Bread by Charles G. Norris - HTML preview

CHAPTER IV

“Dent—Department—Derrick—Desmond—Deutsch—Deveraux—Deverley—De Vinne—Devlin....”

There it was: “Martin Devlin, Motor Cars,—North Broad Street.” Jeannette’s polished finger-nail rested beneath the name and her lips formed the words without a sound. She closed the Philadelphia Directory, turned from the telephone desk in the big New York hotel, and walked slowly out into the bright autumn glare of the street.

Thanksgiving was next week; there would be no difficulty in securing leave at the office to be absent from Wednesday night until Monday morning.

“I’d just like to see,” she kept repeating to herself. “There’d be no harm in seeing what kind of a place he has. I could learn so much just walking by.”

An odd excitement took possession of her. She saw herself in the train, she saw herself in a large, comfortable room at the Bellevue-Stratford, saw herself in her smartest costume, sauntering up Broad Street.

“I’ve a good mind to do it,” she whispered. “It could do no possible harm. I’d just like to see.”

She was unable to reach any definite conclusion, but she inspected her wardrobe carefully, deciding exactly what she would wear if she went to Philadelphia, and then did a very reckless thing: she bought herself a  sumptuous garment, a short outer jacket of broadtail and kolinsky, a regal mantle fit for a millionaire’s wife. A giddy madness seemed to settle upon her after this; her savings in the bank,—the savings which were to buy another bond,—were almost wiped out, and she deliberately drew a check for what remained. Some power outside of herself seemed to take charge of her actions; she moved from one step to another as if hypnotized; she spoke to Mr. Allister about two extra days at Thanksgiving, she bought her ticket and chair-car reservation at the Pennsylvania Station, she wrote the Bellevue-Stratford to hold one of their best outside rooms for her, she explained with simulated carelessness to Beatrice Alexander that there was a Book-Dealers’ Convention in Philadelphia which the firm had requested her to attend, and the four o’clock train on the afternoon of the holiday found her bound for the Quaker city.

As she sat stiffly upright in her luxurious armchair, staring out upon the dreary New Jersey marshes, panic suddenly came upon her.

What was she doing? Was she crazy? Was Miss Sturgis of the Mail Order Department this woman, so elegantly clad, speeding toward Philadelphia? And on what mad errand? After years of careful living, after years of prudent saving, was it actually she, Jeannette Sturgis, who had recklessly flung to the four winds the bank account of which she had been so proud? Oh, she must be mad, indeed!

She grasped the arms of her chair and instinctively glanced from one end to the other of the palatial car. She was seized with a violent impulse to get off. There was Manhattan Transfer; she could take a  train back to the city from there. Determinedly, she gazed out upon the empty, cold-looking platform when the train reached the station, but she made no move, and as the wheels commenced to rumble beneath her once more, she sank back resignedly into her seat, and a measure of calmness returned.

She was not committing herself merely by going to Philadelphia and walking past Martin’s place of business! Suppose she did meet him! Suppose they actually encountered one another, face to face! What then? There was nothing compromising in that! She could explain her presence in Philadelphia in a thousand ways should he be interested. She blessed the judgment that had prompted her to confide in no one; Beatrice believed she was attending a Book-Dealers’ Convention, Alice that she was having her Thanksgiving dinner with Miss Holland.

As she left the overheated parlor car at Broad Street Station her composure was thoroughly restored. There was a tingling nimbleness in the air; the clear, November day was bright with metallic sunshine. Jeannette tipped the “red-cap” for carrying her bags, climbed into a taxi-cab and with a casual air that seemed to spring from familiarity with such proceedings, directed to be driven to her hotel.

The cold bare streets, deserted on account of the holiday, the brilliant foyer of the Bellevue, the urbane room-clerk, the gilded elevator cage, the large high-ceilinged bedroom with its trim, orderly furniture, its double-bed, glistening with white linen, its discreet engravings  of Watteau ladies in the gardens of Versailles, followed in quick succession. Then she was standing at the window looking down into the wide, dismal gray street far below, and the departing bell-boy softly closed the door behind him.

She was here; she was in Philadelphia; she would have that to remember always. If nothing else happened, she could never forget she had come this far.... Somewhere in the city was Martin; he was preparing to eat his Thanksgiving Dinner; it was a quarter past six, he was probably dressing! ... Suppose he elected to eat the meal with friends in the main dining-room of her hotel! Her throat tightened convulsively and her fingers twitched. Well, she would be equal to facing him if he saw her; she would not be frightened into abandoning the course that was natural for her to follow. If it had been actually the case that she was here in Philadelphia to attend a Book-Dealers’ Convention, she would put on her black satin dinner frock and go down to dinner with her book; she did not propose to allow herself to do differently.... It would be ridiculous to eat her Thanksgiving dinner upstairs in her rooms!

She bathed, she did her hair with unusual success, she powdered her neck and arms, she donned the black satin with the square neck and jet trimming, and with her book beneath her arm, mesh bag in her hand, descended to the dining-room at half past seven. There was an instant’s terror as she stood in the curtained doorway of the brilliantly-lit dining-room. There rushed upon her impressions of flowers, music, the odor of food, a wave of heat, the flash of napery, the gleam of cutlery, faces, faces everywhere,—heads  turning,—eyes following,—whispers,—a hush as she made her way in the wake of the obsequious head-waiter.

Steeling her nerves, measuring every movement, she seated herself with deliberation, deliberately set her bag and book at her right hand, deliberately turned her attention to the menu, deliberately raised her eyes, and gazed about the room as she deliberately ordered.

But there was nothing! There was nobody! No one was looking at her; no one had noticed her entrance! The music was wailing in waltz measure, the diners were talking and laughing, attendants hurrying to and fro. He was not there; there was no one faintly resembling him in the room.

She cleared her throat and raised a tumbler of water to her lips, but as she did so, her teeth chattered an instant against the thin glass.

Philadelphia awoke the next day with the bustle of business. Feet clip-clipped on the pavements, taxies chugged and honked, trucks bumped and rattled, street-cars rumbled and clanged their bells. Life, teeming, bustling, rushing, burst from every corner and doorway.

Mechanically Jeannette moved through her early morning routine; she dressed, breakfasted, read her newspapers; she drew upon her shoulders the handsome fur jacket, as, gloved, hatted and gaitered, she stepped out on the street.

“Taxi, lady?” No, she preferred to walk. Her number was only a few squares away.

An intent and hurrying tide of pedestrians set against her, congested traffic choked the street. She was an interested observer, and made but a leisurely progress, stopping at the shop windows, studying their displays. Nothing unusual in any of them attracted her; New York was more up-to-the minute in fads and fancies; the merchants there were more enterprising; they knew what was what; these Philadelphia shop-keepers merely aped their ways and followed their leads. There was no city in the world, she thought with pride, where merchandising was such a fine art and where novelties so quickly caught on as in New York. She wondered why people lived in Philadelphia when they could just as well live in New York. She passed a theatre and read the announcement on the bill-board; the play had been in New York six months ago!

She captured her wandering thoughts and looked about her, wondering how far she had walked.

“Vine Garden?”

“The next cross-street, Madam.”

Her pulses stirred and unconsciously she quickened her pace. She was presently in the neighborhood of the number she sought. It ought to be right here.... She edged her way towards the curb and gazed up at the façades of stores and buildings. Strange,—there was nothing here that resembled an automobile agency! That building was a piano store, and in the next sewing machines were sold.... Suddenly the name leaped at her in a window’s reflection. It was across the street! She wheeled about and there it was: Martin Devlin—Motor Cars. The name was in flowing script, the letters rounded and bright with gold,  and the sign tilted out slightly over the sidewalk. Her heart plunged and stood still. That was her husband’s place of business! There it was: Martin Devlin—Motor Cars!

The appearance of the agency impressed her. Across its front were four large plate-glass windows, two on each side of the entrance. On these also appeared Martin’s name in the same style of flowing script, and beneath, in Roman type, the name of the automobile he handled. The show-room was spacious and softly illuminated with reflected light from alabaster bowls hung from the ceiling by brass chains. There were a half dozen models of the motor car, ranged within, three on a side, their noses pointing toward one another obliquely. The high polish of nickel and varnish, here and there, reflected the bright electric radiance above. The place had the air of elegance.

Curious, but with galloping pulses, Jeannette picked her way across the street, and slowly strolled past. Through the plate-glass windows she could see two young men standing, their arms folded, talking. Neither was Martin. She turned and retraced her steps, swiftly inspecting. Every moment her confidence increased. She noted the walls of the show-room were of cream-tinted terra-cotta brick, the floor of smooth cement with rich rugs defining the aisles; in the rear was a balcony where she could see yellow electric lights burning over desks, and make out the faces and figures of two or three girls. That was where the offices were located, no doubt, where Martin would have his desk.

Was he in? Would she risk a meeting? Did she have nerve enough to go inside and say: “Miss Sturgis would like to see Mr. Devlin!” ... It was extraordinary, amazing! ... How utterly overcome he would be! ... To have his wife, whom he hadn’t seen for fourteen years, walk in upon him that way! ... It wasn’t fair to him, after all. She had better go back to the hotel and write him,—or perhaps it would be better to telephone.

Emotions, impulses, strange and contradictory, pulled her one way and another. The apprehension, the misgivings of yesterday were absent now. There was no longer any question in her mind as to whether or not she wanted to see Martin; she knew she wanted to see him very much; in fact, her mind was made up, she must see him. It would be a thrilling experience, after so many years.... When they parted, it had not been because they had ceased to be fond of one another. They had liked,—yes, even loved each other, at the very moment of separation.... How was it to be managed? How could she arrange to meet him with propriety? Her appearance, she was aware, would make an impression upon him; that effect would be lost in writing or telephoning.... Perhaps she had better go back to the hotel and think it over, but then she might never again find the courage which was hers at that moment.... She must do something; she could not stand there indefinitely gazing through the window at the motor cars inside! The young men within, she observed, had noticed her.

With heart that hammered at her throat, she stepped  to the heavy door; it swung back at her touch. There was a pleasant warmth within. One of the young men came hurrying forward, rubbing his hands, one over the other, bowing politely, a beaming smile upon his face.

“Good morning, Madam. Interested in the Parrott?”

Jeannette swept the show-room with a quick look before answering. There was no one there remotely like Martin.

“I was thinking about one,” she admitted.

“Most happy to arrange a demonstration at any time.... What model did you fancy?”

Jeannette moved about the cars, peering into the interiors of their tonneaus, commenting upon the upholstery and finish, pretending an attention to the young salesman’s glib explanations.

“Shift here is automatic ... cylinders ... compression ... hundred-and-eighteen-inch wheel-base, ... equipment just as you see it, ... rear tire extra, of course, ... lovely car for a lady to drive ... rides like a gazelle ... just like a gazelle ... you wouldn’t know you were moving.... Lovely engine, isn’t it, Madam? ... A child could easily take it apart.”

Jeannette nodded and appeared interested. All the time she was thinking: “I wonder if he’s up there—I wonder if he’s up there.”

“Mr. Devlin ...?” she hazarded.

“Oh, you know Mr. Devlin?” The possibility seemed to fill the salesman with rare pleasure; it was a discovery, unexpected, delightful.

“I—I used to know him years ago,” Jeannette faltered.

“He’s a splendid man, isn’t he?” glowed the youth. “Wonderful personality,—a regular ‘good fellow.’ He’s made quite a record with the Parrott, you know. Unfortunately he’s out just now, but he’s expected. I’m sure he’ll be glad to know you called, and I’ll be very pleased to tell him. You didn’t mention.... May I ask the name?”

Jeannette hesitated. This was not the way she would have him hear of her.

“No,—I’ll call again; I’ll come in later. I’m—- I’m stopping at the Bellevue; it isn’t far.”

“Couldn’t I arrange a demonstration for you this afternoon? At any hour you say. I’d like to show you the way the Parrott rides,—just like a gazelle. I’ll have our driver come with the limousine, or perhaps you’d prefer the landaulet model.... You might like to pay some calls this afternoon; it would give you a chance to test the Parrott and see how you like it.... Ah, here’s Mr. Devlin!”

The heavy glass front door opened. Jeannette felt the cold air from the street. She gave a quick glance as she turned her back, her heart plunging. It was Martin all right, but what a changed and different Martin! So much older, so much larger than she remembered him! He wore a Derby hat and had a cigar.

The salesman had left her side and was communicating her presence to his employer. Jeannette stood with both hands pressed tightly against her heart and fought for self-possession.

She heard Martin speak. That voice ...! That voice ...! It suffocated her. An avalanche of memories and forgotten emotions swept down upon  her.... He was coming! She even recognized his step!

“’Morning, Madam,”—there was the old briskness, and alertness in his tone!—“what can I——”

She straightened herself and turned regally.

“Good morning, Martin,” she said smiling. Her color was high, she was trembling, her pulses racing.

There was a quick jerk of his head,—a well-remembered mannerism,—and a lightning survey of her features.

“Good God! ... Jan!”

Emotions played in his face, his eyes darted about her, his color faded and flamed darkly. His confusion gave her composure. He was handsome still, smooth-shaven and clean; his cheeks were fuller, a trifle florid, he had a well-defined double-chin, his black, thick hair was streaked with wiry, white threads; he had grown stouter, had acquired a girth, but his fatness was robust and healthy. He had gained in presence, in firmness of feature, in polish,—a man of business and affairs, energetic, a leader.

“Are you surprised to see me, Martin?”

“Well, of course, ... well, ... I should say!”

She was conscious that her beauty and stateliness, her costume, her fashionableness overwhelmed him.

“I’ll be ... I’ll be damned!” he enunciated. “Excuse me, Jan,—but I’ll be ... I’ll be damned!”

An amused sound escaped Jeannette. She was smiling broadly; she felt she had the situation well in hand.

“I’m sorry I startled you, Martin. I happened to be passing and I saw your name and thought I’d drop in.... How’ve you been after all these years?”

“Oh,—all right, I guess. Sure, I’ve been fine.... And you? I guess there’s no need of asking.”

“I’ve been quite well. I’m never sick. I came down to Philadelphia to attend a Book-Dealers’ Convention.... I’m stopping at the Bellevue.”

“Well—er, you going to be in town long?”

“Oh,—two or three days. I’m going back to New York Sunday, I guess. I think I can get away by that time.... This is a fine car you handle; its lines are really very beautiful.”

“It’s a good car, all right. I had a big year this year,—and last year, too.”

“Well, that’s good; I’m glad to hear it.... I never heard of the Parrott before.”

“You didn’t? ... Well, we think we advertise a good deal. It ranks up among the best.... Are you—are you married or anything like that?”

Jeannette laughed richly.

“Not since an experience I had some fourteen years ago that didn’t take!”

Martin echoed her amusement. He was regaining his ease; she could see he was beginning to enjoy himself.

“You know I took my maiden name when I went back to work; everybody knew me there as ‘Miss Sturgis’; it seemed easier.”

“Yes, I see,” Martin agreed.

“I’m still with the old company.”

“What,—the same old publishing outfit?”

“Yes; I’m in charge of the Mail Order Department now.... We do quite a business.”

“Is that so? And how do you like it?”

“Oh, I like it all right. They think a lot of me there,  and I do about as I please.... I’m thinking of resigning though; one of these days, pretty soon, I’ll quit. It gets on your nerves after awhile, you know.”

“Yes, I guess it does.”

A momentary embarrassment came upon them.

“Well, it was pleasant to catch a glimpse of you, again, Martin. If you’re ever in New York, ring me up. You know the office——”

“Well, say,—I don’t like to have you go away like this! I’d like to see something of you while you’re in town,—and talk over old times. There’s a lot of things I’ll bet we’d find interesting to tell one another.”

“I shouldn’t wonder,” she said lightly.

“I got a business engagement for lunch unfortunately”; he scowled in troubled fashion. “I can’t very well get out of it.... You’re at the Bellevue? ... Well, how about dinner? Couldn’t we get together for dinner?”

“Why, I guess so. Yes,—that would be lovely,” said Jeannette with an air of careful consideration.

“I’ll bring my wife; Ruthie will be glad to meet you. You knew I married again, didn’t you?”

Jeannette’s expression did not alter by the quiver of an eyelash; she continued to regard Martin with smiling eyes.

“No, I hadn’t heard.... I didn’t suppose.... So you married, again?”

“Yes, I married a widow,—a widow with two kids: girl and a boy,—splendid youngsters.... Say, you got to see those kids; they’re Jim-dandies!”

“That’s ... that’s fine.”

“And I think you’ll like Ruthie, too, Jan. She  isn’t your style exactly, but she’s all right. There’s no side to Ruthie. I think you’ll like her; she’s a fine little woman and a great little mother. You’ll like her, I’ll bet a hat.”

“I’m sure I shall.”

“Then it’s all right for to-night? Ruthie’ll join me downtown and we’ll come over to the hotel, and the three of us will have a great little dinner together and chew the rag about old times.... Say, d’you ever see that old ragamuffin, Zeb Kline?”

“Oh, yes, indeed. I saw him two or three weeks ago. He’s quite successful, now, you know; he’s made a great deal of money; married Nick Birdsell’s daughter.”

“Is that so! Well, is that so! He was a card all right, a great old scout.... And d’you ever see any of the rest of the old gang: Adolph Kuntz, an’ Fritz Wiggens, an’ Steve Teschemacher an’ old Gibbsy?”

“Oh, yes, occasionally.”

“Say, what’s old Gibbsy doing? He was a wormy little rat, all right, wasn’t he?”

“He’s got a very fine place, now, down on the Point,—quite an estate.”

“Well, wouldn’t you know it! He’d be just the kind of a little tightwad that would build himself a swell house! ... And what happened to old Doc French?”

Jeannette’s countenance changed and she shook her head.

“Don’t bother to tell me now. Save it up for to-night. We’ll have a great talk-fest.... Ruthie and I will show up at the hotel,—what time? Let’s  make it early so we can have all evening. Six-thirty? How’s that?”

Jeannette smiled assent.

“We’ll be there at six-thirty, and say, Jan, you know this is going to be my party all right—all right.”

He accompanied her to the door, knocking the Derby hat nervously against his knee, his cigar gone out.

“Then we’ll see you to-night, Jan. Six-thirty, hey? ... Gee, I’m glad you dropped in! We’ll have a great little old talk-fest.”

“To-night, then.”

“Sure. At the Bellevue. We’ll be there. Six-thirty.”

Married? Married? It couldn’t be possible! Why, they had never been divorced! ... How could he be married again?

A great weariness came over Jeannette. It was disgusting! What had he wanted to get married again for? Pugh! It was most disappointing.... Another woman! ... She had never imagined anything like this.... Was he living with her without a ceremony? Probably. She must be a cheap sort of creature.... But it didn’t make any difference whether she was legally his wife or not; it was the same thing. The fact remained he had taken up with someone else. No doubt she was known as “Mrs. Devlin.”

Jeannette went back to the hotel and upstairs to her room, laid aside her beautiful fur jacket, her hat, took off her dress, put on her kimona. Her mind, like a squirrel in a cage, went around and around over the  same ground. How could he be married? Why, they had never been divorced!

The prospect of the evening suddenly palled upon her. Even though he had married, a dinner and chat alone with Martin would have had some piquancy; it would have been quite exciting and amusing to have recalled old friends, old memories. But there would be no spontaneity in their talk with another woman beside them, a bored and critical listener! It would be dreadful! An intolerable situation! ... She thought of a hurried return to New York, a telephone to Martin that she had been unexpectedly called home. Yet that seemed undignified; he would be sure to guess her reason, or if he did not, “Ruthie” could be depended upon to enlighten him. She shook her head in distaste. She was committed to this unpalatable program, now; she would be obliged to see it through,—but oh, how she was going to hate it! How she was going to despise every moment of it!

She considered the other woman, trying to imagine what she would be like.... Well, Ruthie might be comfortably established in her place, but she should have no ground for believing she was envied!

A reflection of herself at this moment in the mirror forced a smile from Jeannette’s lips as she detected upon her face a look of haughty condescension. She had been fancying the encounter with Ruthie and had unconsciously assumed the expression that would suit that moment.... Well, Ruthie would have the benefit of that withering, imperious glance; she would realize the minute she saw Jeannette Sturgis that here was a woman that would brook no patronizing airs from her, and in the course of the evening she would  have it pointed out to her, in a manner which would leave no room for misunderstanding, that it was she, Jeannette, who had left Martin; hers had never been the rôle of the deserted wife; as far as “leavings” were concerned, Ruthie had them and welcome! ... Ah! She hated her!

The telephone trilled. Jeannette’s heart plunged as she heard Martin’s voice.

“Hello, Jan! Say,—I ’phoned Ruthie and she says for me to bring you out to our house to-night; she says it will be much pleasanter there and we can talk a whole lot better. I rang her up and explained about our having dinner with you at the Bellevue, but she insists that you come on out to our house. She said by all manner of means to bring you. She said she’d ’phone you, herself, but I said I didn’t think that was necessary.”

“Why-y,—I’m afraid——”

“You know we live out at Jenkintown; it’s an awful pretty suburb. I’d like you to see it and I’m crazy to have you see the kids. They’ll still be up by the time we get there. I’ll call for you a little after six and drive you out.”

Jeannette’s mind worked rapidly. There was nothing for her to do but to accept, and to accept graciously.

“That will be lovely, Mart. As you say it will be much nicer in the country. I shall really like to see your home and to meet—” she cleared her throat,—“Mrs. Devlin.”

“Well, that’ll be fine, Jan,—that will be great. Say, you couldn’t make that five-thirty just as well, could you? You see the office closes at five, and I’ll just  have to bum ’round here doing nothing until it’s time to call for you,—and then besides you’ll have a little light left so you c’n see something of the country, and I want to tell you, Jan, Jenkintown’s a swell little suburb.”

“Why, yes, Martin. Five-thirty will be perfectly all right for me.”

“That’s fine then; I call for you at five-thirty.”

She hung up the receiver and bent forward so that her brow rested lightly against the mouthpiece of the instrument, her eyes closed, and after a moment she squeezed them tight shut.... Ah, what pain! ... What heart stabs! ... The prick of tears stung her eyeballs like needle points.

She powdered her shoulders and did her hair; she red-lipped her mouth; she hooked the black satin dress about her; she hung her generous string of artificial pearls around her neck and screwed the large artificial pearl ear-rings upon her ears. At five o’clock she was ready, and for the ensuing thirty minutes she studied her reflection in the glass, turning first to one side, then to the other, noting various effects. She wore no hat, but to-night her hair, with its distinguished touch of white, was dressed high, and thrust into its thick coil at the back of her head were three large brilliant, rhinestone combs.

Promptly at the half-hour, Martin was announced, and slipping on the marvellous jacket, rolling the fur luxuriously against her neck, Jeannette descended in the elevator and met him in the foyer. The glance he  gave her satisfied her; she knew Martin; he had not changed. There remained only Ruthie, and in that instant it came to Jeannette a cold, disdainful manner would put herself, bound and helpless, at Ruthie’s mercy. They were two shrewd and clever women,—she assumed Ruthie would be shrewd and clever,—meeting one another under strange and difficult circumstances; any hint of condescension, any suggestion of a patronizing air, and Ruthie would be laughing at her. No, the part for her to play was one of all sweetness and amiability; graciousness was her only salvation.

Martin guided her out of the hotel, his fingers at her elbow. A limousine swept up to the door. It was a Parrott, and there was a liveried chauffeur at the wheel.

“Get right in, Jan.”

He stooped through the doorway and sank heavily against the upholstered cushions beside her. The “starter” touched his cap, and banged the door. Memories swept back upon Jeannette, memories of another motor-car, a taxi-cab, and another “starter” who had banged shut an automobile door upon the two of them, and of a night pulsing with high emotions, hopes and young love. Her little excited mother with her pendent, trembling cheeks, dressed in her lavender velvet, had been with them on that other night, and she had sat beside her daughter where Martin now was sitting, and Martin had occupied the small collapsible seat opposite, and had balanced himself there with his knees uncomfortably hunched up, to keep his feet out of the way!

“... what we call the Parrott Convertible; it’s  just out this year,” Martin was explaining. “You see with a little manipulation of the glass windows and seats you can turn it from a limousine into a Sedan and drive it yourself.”

“How clever!” she said. “You know, Martin, it delights me to think of your being so successful. It was coming to you. You were born to be a good salesman, and I’m glad you’ve gotten into a line of business where your talents count for something. You were entirely out of your element with that Engraving Company; they didn’t begin to appreciate you.”

“They didn’t, did they? That younger Gibbs,—Herbert Gibbs,—he was certainly a little rat, if there ever was one. You know I had a terrible row with him after—after....”

“And I’m glad, too,” proceeded Jeannette hastily, “that you’ve married again and ’ve got your son and daughter. You were always crazy about children. Remember how you used to rave about Alice’s Etta and Ralph when they were babies?”

“Y