Chapter 3

“They’ll be takin’ ye into the family,” finished the Irishwoman
scornfully. “Well, since there’s nothin’ I can say can hinder ye, I may
as well give ye my blessin’! An’ it’s needin’ it ye’ll be, even though
ye work for Mrs. Shyler Wendell Chase. That’s the name on the card she
give me, with her address. An’ it’s lucky I’m carryin’ it around in me
pocket. Handy for thim as sends her tillygrams hirin’ thimselves out to
her.”

She fished in the pocket of her red petticoat, brought out a much
rumpled calling card, and handed it somewhat pridefully to Jo.

“_Mrs. Schuyler Wendell Chase_,” read the name, and Jo smiled as she
scanned it. Many times she had read it, in the columns of the Sunday
edition of the great city daily, which she always bought at the village
news-stand for the myriad marvellous contacts it gave her, if only by
the printed page.

“I’m going now, to send the message and buy my uniforms,” she said.

“I think–I know–Mrs. Chase said she furnishes thim herself,” Norah
called after her.

Jo shook her head. “I shall furnish one myself, to begin with,” she
said, “so I can be sure I look the way I want to when she sees me.”

Her hand was on the door-latch, but Mrs. Norah O’Grady had the last
word, as always. “Ye may as well have that satisfaction for once. After
that, ye’ll look the way _she_ wants you to,” she said sternly.

But when Jo Jenney had gone, Norah smiled contentedly to herself.
“There’s plinty work before her,” she said. “But I like to see thim a
bit darin’. It ain’t too interestin’ a world, at that.”

(FROM JOSEPHINE JENNEY’S NOTE-BOOK)

_Bought a new note-book, the old one not having a blank page left. Must
keep notes of this new experience. Invaluable sometime, perhaps. Notes
will be staccato ones–shall not have time to draw them out into linked
sweetness. But mustn’t miss setting down enough to record impressions
of J. J. as servant! Boasted to Mrs. O’Grady I could be a fascinating
one. Large order!_

_Put on my uniform just now, and surveyed myself in my two-by-one
mirror. Well–really! I almost faltered. To be sure, it’s rather
becoming. If it could be of black taffeta, with very short skirt, sheer
silk stockings, and a tiny lace cap with long streamers, musical comedy
style, I’d actually enjoy it. But in dark-blue linen, even though it
fits well, with immaculate linen collar and cuffs, and a cap which is
almost knowing, I do feel rather odd–and ridiculously demure. But I’m
in for it, and I’m not retreating._

II

“Schuyler! What a send-off! It looks like the stateroom of a popular
débutante.”

Dr. Schuyler Wendell Chase drew his wife Sally inside the door and
closed it. “Never mind what it looks like,” he said. “I’ll soon have
most of it distributed in the steerage. The thing that comes over me
just now is that you’re not going with me.”

He set three baskets of flowers, five hampers of fruit, and a package
of books and magazines out of the way, so that he and Sally could sit
down. He hadn’t taken the trouble to scan the accompanying cards;
he knew well enough which of his parishioners were likely to have
demonstrated their regret at parting and their good wishes for the
voyage in this marked way. That largest basket with the biggest bow of
ribbon was sure to be from Miss Adler, and the hint of a frown between
his handsome eyebrows suggested her clergyman’s distaste. To the credit
of Doctor Chase he didn’t much enjoy the conspicuous worship of women,
but there seemed no way to avoid it wholly. At forty-two he was still
so young, so good-looking, and withal so unquestionably able, that his
popularity was a thing which followed as the dust the chariot.

“Just throw a kiss at the places we’ve been together,” commanded Sally,
“as you pass by. And when you come to Nice—-“

“When I come to Nice,” promised Schuyler Chase, “I’ll write you such
a letter as you’ve never had yet. Sally, I wouldn’t go without you,
if—-“

“If I didn’t make you. Yes, I know that. Well, I am making you because
you need to get away, not only from the church and its Miss Adlers and
Mrs. Brabants and the other devotees, but from me, myself.”

He smiled. “I know you think so, and probably you’re right. You usually
are. The converse of that statement must be equally true–or more so.
And you’re a trump about it. But I’ll be so eager to get back to you
I’ll probably jump off the ship and swim in when we come up the bay.”

“I’ll swim out to meet you, Schuy,” she promised him.

Except for a long minute which they spent in each other’s arms, that
was all the real leave-taking they could indulge in. Almost at once
the stateroom was besieged by the bearers of more flowers, more fruit,
more sheaves of magazines. A great bundle of letters and telegrams
was brought to Doctor Chase. A group of people came down to see the
quarters of the three clergymen who were to occupy the commodious
stateroom together. The other two clergymen summoned Schuyler Chase
back to the deck to receive the hails and farewells of a large
delegation of men from his church–much larger than those from their
own churches, though they were well known, too. Altogether—-

“It’s enough to spoil him,” said one friend to another, watching the
scene. He was not a devotee–his head was too level.

The other nodded. He also had a level head. “He carries it very well,
but he’s only human, and I sometimes think he shows the strain of
trying not to seem spoiled. If it weren’t for that sensible, charming
wife of his—- Look at her now. Flattery’ll never turn her head, and
she won’t let it turn his. It would be a fool who could look her in the
eye and say, ‘See how popular I am.’ She’d laugh at him. I presume she
laughs at Chase just often enough to keep his brain cool.”

Sally Chase, looking fresh and fit in her street clothes, was standing
by her husband in the midst of the group which surrounded him.

“What shall we do without him so many months!” sighed one large woman,
elegantly turned out and obviously sentimental. Mrs. Schuyler Chase
showed her a smiling face.

“Extremely well, I know, Mrs. Brabant,” she said. “And think how he
needs to do without us for a time.”

“My dear! . . . But I know he must be fearfully tired. I’ve thought he’s
looked so worn these last few weeks. His face is more beautiful than
ever, through his weariness. More saint-like–I could have wept to look
at him last Sunday, when he said good-bye to us. I felt at first I
couldn’t come down to see him off, and then I thought–we must be with
him to the last–make him feel he’s taking us with him.”