Monday, August 29, 2011

The Romance of a Busy Broker


Pitcher, a personal clerk in the office of Harvey Maxwell, broker, looked with mild interest and surprise when his employer entered at half past nine in the company with his young lady secretary. With a quick “Good Morning, Pitcher,” Maxwell dashed towards his desk as though he were going to jump over it, and then plunged into the great heap of letters and telegrams waiting for him.
 
The young lady had been Maxwell’s secretary for a year. She was beautiful in a way that was quite unsecretarial. She dressed in a very simple manner. She wore no chains, bracelets or lockets. She did not look as though she were going to accept an invitation for lunch. Her dress was gray and plain, but fitted her very well. In her neat black hat was the golden feather of a parrot. On this morning she was softly and shyly glowing. Her eyes were dreamily bright, her cheeks rosy, her expression a happy one, with a touch of some sweet memory.

Pitcher, still curious, noticed a difference in her ways this morning. Instead of going straight into the next room where her desk was, she stayed in the other outer office for some time. Once she moved over by Maxwell’s desk, near enough for him to feel her presence.

The machine sitting at that desk was no longer a man; it was a busy New York broker, moved by wheels and springs.

“Well-what is it? Anything?” asked Maxwell sharply.

His opened mail lay in heaps on his crowded desk. His keen, gray eyes flashed upon her half impatiently.

“Nothing,” answered the secretary, moving away with a little smile.

“Mr. Pitcher,” she said to the personal clerk, “did Mr. Maxwell say anything yesterday about appointing another secretary?”

“He did,” answered Pitcher. “He told me to get another one. I asked the agency yesterday afternoon to send over a few girls this morning. It is 9:45 and not a single one has showed up yet.”

“I’ll do the work as usual, then,” said the young lady, “until someone comes to fill the place.” And she went to her own desk at once and hung the black hat with the gold green parrot feather in its usual place.

There is no man busier than a New York broker. And this day was Harvey Maxwell’s busiest day. The teleprinter began to send out lengths of tape, the desk telephone rang non-stop. Men began to crowd into the office. Messenger boys ran in and out with messages and telegrams. The clerks in the office jumped about like sailors during a storm.

Suddenly Pitcher came in with a young girl.

“Lady from the Secretary’s Agency to see about the job,” said Pitcher.

Maxwell turned half round, with his hands full of papers and teleprinter tapes.

“What job?” he asked, with a frown.

“Job of secretary,” said Pitcher. “You told me yesterday to call them up and have one sent over this morning.”

“You are losing your mind, Pitcher,” said Maxwell. “Why should I have given you such an order? Miss Leslie has given perfect satisfaction during the year she has been here. The place is hers as long as she likes. There is no place open here, madam. Cancel that order with the agency, Pitcher, and don’t bring any more of them in here.”

The young lady left the office a little angrily. Pitcher said quietly to the bookkeeper that the “old man” seemed to get more absent-minded and forgetful with every day that passed.

The rush and speed of the business grew fiercer and faster. Orders to buy and sell were coming and going as rapidly as the flight of birds. The man was working like some high-powered, dedicated, strong machine –wound to full tension, going at full speed, exact, never hesitating, with the proper word and decision and ready and prompt as clockwork. Stocks and bonds, loans, shares and securities- here was a world of finance, and there was no place in it for human world of nature.

When the launch hour drew near there came a slight pause in the uproar.

Maxwell stood by his desk with his hands full of telegrams and letters, with a fountain pen over his right ear and his hair hanging in untidy string over his forehead. His window was open; the spring air was pleasantly warm.

And through the window came a wandering smell –a delicate, sweet smell of lilac that made the broker stand still for a moment. For the smell belonged to Miss Leslie; it was her own and hers only.

The smell brought her clearly before him. It was as if he could reach her if he reached out his hand. The world of finance was forgotten. And she was in the next room -twenty steps away.

“By heaven, I’ll do it now,” said Maxwell, half aloud. “I’ll ask her now. I wonder why I didn’t do it long ago.”

He dashed into the inner office. He charged upon the desk of the secretary.

She looked up at him with a smile. A soft pink crept over her cheek, and her eyes were gentle and smiling. Maxwell leaned one elbow on her desk. He still clutched letters and papers with both hands and the pen was above his ear.

“Miss Leslie,” he began hurriedly, “I have only a moment to spare. I want to say something in a moment. Will you be my wife? I haven’t had time to show my love to you in the ordinary way, but I really do love you. Talk quick, please. I’m very busy.”

“Oh, what are you talking about?” exclaimed the young lady. She rose to her feet and gazed upon him, round-eyed.

“Don’t you understand?” said Maxwell, a little impatiently. “I want you to marry me. I love you, Miss Leslie. I wanted to tell you, and I was able to take a minute when things had slowed down a bit. They’re calling me to the phone now. Tell them to wait a minute, Pitcher. Won’t you, Miss Leslie?”

The secretary acted very strangely. At first she seemed overcome with surprise; then tears flowed from her wondering eyes; and then she smiled cheerfully through them and one of her arms slid tenderly about the broker’s neck.

“I know now,” she said softly. “It’s this old business that has driven everything out of your head for the time. I was frightened at first. Don’t you remember Harvey? We were married last evening at eight o’clock in the Little Church around the corner.”

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