When he did appear he seemed to hold her responsible for all the world's long sadness. Meanwhile the printer was telephoning for Mr. Ross's O. K. on copy, the engravers wanted to know where the devil was that color-proof, the advertising agency sarcastically indicated that it was difficult for them to insert an advertisement before they received the order, and a girl from the cashier's office came nagging in about a bill for India ink.
The memoes began to get the range of her desk again, and Mr. Pemberton's voice could be heard in a distant part of the office, approaching, menacing, all-pervading.
Una fled. She ran to a wash-room, locked the door, leaned panting against it, as though detectives were pursuing her. She was safe for a moment. They might miss her, but she was insulated from demands of, "Where's Ross, Miss Golden? Well, why don't you know where he is?" from telephone calls, and from memoes whose polite "please" was a gloved threat.
But even to this refuge the familiar sound of the office penetrated-the whirr which usually sounded as a homogeneous murmur, but which, in her acute sensitiveness, she now analyzed into the voices of different typewriters-one flat, rapid, staccato; one a steady, dull rattle. The "zzzzz" of typewriter-carriages being shoved back. The roll of closing elevator doors, and the rumble of the ascending elevator. The long burr of an unanswered telephone at a desk, again and again; and at last an angry "Well! Hello? Yes, yes; this 's Mr. Jones. What-duh-yuh want?" Voices mingled; a shout for Mr. Brown; the hall-attendant yelping: "Miss Golden! Where's Miss Golden? Anything for Sanford? Mr. Smith, d'you know if there's anything for Sanford?" Always, over and through all, the enveloping clatter of typewriters, and the city roar behind that, breaking through the barrier of the door.
The individual, analyzed sounds again blended in one insistent noise of hurry which assailed Una's conscience, summoned her back to her work.
She sighed, washed her stinging eyes, opened the door, and trailed back toward her den.
In the corridor she passed three young stenographers and heard one of them cry: "Yes, but I don't care if old Alfalfa goes on a rampage twenty-five hours a day. I'm through. Listen, May, say, what d'you know about me? I'm engaged! No, honest, straight I am! Look at me ring! Aw, it is not; it's a regular engagement-ring. I'm going to be out of this hell-hole in two weeks, and Papa Pemberton can work off his temper on somebody else. Me, I'm going to do a slumber marathon till noon every day."
"Gee!"
"Engaged!"
-said the other girls, and-
"Engaged! Going to sleep till noon every day. And not see Mr. Ross or Mr. Pemberton! That's my idea of heaven!" thought Una.
There was a pile of inquiring memoes from Mr. Pemberton and the several department heads on her desk. As she looked at them Una reached the point of active protest.
"S. Herbert runs for shelter when the storm breaks, and leaves me here to stand it. Why isn't he supposed to be here on the job just as much as I am?" she declaimed. "Why haven't I the nerve to jump up and go out for a cup of tea the way he would? By jiminy! I will!"
She was afraid of the indefinite menace concealed in all the Pemberton system as she signaled an elevator. But she did not answer a word when the hall-attendant said, "You are going out, Miss Golden?"
She went to a German-Jewish bakery and lunch-room, and reflectively got down thin coffee served in a thick cup, a sugar-warted Kaffeekuche, and two crullers. She was less willing to go back to work than she had been in her refuge in the wash-room. She felt that she would rather be dead than return and subject herself to the strain. She was "through," like the little engaged girl. She was a "quitter."
For half an hour she remained in the office, but she left promptly at five-thirty, though her desk was choked with work and though Mr. Ross telephoned that he would be back before six, which was his chivalrous way of demanding that she stay till seven.
Mr. Schwirtz was coming to see her that evening. He had suggested vaudeville.
She dressed very carefully. She did her hair in a new way.
When Mr. Schwirtz came she cried that she couldn't go to a show. She was "clean played out." She didn't know what she could do. Pemberton's was too big a threshing-machine for her. She was tired-"absolutely all in."
"Poor little sister!" he said, and smoothed her hair.
She rested her face on his shoulder. It seemed broad and strong and protective.
She was glad when he put his arm about her.
She was married to Mr. Schwirtz about two weeks later.
§ 3
She had got herself to call him "Ed." ... "Eddie" she could not encompass, even in that fortnight of rushing change and bewilderment.
She asked for a honeymoon trip to Savannah. She wanted to rest; she had to rest or she would break, she said.
They went to Savannah, to the live-oaks and palmettoes and quiet old squares.
But she did not rest. Always she brooded about the unleashed brutality of their first night on the steamer, the strong, inescapable man-smell of his neck and shoulders, the boisterous jokes he kept telling her.
He insisted on their staying at a commercial hotel at Savannah. Whenever she went to lie down, which was frequently, he played poker and drank highballs. He tried in his sincerest way to amuse her. He took her to theaters, restaurants, road-houses. He arranged a three days' hunting-trip, with a darky cook. He hired motor-boats and motor-cars and told her every "here's a new one," that he heard. But she dreaded his casual-seeming suggestions that she drink plenty of champagne; dreaded his complaints, whiney as a small boy, "Come now, Unie, show a little fire. I tell you a fellow's got a right to expect it at this time." She dreaded his frankness of undressing, of shaving; dreaded his occasional irritated protests of "Don't be a finicking, romantic school-miss. I may not wear silk underclo' and perfume myself like some bum actor, but I'm a regular guy"; dreaded being alone with him; dreaded always the memory of that first cataclysmic night of their marriage; and mourned, as in secret, for year on year, thousands of women do mourn. "Oh, I wouldn't care now if he had just been gentle, been considerate.... Oh, Ed is good; he does mean to care for me and give me a good time, but-"
When they returned to New York, Mr. Schwirtz said, robustly: "Well, little old trip made consid'able hole in my wad. I'm clean busted. Down to one hundred bucks in the bank."
"Why, I thought you were several thousand ahead!"
"Oh-oh! I lost most of that in a little flyer on stocks-thought I'd make a killing, and got turned into lamb-chops; tried to recoup my losses on that damn flying-machine, passenger-carrying game that that --------let me in for. Never mind, little sister; we'll start saving now. And it was worth it. Some trip, eh? You enjoyed it, didn't you-after the first couple days, while you were seasick? You'll get over all your fool, girly-girly notions now. Women always are like that. I remember the first missus was, too.... And maybe a few other skirts, though I guess I hadn't better tell no tales outa school on little old Eddie Schwirtz, eh? Ha, ha!... Course you high-strung virgin kind of shemales take some time to learn to get over your choosey, finicky ways. But, Lord love you! I don't mind that much. Never could stand for these rough-necks that claim they'd rather have a good, healthy walloping country wench than a nice, refined city lady. Why, I like refinement! Yes, sir, I sure do!... Well, it sure was some trip. Guess we won't forget it in a hurry, eh? Sure is nice to rub up against some Southern swells like we did that night at the Avocado Club. And that live bunch of salesmen. Gosh! Say, I'll never forget that Jock Sanderson. He was a comical cuss, eh? That story of his-"