know, Martin, when you get only two or three hours sleep, you're sometimes a little cross, and the children notice it. You're dead right, he would agree with her readily. I'll tell the boys I've got to quit at midnight. They can begin the rounds then. There's no sense in our sitting up until three or four o'clock in the morning. And often he kept his word. Alice and Roy had planned to stay

six months in California, but in April Jeanette received a letter from her sister with the news that they had decided to return the first of May. Roy was in fine shape. He was even fat. They both were mad to see their children. The letter left Jeanette feeling strangely blank. What was she to do without Etta and Ralph? She had talked a great deal about the fearful responsibility, the exacting care these youngsters involved, and what a relief it would be to her when their mother came home to

take them off her hands. She had aired these views to her own mother and to Mrs. Drigo, Mrs. Gibbs, and particularly to Martin. Yet now that Alice was coming a month, even six weeks sooner than she intended. She had none of the expected elation. A sadness settled upon her. She wondered how she would occupy herself when the babies were gone. What do you suppose Roy intends to do? she asked Martin one day. He hasn't got a job. I don't see how he's going to manage for Alice and the children.

He might leave them with us for a while. No, I suppose Alice will want them back immediately. It will be some time before he gets settled. Oh, he'll find something to do. Right away, Martin answered her cheerfully. That was one of Martin's irritating qualities, reflected his wife. He was always so optimistic, so confident, never appreciating how serious things sometimes were. Roy and Alice were facing a grave situation. It might be desperate. Martin refused to regard it

as important. I wonder if Mr. Corey would take him back at the office, Jeanette hazarded. Very probable he would. It was a brilliant idea, and acting upon it at once she went the following day to see her old employer. The visit to the publishing house was strangely disquieting. She was struck by the number of new faces, the many changes. The counter which formerly defined the waiting room on the fourth floor had been removed and now the space, walled in by partitions,

was converted into a retail bookstore with shelves lined with new books and display tables. A gray-haired woman inquired her name with a polite, indifferent smile, and when she brought back word that Mr. Corey would see Mrs. Devlin, undertook to show Jeanette the way to his office. There were changes behind the partitions as well.

It was amazing the differences two years had wrought. There was none of the flutter of interest her appearance had caused at her previous visit. One or two of her old friends came up to shake her hand and to ask about her, while a few others nodded and smiled. She did not see Miss Holland anywhere, and Mr. Alistair, of whom she caught a glimpse

in a distant corner, accorded her a casual wave of the hand. She was forgotten already. She, who had enjoyed so much respect, even affection, who had been the President's secretary, had been known to have his ear and often to have been his advisor. Miss Whaley, whom she remembered as having been connected with the mailing department,

she met face to face on her way to Mr. Corey's office. But the girl had even forgotten her name. But there was nothing wanting in her old chief's reception. Mr. Corey rose from his desk the instant she entered his room and reached for both her hands.

He was the same warm, cordial friend, eager to hear everything about her. How was she getting on? How was that good-looking husband of hers? Where were they living? He reproached her for not having been in to see him,

appeared genuinely hurt that she had neglected him so long. He had changed, too, Jeanette noticed. His face sagged a little and he no longer bore himself with his old erectness. She observed he still dyed his mustache. A little of the dye stuff was smeared upon his cheek.

News of himself and his family was not particularly cheerful. Babs was in a private sanitarium at Nyack. Mrs. Corey was badly crippled with rheumatism, a virulent arthritis, and in the care of a trained nurse had gone to Germany to try to get rid of it. Willis had picked up an African malarial fever while he had been exploring, and although he was

home again, recurrent attacks of it kept him in poor health. Jeanette noted a gentleness in Mr. Corey's voice as he spoke of his son. He blamed himself for Willis's condition. That African trip on which he had sent him was responsible for the boy's broken constitution. As for business, things were in bad shape too. The public did not seem to be buying books anymore. They weren't interested. The lady's fortune was doing pretty well, but the increased cost

of production knocked the profits out of everything. The office was demoralized. The folks did not seem to cooperate as they had done in the old days. He himself found daily reasons to regret the hour when Jeanette had ceased to be his secretary. He hadn't had any sort of efficient help since she left. Recent secretaries all had proven a constant source of annoyance to him. Tommy Livingston had got married and asked for one raise after another until Mr. Corey was

obliged to let him go. He believed he was doing very well for himself in the news photograph business. Mr. Corey finally had had to take Mrs. O'Brien away from Mr. Kipps, but even she was far from competent. There were other details about the business that awoke the old interest in Jeanette. Something in this office atmosphere fired the girl. It brought buoyancy to her pulse.

It stimulated her. It put life into her veins. How happy she had been here. Never so contented, she said to herself. She hastened to tell Mr. Corey the object of her visit,

and he promised to find a place somewhere in the organization for Roy. I have only a hazy recollection of the young man, he said, but I'll do whatever you want me to on your account, Miss Sturgis. Jeanette smiled. She would always be Miss Sturgis to Mr. Corey. She liked it that way. Her married name meant nothing to him, never would. She thanked him warmly and promised to

come see him again. As she made her way out through the crowded aisles of the general office, amid the familiar rattle of typewriters and hum of work past old faces and new, her heart tugged in her breast. She was still part of it. Some of herself was implanted eternally here in the tide of work, in the busy, preoccupied clerks, in the hustle and bustle, in the smell of ink and paste and pencil dust, in the very walls of the building.