The Man of Business.

Janet uncurled her long legs, rose from the window seat with a yamn, and stood for a moment in the halflight looking out into the street–meditating. She was infinitely bored with life, and had reached that stage when she could no longer deceive herself into thinking that she was even moderately happy.

“I am just another of the ‘types’ one is always reading about in modern novels and plays,” she thought moodily. “Exactly the same inevitable story; but if I see Desmond much more I will kill him or do something equally melodramatic!”

Outside, dusk was falling rapidly, lights began to shine across the street, men and women hurried past to their homes, the shrill cry of a paper boy, and somewhere the strident music of a gramophone! How she hated it all!

“Actually, when I went to college, I thought that life was going to be a wonderful adventure.” thought Janet, “and now, here I am in the deepest rut of all. Respectable marriage, in a jolly little flat; quite enough money; and, above all, Desmond—serious, pre-occupied — Desmond Gill, partner in the firm of Hutchison, Crawford and Gill!” Janet made a comic little face, shut her book with a sigh, and hurried out into the little kitchen to start preparations for tea–he would be back from the office in a few minutes, and she had been so engrossed in introspection that she had forgotten that whatever happened Desmond expected to be fed punctually.

As she chopped tomatoes for a salad, and made piles of delicately browned toast (he was very particular about the colour), Janet's mind flew back to their brief and quite unexpected love affair. She had been in his office quite six months before he had even noticed her. Secretly she had admired the “‘boss”—that tall, slightly bent figure, grave eyes, and occasional vivid smile—admired his concentration, his complete absorption in his work, and likewise his utter indifference to the fact that his secretary was an amazingly pretty girl.

She began to lay the table, in the pretty little room; lit the fire, and curled herself up before it on the floor, her mind still back in the past. “Now I feel like an Eastern slave,” she thought angrily, “waiting for the return of my lord and master, ready to entertain him after his hard day. Heavens, it is positively primitive!”

Desmond Gill, three years ago, had suddenly discovered that his secretary was an extremely clever, thoughtful and unusual girl; also, let us add, that he noticed page 59 for the first time that she had wonderful blue eyes, a delightful voice, and slender, expressive hands—three points about which Desmond, at forty, was extremely particular. His life had been a very unromantic thing until that morning. He had left school at fourteen, and thrown himself into the Great Struggle, heart and soul, body and brain; had lived in a tiny room at thirty shillings a week; studied at the University; half-starved himself. He never allowed heart to govern head—was aloof, dynamic in energy, frozen.

Such a life seemed to Janet—an eager, vivid girl, emotional, vital and alert to all impressions—an utter tragedy and failure.

With characteristic speed and efficiency Desmond Gill had decided that he would marry, because his people considered it a duty to themselves and the community, and because he had secret hopes of the firm of Hutchinson, Crawford and Gill being carried on by a young Desmond, who inherited all his father's genius and commonsense.

He had married his secretary, Janet, because in the first place she was the most convenient object at hand; secondly, she possessed a delightful voice and slender hands; and thirdly, because she was quiet, somewhat reserved, and seemingly docile. The man of iron had congratulated himself upon his choice.

In truth, Desmond had never forgiven his wife for presenting him with a frail little girl baby, which had mercifully died in a month. Part of Janet—the laughter-loving, joyous part–had died with it, and Desmond never thought for a moment of the tragedy it had been to her–the mother. He had merely been cruelly disappointed that it had not been a lusty boy, to carry on the illustrious name of Gill.

Then she heard the latch key turn in the lock downstairs. “I'll tell him tonight that I'm going away for a holiday.”

With this brave and rebellious intention Janet called from the kitchen, “That you Desmond? How long will you be, dear? Tea's ready now.”

“Exactly three minutes!” was the answer, in his usually quiet, clear tones.

“Oh!” moaned Janet. “Why, why, why does he know everything exactly?”

At the meal she gave no sign of the tumult raging within her, and looking at him as he thoughtfully sipped the coffee she had made him and smoked his one after-dinner cigarette, she knew in her heart of hearts that she loved the man desperately.

Janet delayed as long as possible over the washing-up. How on earth was she going to be so amazingly audacious as to inform him that she wanted to go away for a holyday? What would he say? She tried to imagine a curt refusal, an incredulous stare; anyhow, opposition of some sort. Picking up a book from where it lay face downwards on the kitchen table, and a vivid, modern jumper she had been knitting, she walked through to the sitting room, switched on the wireless, and perched herself airily on the arm of a chair.

For a minute or two she tried to read “Nigger Heaven” (which, by the way, Desmond thought she shouldn't), then—“Desmond, dear—” (pause)—

page 60

“Well, what is it?” from the depths of the chair.

“Desmond, I just want to tell you that I intend to go away for a holiday for a week or two. I'm feeling a bit tired, and Moira Drummond, an old school chum, wrote yesterday to ask me down to her cottage on the coast.” (She was really managing splendidly.) “Do you think you could bach for a little while, dear?”

It was done! She felt as though she had delivered a long oration in Parliament.

He merely answered: “Of course, Janet. It will be a change. You must go tomorrow. Naturally I am capable of looking after myself for a time!”

She had expected opposition, refusal, a long, tedious wrangle, but not this passive acquiescene, this awful indifference.

Janet felt the tears rushing to her eyes. she daren't speak, but slipped unnoticed from the room to pack her clothes and weep miserably, because she was going.

It had been so difficult for Janet to leave him the next morning, far more so than she had imagined, although he had been perfectly serene and allowed nothing to upset the daily routine of bath, breakfast, the newspaper, and finally the putting on of his big overcoat. “He doesn't even think that I am going away for two weeks, let alone for always,” she thought, miserably, as she offered her cheek for his customary kiss.

“Desmond, look after yourself, dear; and, if you're not too busy, do drop me a line?”

“Naturally,” answered Desmond. “By the way,” very casually, “your address?”

She gave it hurriedly.

“I'll expect you by the 9.15 to-day fortnight; there will be a taxi for you at the station.” said Desmond. “Good-bye, Janet.”

Janet looked sadly from the window of her carriage, as the train slipped through the green fields–away, away from the dusty greyness of the town—from the flat with its little kitchen, from Desmond, her blind and infinitely dear, selfish husband–towards the sea, and the winds and freedom.

Fortunately she had enough money to last her for two or three months, and she vaguely contemplated going to London, taking a bachelor room once again, and earning her living by typing. The prospect was not exactly enthralling to Janet. “But it means liberty,” she thought, “to do and say and think and feel as I like, to express myself, and not be a mere weak reflection of Desmond! I must live my own life and not his.”

Soon they approached the sea—a glimpse of sand hills, low flax bushes, a sharp, keen smell—freshness everywhere. The train drew up at a little station, and there stood Moira, the journalist, gay, smiling, and oh, so obviously independent and so frankly alive and eager.

“Hallo, old girl! It was jolly of Des. to part with you for two weeks. Imagine his sacrifice.”

The laughing words hurt Janet terribly. “If she only knew he doesn't care at all, and that I've left for ever.”

Ten days later found the two girls sitting one evening before a cheerful log fire reading the paper and discussing the page 61 news from the city. Desmond had not written, and Janet was bitterly disappointed. She didn't picture him lonely and miserable in the evenings at the flat, but she did want him to think just enough of her to write a few lines.

Glancing over the headlines of the paper she suddenly noticed something there, standing out horribly clear. Her heart stopped beating, and the words swam before her eyes. “Moira!” she cried, pointing to the paragraph. “Read it for me—it's a mistake!”

Moira took the paper, looked for a moment, then read:

“Unexpected Failure of Prosperous Lawyer,” and a short description of how the firm of Hutchinson, Crawford and Gill had become involved in financial speculations which had turned out disastrously–and the result, according to the paper, was utter ruin.

Janet never forgot her train journey that night. She was half-distracted with worry about him; pictured the wreck of all his hopes. His life had suddenly been cut off, because to him his business was the very breath of life itself.

Arriving at the station late at night, she took a taxi, reached the flat, and found it in complete darkness. What on earth had happened? Where was he? Gone were all her dreams of freedom. She wanted to be with him now, in his desolation. Fumbling for her latch key she let herself in, slipped up the dark stairs, and softly opened the door, hoping against hope that he would be there.

He was fast asleep in his arm-chair, looking terribly worn and haggard. He seemed to her to be older by years than when she had left him–confident, efficient, speaking of success.

Crossing softly, Janet knelt by the chair, hardly daring to move. She knew that she could never leave him now. He was stricken, growing old, tired, and he needed her now as he had never done in his success and prosperity. She almost thanked God for the crash.

Then he stirred, opened his eyes, and looked up at her. At first vaguely, as though he hardly knew who she was.

“Desmond, dear, I am so awfully sorry for you.”

“What did you come back for?” he asked wearily. “I didn't write because I couldn't bear to tell you–too much of a coward. To-morrow I am going away from it all. I've made a mess of your life, Janet, but I think I can leave enough to provide for you. I shall probably go to Australia.”

“Desmond! How can you think of leaving me like that. Don't you want me at all? I don't want your money, dearest, but I'll come with you, wherever it is.”

The words sounded to Janet crude, melodramatic, but to Desmond they were like raindrops on a barren desert.

“Janet! You can't mean you want to stick to me, dear? I am no good, now—too old—nothing matters.”

Janet sank at his feet. “No,” she whispered, “nothing matters, except you and I. I am so glad to hear you say that.”