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A Top-Floor Idyl

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Title: A Top-Floor Idyl

Author: George Van Schaick

Illustrator: Chase Emerson


        
Release date: July 21, 2010 [eBook #33218]

Language: English

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A TOP-FLOOR IDYL

by

GEORGE VAN SCHAICK

Author of "Sweetapple Cove," "The Son of the Otter," "The Girl at Big
Loon Post"

Illustrated by Chase Emerson







Boston
Small, Maynard & Company
Publishers

Copyright, 1917,
By Small, Maynard & Company
(Incorporated)

Printers
S. J. Parkhill & Co., Boston, U.S.A.




       TO
MY DEARLY LOVED SISTER
      ELISE




[Illustration: And always she was a friend, nothing but the dear
friend.]




CONTENTS

       I THE NIGHT ALARM

      II FRIEDA THE ANGEL

     III I WATCH AN INFANT

      IV THE BOLT

       V GORDON HELPS

      VI A BIT OF SUNSHINE

     VII THE OTHER WOMAN

    VIII WE TAKE AN EXCURSION

      IX I HEAR RUMOURS ABOUT GORDON

       X THE WORK LOST

      XI GORDON VACILLATES

     XII GORDON BECOMES ENGAGED

    XIII DR. PORTER GOES TO WORK

     XIV I BEGIN TO PLOT

      XV THE LIGHTNING STROKE

     XVI FRANCES READS MY BOOK

    XVII MISS VAN ROSSUM CALLS

   XVIII DIANA AMONG MORTALS

     XIX FRANCES GOES TO THE COUNTRY

      XX RICHETTI IS PLEASED

     XXI THE CONCERT

    XXII GORDON RETURNS

   XXIII THE REPAIR OF A BROKEN STRAND

    XXIV "THE MOTHER AND CHILD"




LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS


   And always she was a friend, nothing but the dear friend.

   No, she was only a woman, with a soul for harmony.

   Her lovely head was bent down towards the sleeping mite.




A TOP-FLOOR IDYL




CHAPTER I

THE NIGHT ALARM


I smiled at my friend Gordon, the distinguished painter, lifting up my
glass and taking a sip of the _table d'hote_ claret, which the Widow
Camus supplies with her famed sixty-five cent repast. It is, I must
acknowledge, a somewhat turbid beverage, faintly harsh to the palate,
and yet it may serve as a begetter of pleasant illusions. While drinking
it, I can close my eyes, being of an imaginative nature, and permit its
flavor to bring back memories of ever-blessed _tonnelles_ by the Seine,
redolent of fried gudgeons and mirific omelettes, and felicitous with
gay laughter.

"Well, you old stick-in-the-mud," said my companion, "what are you
looking so disgruntled about? I was under the impression that this feast
was to be a merry-making to celebrate your fortieth birthday. Something
like a grin just now passed over your otherwise uninteresting features,
but it was at once succeeded by the mournful look that may well follow,
but should not be permitted to accompany, riotous living."

At this I smiled again.

"Just a moment's wool-gathering, my dear fellow," I answered. "I was
thinking of our old feasts, and then I began to wonder whether the tune
played by that consumptive-looking young man at the piano might be a
wild requiem to solemnize that burial of two-score years, or a song of
triumphant achievement."

"I think it's what they call a fox-trot," remarked Gordon, doubtfully.
"Your many sere and yellow years have brought you to a period in the
world's history when the joy of the would-be young lies chiefly in wild
contortion to the rhythm of barbaric tunes. I see that they are getting
ready to clear away some of the tables and, since we are untrained in
such new arts and graces, they will gradually push us away towards the
doors. The bottle, I notice, is nearly half empty, which proves our
entire sobriety; had it been _Pommard_, we should have paid more
respectful attention to it. Give me a light, and let us make tracks."

We rose and went out. A few couples were beginning to gyrate among the
fumes of spaghetti and _vin ordinaire_. Gordon McGrath, unlike myself,
lives in one of the more select quarters of the city, wherefore we
proceeded towards Fifth Avenue. The partial solitude of Washington
Square enticed us, and we strolled towards it, sitting of common accord
upon one of the benches, in the prelude of long silence resulting from
philosophic bent and indulgence in rather tough veal. It was finally
broken by Gordon; being younger, speech is more necessary to him.

"What about that sarcophagus you've lately selected for yourself?" he
asked me.

"They are pleasant diggings," I answered. "Being on the top floor, they
are remote as possible from hand-organs and the fragrance of Mrs.
Milliken's kitchen. The room is quite large and possesses a bath. It
gives me ample space for my books and mother's old piano."

"Wherefore a piano?" he asked, lighting another cigarette. "You can't
even play with one finger."

"Well, my sister Jane took out nearly all the furniture, and the
remainder went to a junkman, with the exception of the piano. Jane
couldn't use it; no room for it in her Weehawken bungalow, besides which
she already has a phonograph, purchased at the cost of much saving. You
see, Gordon, that old Steinway was rather more intimately connected with
my mother, in my memory, than anything else she left. She played it for
us when we were kiddies. You have no idea of what a smile that dear
woman had when she turned her head towards us and watched us trying to
dance! Later on, when she was a good deal alone, it was mostly 'Songs
without Words,' or improvisations such as suited her moods. Dear me! She
looked beautiful when she played! So, of course, I took it, and it
required more room, so that I moved. I've had it tuned; the man said
that it was in very good condition yet."

"You were always a silly dreamer, Dave."

"I don't quite see," I began, "what----"

"I'll enlighten your ignorance. Of course you don't. David, old man,
you've had the old rattle-trap tuned because of the hope that rises
eternal. Visions keep on coming to you of a woman, some indistinct,
shadowy, composite creature of your imagination. You expect her to float
into your room, in the dim future and in defiance of all propriety, and
sit down before that ancient spinet.

"You keep it ready for her; it awaits her coming. To tell you the truth,
I'm glad you had it tuned. It shows that you still possess some human
traits. I'll come, some day, and we'll go over and capture Frieda Long.
We will take her to dinner at Camus, and give her a benedictine and six
cups of black coffee. After that we'll get a derrick and hoist her to
your top floor, and she'll play Schubert, till the cows come home or the
landlady puts us out. She's a wonder!"

"She's a great artist and a dear, lovable woman," I declared.

"That's probably why she never had a love story," conjectured Gordon.
"Always had so much affection for the general that she could never
descend to the particular. By the way, I went to her studio for a look
at her portrait of Professor Burberry."

"It's good, isn't it?"

"Man alive! It's so good, I should think the old fellow would be
offended. Through her big dabs of paint he's shown up to the life. You
can see his complacency bursting out like a flaming sunflower. Upon his
homely mug are displayed all the platitudes of Marcus Aurelius. He is
instinct with ignorance that Horace was a drummer for Italian wines and
an agent for rural residences, just a smart advertiser, a precursor of
the fellows who write verse for the Road of Anthracite or canned soup,
and Burberry has never found it out. He would buy splinters from the
wooden horse of Troy, and only avoids gold bricks because they're
modern. It's a stunning picture!"

That's one reason why I am so fond of Gordon. He's a great portraitist,
and far more successful than Frieda, but he is genuine in his admiration
of good work. He is rather too cynical, of course, but at the bottom of
it there usually lies good advice to his friends. I'm very proud he
continues to stick to me.

"I understand he was greatly pleased," I told him, "and I was awfully
glad that Frieda got the commission. She needed it."

"Yes, I told her that she ought to go off for a rest in the country," he
remarked, "but it seems she has one of her other queer ideas that must
be worked out at once. She itched to be at it, even while she was
painting Burberry. Mythological, I think, as usual, that latest notion
of hers. Some demigod whispering soft nothings to a daughter of men.
Showed me a dozen charcoal compositions for it, all deucedly clever. And
how are the other animals in the menagerie you live in now?"

That's a way Gordon has. From one subject he leaps to another like a
canary hopping on the sticks of his cage; but there is method in his
madness. He swiftly exhausts the possibilities of a remark and goes to
another without losing time.

"The animals," I answered, "are a rather dull and probably uninteresting
lot. First, come two girls who live in a hall bedroom, together."

"It shows on their part an admirable power of concentration."

"I suppose so; their conversation is chiefly reminiscent and plentifully
dotted with 'says I' and 'says she' and 'says he.' They are honest young
persons and work in a large candy-shop. Hence they must be surfeited
with sweets at a deplorably early age."

"Not with all of them; they will find some hitherto untasted, but just
as cloying in the end," remarked Gordon.

"I hope not. There is also an elderly couple living on the bounty of a
son who travels in collars and cuffs. Sells them, you know. Then I've
seen three men who work somewhere and occasionally comment upon what
they see in the newspaper. Murders fill them with joy, and, to them,
accidents are beer and skittles. I suspect that they esteem themselves
as what they are pleased to call 'wise guys,' but they are of refreshing
innocence and sterling honesty. One of them borrowed a dollar from me,
the other day, to take the two girls to the movies. He returned it on
next pay day."

"Look out, David, he may be trying to establish a credit," Gordon warned
me. "You are such an easy mark!"

"I'll be careful," I assured him. "Then we have a poor relation of the
landlady. He looks out for the furnace in winter and is a night watchman
in a bank. An inoffensive creature who reads the papers the other
boarders throw away."

"Altogether it makes up a beautiful and cheering totality of ineptitude,
endowed with the souls of shuttles or cogwheels," opined Gordon.

"Well, as Shylock says, if you prick them, they bleed," I protested. "At
any rate they must have some close affinity with the general scheme of
Nature."

"Nature, my dear Dave, is a dustbin in which a few ragmen succeed in
finding an occasional crust of dry bread wherewith to help fill the pot
and make their hearts glad. It is a horribly wasteful organization by
which a lady cod produces a million eggs that one fish may possibly
reach maturity and chowder. Four trees planted on a hill commonly die,
but, if you stick in a few thousands, there may be a percentage of
survivals, besides nuts for the squirrels. Humanity represents a few
tall trees and a host of scrubs."

Thus does Gordon always lay down the law, to which I generally listen
with some amusement. He is dogmatic and incredulous, though he lacks
scepticism in regard to his own opinions.

"Then all honor to the scrubs, my dear Gordon!" I interjected. "I admire
and revere the courage and persistency with which they keep on growing,
seeking a bit of sunlight here and there, airing their little passions,
bearing their trials bravely. But I forgot to mention another inmate of
my caravanserai. She's only there for a day or two, in a room opposite
mine, hitherto vacant and only tenanted yesterday. I met her as she was
coming up the stairs. She walked heavily, poor thing. I could only see
her by the dim light of the gas-jet on the landing. It was a young face,
deeply lined and unhappy. Downstairs I came across Mrs. Milliken, my
landlady, who explained that the person I had met expected to go next
day to a hospital. The Milliken woman had known her husband. He went off
to the war, months ago, and the young wife's been teaching French and
giving piano lessons, till she couldn't work any longer. The French
government allows her twenty-five or thirty cents a day."

"I'm glad it keeps a paternal eye on the wives of its brave defenders,"
remarked Gordon.

"It does, to that extent, but it doesn't go very far in this country.
She has a remarkable face; looks a good deal like that Madonna of
Murillo's in the Louvre."

"That's a back number at this stage of the world's history. Most of us
prefer snub noses. I notice that you said she plays the piano."

"I don't see what----"

"Well, you've just had yours tuned. Oh! I forgot you said she was going
off to the hospital. Never mind, Dave, they come out again, so don't
worry. I've known you to be disturbed for a whole week over somebody's
sick dog and to go two blocks out of your way to steer a strayed and
unpleasantly ragged blind man. What is it, appendicitis?"

"Mrs. Milliken darkly hinted, I think, that it was an expected baby."

"Oh! Well, I suppose a baby had to go with a Murillo; the picture would
have been incomplete. I'm glad that this particular case appears to be a
perfectly safe one."

"What do you know about it?" I asked.

"I mean from your standpoint. I dare presume that the Milliken female
has a holy horror of sprouting infants, like all landladies. She would
naturally foresee a notice to quit from the old couple, disturbed in
their slumbers, and extravagance in the use of hot water and linen would
stare her in the face. You have made me sympathize with you for nothing,
for your Murillo-woman will vanish into space and become the handmaiden
of a scrub in the making. Henceforth, the case will only interest the
Bureau of Vital Statistics and the manufacturers of improvements on
mother's milk. Give me another cigarette."

I handed him the cardboard box, for, although I have a silver case, I
never know where it is. If I did, I wouldn't use it since I don't
believe in flaunting one's vices. He took a cigarette, tapped it on the
back of his hand, and engaged in conversation the lonely policeman, who
had strolled over to see that we were not flouting the majesty of the
law by dozing on the bench. He remarked that the night was fine but
warm, Gordon assenting. Then my friend suddenly asked him what kind of
boots he wore, and put down the address most carefully on his cuff,
thanking him effusively, after which the guardian walked off,
ponderously.

"Will you kindly explain your object?" I asked Gordon, who has what the
French call the _coquetterie du pied_ and asserts there's only one man
in New York who can make boots, a delusion that costs him about fifteen
dollars a pair.

"You're not lacking in sympathy," he instructed me, "but, on your part,
the feeling is but an unintelligent instinct. Any idiot can feel sorry
for a cripple or a man compelled by poverty to smoke cheap tobacco. I
now call your attention to the fact that this old minion is ancient and
corpulent. He's on his feet during all working hours, and his
cogitations must often turn to his nether extremities. He carefully
nurses them, while he raps those of lawless slumberers on these seats.
Civilly, I spoke to him of the subject uppermost in his mind, and now he
has left us, happy in the thought that he has put a fellowman on the
right road. That's what I call taking a sympathetic interest in a
deserving old ass. You didn't suppose for a moment that I'd wear such
beastly things, did you?"

"You would rather go barefooted," I told him.

"I would," he assented. "If Gordon McGrath appeared in the street, naked
as to his toes, the papers would mention the fact. The _Banner_ would
send me the famed Cordelia, who would insist on photographing my feet
for publication in a Sunday supplement, with a hint to the effect that I
am a rather well known painter. It would be an advertisement."

"If I went without boots, benevolent old ladies would stop me and hand
out copper pennies," I remarked, without jealousy.

"You just wait till the 'Land o' Love' is out, old man," he told me,
"and the same old dames will write for your autograph."

Gordon is quite daffy over the book I sent to my publishers last week.
He has read the first, one middle and the last chapter, and predicts
great things for it. Of course, I know better, for it will be just like
the others. From four to six thousand copies sold, a few flattering
notices, mostly in journals unheard of, and swift oblivion after some
months. But I care nothing that I may be a scrub among writers, for the
occupation suits me. I am not ambitious, and I can rise late in the
morning, pound the keys of my old machine for an hour before lunch,
waste a good part of the afternoon in one of the libraries, and go to
work again after the hand-organs and knife-grinders have been abed some
hours. Then, some time before sunrise, the rattle of milk-carts remind
me of Mrs. Milliken's bedspring and mattress, and I go to bed. I am not
doing so badly, and sell one or two short stories every month. Last year
I opened an account in the savings bank. The time may come when I shall
be classed among the malefactors of great wealth.

"But one reader ever wrote to me," I finally answered. "It was a young
person anxious to know whether I could recommend the 'City's Wrath' as a
birthday present to a Baptist aunt. I advised against it, thus cheating
myself out of ten per cent. royalty on a dollar thirty-five."

"Oh! She'd have sent a second-hand copy," he answered consolingly, and
shifted to a discussion of the ultimate blackening of vermilions, which
seemed to give him some concern.

After this he looked at his watch and declared he had just twenty-five
minutes to get to the Lambs Club. That's just like him; he will loll and
sprawl around for hours with you, looking like a man without a
responsibility in the world, and suddenly arise and sprint away to far
regions, always arriving in the nick of time. My way is to prepare far
in advance to meet my rare engagements, to think of them persistently,
and, usually, to arrive ten minutes late.

I walked over to the subway with him, at such a breathless pace that I
wondered if the friendly policeman would change his mind about us,
should we meet him in crossing the square. Gordon left me at the
entrance, with a wave of one hand, the other searching for a nickel, and
I was permitted to return leisurely to my domicile, in a profuse
perspiration. I felt my wilted collar, knowing that Gordon would
unquestionably reach the club, looking spick and span. That's also one
of his traits.

As I crossed the square again, I saw a belated tramp leading an
emaciated yellow dog by a string. The man looked hungrier than the dog,
and I broke all precepts of political economy by handing him a dime. He
was blameworthy, for he should have looked out for himself, and not have
assumed foolish responsibilities. He was entirely wrong. What business
had he to seek affection, to require the faithfulness of a rust-colored
mongrel? How dared he ask charity that should have gone to the widow and
orphan, wherewith to feed a useless quadruped? I sat down again, for it
was only midnight, and thought pleasantly upon the vagaries of human
nature. Suddenly, a splendid story suggested itself to me about a dog
and tramp. It would be good for about four thousand words, and I hurried
away to Mrs. Milliken's lest the inspiration might vanish on the way. I
would have a dog all but human, a tramp all but dog, and the animal
would sacrifice itself for a master redeemed at last by the spectacle of
canine virtue. I knew just what magazine might accept it. A few minutes
later I reached the house, which, like the Milliken woman, has seen
better days. The frittering brownstone and discolored brick suit me as
naturally as a hole in the sand befits a prairie dog. I let myself in,
softly, with due regard to the slumbers of people compelled by the
tragedy of life to go to bed at the behest of a clock, and trod the
creaking stairs in utter darkness, guided by a friendly but shaky
balustrade. Then I reached my landing, opened my door, turned on the
light, put on my slippers and fired my coat on the bed. As soon as I had
dropped my collar and tie on the floor, I was ready for work and sat
down to my machine. Thank goodness, the inspiration had remained;
clearly and cogently the sentences flowed; after I had finished the
first page, I was already weeping in spirit for my noble dog. Then,
suddenly, came a rap at my door, hurried, eager, impatient.

"Great Heavens!" I thought at once. "I am to be interrupted because that
blessed woman objects to loud typewriting at one a.m. I'm glad she's
going away to the hospital."

I went to the door, assuming my most austere mien, and opened it.




CHAPTER II

FRIEDA THE ANGEL


"Please help me!" cried the woman hoarsely. "My God! What shall I do?"

It was, as I had surmised, the Murillo-faced occupant of the room on the
other side of the landing. In my dismay the desperate thought came to me
that a lonely bachelor was the last individual she should have sought
aid from. But her look of haggardness, the teeth pressed into her lips,
the clenched hands, the chin carried forward in an expression of
agonized supplication rebuked my egotism.

"I--I don't know," I confessed humbly.

She turned half way around, seized the balustrade and stared at me
vacantly.

"Allow me to help you back to your room," I suggested shakily. "Then
I'll run downstairs and get Mrs. Milliken."

She went with me, haltingly, and threw herself upon the decrepit
horsehair sofa, as I abandoned her and ran downstairs, nearly breaking
my neck on account of my slovenly old slippers. At the landlady's door
I pounded till I chanced to remember she had informed me that she
expected to spend the night at her married daughter's, in Fort Lee. In
despond I bethought myself of the young women who sold candy. No! Such
problems were not of their solving. Of course there was the negro cook,
hidden in some ancillary cavern of the basement, but cowardice prevented
me from penetrating such darkness, and I ran out of the house, coatless.
Half way down the block were two doctors' signs. One shining in the
freshness of new nickelling; the other an old thing of battered tin,
with faded gold letters.

"This," I decided, "is a case requiring the mature experience of age,"
and I rang furiously, awaiting the appearance of the venerable owner of
the ancient sign. A shock-headed and red-haired youth opened the door,
clad in pajamas and rubbing his eyes.

"Yes," he said pleasantly.

"I need the doctor's services at once," I informed him. "Hustle him up
immediately, my good fellow. Please be quick, it may be a matter of life
and death."

"Oh! I'm the doctor," he said, "and I'll be with you in a few seconds.
Sit right down."

He left me in the darkness of the hallway and I sank down on a wooden
seat, upon a palm leaf fan that crackled dismally beneath my slender
weight. Faintly, in the back, I discerned a ghostly folding bed and
heard the swishing of garments flying across the room. In spite of my
feverish impatience the doctor came out again as fast as if he had been
clothed by some magic art.

"What kind of a case?" he asked.

"I believe you are wanted to help increase and multiply," I answered.

"Should have told me at once. Got the wrong bag!" he reproved me,
disappearing. At once he returned. I went out first, and he followed me,
slamming the door with a sound that reverberated through the quiet
street, and we sprinted off. I used the key with a shaking hand.

"Top floor," I informed him.

"All my patients seem to live on top floors," he replied.

At the woman's door I knocked.

"I--I have brought you assistance," I told her. "This--this young
gentleman knows all about such things; he's a doctor. I--I'll be in the
next room, if there's anything else I can do for you."

"Is there no woman in the place?" inquired the young man.

"No. Only some girls who know nothing save the price of caramels and the
intricacies of tango. But I can find one inside of twenty minutes; I'll
go and get her."

"That's good," he assented cheerfully, going to his patient, who looked
at him in some fear.

But I reflected that the doctor seemed kindly, and by no means
overwhelmed by the responsibility thrust upon him, so that I took the
time to slip on my boots, after which I ran to Eleventh Street, where
Frieda Long burrows in a small flat. Her studio, shared with another
woman, is farther uptown. Finally she opened the door, clad in a hoary
dressing-gown and blinking, for she had not been able to find her
spectacles.

"Who is it?" she demanded placidly, as if being awakened at two fifteen
in the morning had been a common incident of her life.

"It's Dave, just Dave Cole," I answered. "I want you, Frieda--that is to
say, a woman wants you badly, at my house--taking her share of the
primal curse. Don't know who she is, but Mrs. Milliken's away. She's
alone with a little half-hatched doctor, and--and----"

"Come in. Sit there in the front room. Cigarettes on that table. I'll
close the door and be with you in five minutes," she assured me
tranquilly.

I tried to smoke, but the thing tasted like Dead Sea fruit and I pitched
it out of the open window. An amazingly short time afterwards Frieda was
ready, bespectacled and wearing an awful hat. I think she generally
picks them out of rag bags.

As we walked along, she entertained me with her latest idea for a
picture. It would be a belted Orion pursuing the daughters of Pleione,
who would be changing into stars. She explained some of the difficulties
and beauties of the subject, and her conception of it, while I looked at
her in wonder. I must say that, from her stubby, capable fingers, there
flow pure poetry of thought and exquisiteness of coloring. Her form,
reminding one of a pillow tied none too tightly in the middle, her
tousled head containing a brain masculine in power and feminine in
tenderness, her deep contralto, might be appanages of some
back-to-the-earth female with an uncomfortable mission. But she's simply
the best woman in the world.

She panted to the top floor and, at my desire, followed me into my room,
where I had left the door open and the gas burning. She gave a swift
glance around the place, and her eyes manifested disapproval.

"I wonder how you can ever find anything on that desk," she reproved me,
as I searched in a bureau drawer. To my utter terror she began to put
some papers in order.

"Here's an unopened letter from _Paisley's Magazine_," she announced.

I pounced upon it and tore it open, to discover a check for eighty
dollars.

"Good!" I exclaimed. "I'd forgotten that story. It was called 'Cynthia's
Mule'; I wonder what possessed me to write about a mule? Don't know
anything about them."

"That's why it sold, most likely," said Frieda. "The public prefers
poetry to truth in its prose. What are you wasting time for, fooling in
that drawer?"

"I have it. It's a twenty-dollar bill," I told her. "I put it among my
socks so that I shouldn't spend it. Might be very handy, you know. She
might need something, and you could go out and buy it."

"Can you afford it, Dave?" she asked me.

"Of course, and you forget the check I've just received. Mrs. Milliken
will cash it for me at her butcher's. He's very obliging."

Just then we heard something. Frieda stuffed the bill in some part of
her ample bosom and ran away. I heard her knock at the door and go in.


There was nothing for me to do but to look at the nearly finished page
that was still in the embrace of my typewriter. For some silly reason my
gorge rose at the idea of the virtuous dog, but I remembered, as I was
about to pull out and lacerate the paper, that my mind sometimes plays
me scurvy tricks. When I am interrupted in the beginning of a story, and
look over it again, it always seems deplorably bad. Another day I will
look at it more indulgently. Moreover, what was the use of thinking
about such trivialities when the world's great problem was unfolding
itself, just seven steps away over the worn strip of Brussels on the
landing.

So I settled down in my old Morris chair to ponder over the matter of
babies coming to the just and the unjust, provided with silver spoons or
lucky to be wrapped up in an ancient flannel petticoat. The most
beautiful gift of a kindly Nature or its sorriest practical joke,
welcome or otherwise, the arriving infant is entitled to respect and
commiseration. I wondered what might be the fate of this one. In a few
hours it will be frowned down upon by Mrs. Milliken, who will consider
it as an insult to the genus landlady. The mother, naturally, will smile
upon the poor little thing; she will dote upon it as women do on the
ordinarily useless articles they purchase with money or pain at the
bargain counter of life. This wee white and pink mite, since its daddy's
away fighting and the mother is poor, must prove a tragedy, I am afraid.
It will be a little vampire, pretending to feed on milk but really
gorging itself on a heart's blood.

My cogitations were interrupted by the rattle of a thousand milk cans,
more or less, clattering through the street, on top of a huge, white
motor truck. I took off my coat, instinctively thinking that it was time
to go to bed, and put it on again because my door was open and it
behooved me to keep awake, since I might be required to run other
errands. The question of sleep thus disposed of, I brought out my
percolator.

For a wonder there was alcohol in the lamp, and I found the coffee in a
can I discovered in my cardboard hat-box. Two months before, my sister
Jane had told me that a silk hat was proper for the following of one's
mother to the grave, and I obeyed her. Poor darling! It was the least
and last thing I could do for her.

The lamp was alight and the steam coming, when the doctor came out,
looking rather spectral in a white gown.

"Thank goodness!" I exclaimed, dropping some pulverized bean on the
floor. "So it is all over!"

"Not yet," he informed me, smiling, "but so far everything goes well.
The big, fat Providence in gig-lamps is sitting by the patient.
Sometimes three make poor company. The solid dame came in and called her
'my dear' and rummaged things out of the trunk and fixed up the bed, and
tears began to flow. It must be a wonderful thing for a woman, who feels
abandoned of God and man, to have such a big brave creature come in to
pound the pillows and make one feel that there is yet corn in Egypt. I
left them with their heads together. The poor thing was crying a bit and
beginning to tell the story of her past life. Yes, thanks! I'll be glad
of a cup, with three lumps of sugar. Great little machine, that! And so
I thought I'd walk in here for a minute. Some things a woman tells
another must be pretty sacred, don't you think?"

I poured out the coffee appreciatively.

"The person whom you call the solid dame," I told him, "is no less a
woman than Frieda Long, the poet in pigments."

"Keeps a Beauty Shop?" he inquired.

"If you mean to ask whether she shampoos and manicures females and
supplies them with hair," I answered, "your guess is utterly wrong. She
paints women, and men too, on canvas, and any ordinary individual, such
as you and I, ought to grovel before her."

"Just say the word," he answered, "and I'll make a start. She's the best
old girl I've come across in many a long day."

"Frieda Long is hardly thirty-eight," I told him, "and, to change the
subject for a moment, I will acknowledge that I deemed such cases best
attended by the sere and ancient. I rang you up because your sign
suggested long experience."

"Not half bad, is it?" he replied. "I aged it by setting it up in the
backyard and firing brickbats at it. Old Cummerly, next door to me, had
his replated."

He swallowed his coffee, without winking, though I thought it was
boiling hot, and left me hurriedly again. I took greater leisure in my
own beverage and leaned back in my chair. This young fellow appealed to
me. The man of tact is born, not made. What serves him for a soul
possesses refinement to dictate his leaving, for a few minutes, while
one woman poured out her heart to another. I think he is considerate and
kindly; he is probably destined to make many friends and little money.

I rose and looked out of the window. The dawn was beginning and promised
another stifling, red-hot day. A very _decollete_ baker had come out of
a cave beneath the bread and cake shop, opposite, and sponged off his
forehead with the back of his hand. An Italian woman, clad in violent
colors, passed with a hundredweight or so of broken laths poised on her
head. At the corner the policeman was conversing with a low-browed
individual, issued from the saloon with a mop. New York was awakening,
and I decided I might as well shave, to pass away the time. Taking my
strop and razor I sat down to give the latter a thorough overhauling. I
suppose I fell asleep during the process.

"Contemplating suicide?" I heard Frieda ask suddenly.

I jumped up, startled, with the weapon in my hand.

"Put that thing down," she ordered me. "It makes me nervous. She's
sleeping quietly, and the doctor's gone. An awfully nice fellow. It's a
boy with brown hair."

"Not the doctor," I objected, somewhat dazed.

"No, the baby, you silly! The doctor is very nice. I am going out to get
my washerwoman's sister to come and stay with Madame Dupont--might as
well say Mrs. Dupont. Her husband's French, but she comes from Rhode
Island. You can go with me. Never mind about shaving now, you can stop
at a barber's later on. Your hair needs cutting. Put on a clean collar.
After I get that woman, we'll stop at the flat; the milk will be there
and I'll give you some breakfast. Come along!"

Frieda is a woman of the compelling kind, but it's a joy to obey her.
After I had adjusted my collar and tie we started, but when we reached
the door opposite she opened it, very quietly, while I waited, and
tiptoed in.

"She's awake," she said, again opening the door. "She says she would
like to thank you for your kindness. She knows she would have died, if
you had not sought help for her."

"Stuff and nonsense," I said, quite low. "You don't expect me to go in
there, do you?"

"I certainly do, because she wishes it. Don't be stupid!"

So I entered, rather embarrassed, thinking to see the face of a woman
crucified. But her smile was the sweetest thing I had ever beheld, I'm
very sure. I could hardly recognize her after that memory of haggard and
tortured features. She put out her hand to me, weakly.

"I--I want to thank you--ever so much," she said. "It was so awfully
kind of you, and--and you sent me an angel."

"Oh, yes," said Frieda, grinning. "I see myself with wings sprouting
from my shoulder-blades. Good-by for a short time, my dear. You'll only
be alone for a few minutes. Yes, the baby will be all right; don't you
worry. No, he won't be hungry for a long time, the doctor said, and you
are to let him sleep and do the same yourself. Now come along, David."

I was delighted to have Frieda's escort, as I scented danger below. Her
support gave me boundless joy when, at the foot of the stairs, I saw
Mrs. Milliken, returned on some frightfully early ferryboat. She looked
at us with amazement and suspicion.

"My dear Mrs. Milliken," I began, in my most ingratiating tones, "a new
boarder has arrived during the night. I can assure you the young man
would not have intruded had he possessed greater experience of life. We
will have to forgive him on account of his tender youth."

"They must be packed off at once," cried the woman. "How could you?"

"I beg to observe that it was not my tender heart but yours that gave
her shelter," I said. "My own responsibility is extremely limited, and
my part in the affair a most subsidiary one."

"And besides, Mrs. Milliken," put in Frieda, "no one but David Cole
lives on that floor. If he makes no complaint, no others are very likely
to, and then it would be inhuman to put the poor thing out now. In a few
days she will be able to move. I am going to send a woman immediately,
and you won't have the slightest trouble."

"For any little matter of extra expense, Mrs. Milliken, I will see that
you are properly compensated," I added.

Had I been alone, Mrs. Milliken would probably have argued the matter
for an hour, at the end of which I should have retired in defeat. But I
think Frieda's size overawed her. She only stammered rather weakly that
she knew it would all end badly.

"Don't mind her, David," said my friend, as we went out. "You can't
expect the keeper of a cheap boarding-house to be an optimist. Her
prediction may or not come true, but no one thinks that the bit of
humanity upstairs can turn the world topsy-turvy for some time."

I felt greatly relieved and followed her towards the river, where, just
west of Ninth Avenue, we found a tenement on the fourth floor of which
there was a sort of rabbit-hutch where dwelt two women and a bevy of
infants. I remained on the landing, while Frieda went in. Some of the
children came out and contemplated me, all with fingers in their mouths.
Remembering that I had changed a nickel on the previous evening, while
waiting for Gordon, in order to obtain a cent's worth of assorted
misinformation from my favorite paper, I pulled out the four remaining
pennies and distributed them. By the infants my action was accepted as
gentlemanly and urbane, I think, for they no longer considered me as a
suspicious character and the gravity of their expressions changed into a
look of unstinted approval.

"It's all right," said Frieda, coming out in a cloud of soapy steam.
"She'll go at once. Putting her hat on now. Come along. I'm hungry as a
hyena."

So I breakfasted with her at her flat. She had certainly worked much
harder than I, during the night, and taken a great deal more out of
herself, but she insisted on my sitting down while she juggled with a
gas-stove and bacon and eggs and a pot of jam. Her coffee, I thought,
was better than mine. At eight o'clock we parted at the corner of the
street.

"I must hurry along," she said. "I have an appointment with a man who
can pose as Orion."

I had time but for a few words of heartfelt thanks before she was in the
middle of the avenue, waving a hand to the motorman of her car. She
scrambled aboard, smiling at me cheerfully from the step, and I was
alone, wondering at the luck of a chap who could pose as Orion for
Frieda. I would rather have her think well of me than any one I know of,
I am very sure, and I regretted that my lank form and ill-thatched head
were so unsuited to the make-up of a Greek demigod. Never mind, I know
that when my next book comes out she will send for me, hurriedly, and
make me feel for some minutes as if I were really worthy of tying her
big, ugly, sensible shoes. She has read every one of my stories and
possesses all the books I ever perpetrated, bless her soul! It is good
indeed for a man to be able to look up to a woman, to know in his heart
of hearts that she deserves it, and that she doesn't want to marry him,
and he doesn't want to marry her. It is fine to think they are a pair of
great friends just because they're capable of friendship, a much rarer
accomplishment than most people are aware of.

So I returned to the scene of the night's invasion and climbed up the
stairs, rather wearily. I had the morning paper, three circulars and a
fresh box of cigarettes. Upon my landing I met a large female with a
moustache and decided it must be the washerwoman's sister. She smiled
pleasantly at me and I returned the courtesy.

In such words as I remembered from my erstwhile residence in Paris I
asked how the mother and child were doing.

The lady, she informed me, was doing ever so well. As for the infant, it
had beautiful eyes and was a cherished little cabbage.

Wondering upon the philosophy of endearments as attained by foreign
nations I entered my room, closing the door carefully, and looked over
those pages about the virtuous dog. They were promising, I thought.
After putting them down, I took up my razor, for I hate a barber's
scraping, and indulged in the luxury of a shave.

The instrument, I thought, possessed a splendid edge. Who knows, some
day I might bequeath it to a cherished cabbage.




CHAPTER III

I WATCH AN INFANT


It was all very well for Frieda to tell Mrs. Milliken that, if I had no
objection to that baby, no one else could resent its presence. She
assumes too much. If I had really belonged to the order of vertebrates I
should have objected most strenuously, for its presence is disturbing.
It diverts my attention from literary effort. But of course, since I am
as spineless as a mollusk, I sought to accept this heaven-sent
visitation with due resignation. My endeavor to continue that story was
a most pitiful farce. Four times, in reading over a single page, I found
the word _baby_ inserted where I had meant to write _dog_ or one of the
few available synonyms. I wondered whether it was owing to lack of sleep
that my efforts failed and threw myself upon the bed, but my seeking for
balmy slumber was more ghastly than my attempt at literature. Never in
all my life had I been more arrantly wakeful. A desperate resolve came
to me and I flipped a quarter. Heads and I would sit down and play
solitaire; tails and I would take a boat to Coney Island, a place I
abhor. The coin rolled under the bed, and I was hunting clumsily for it
with a stick when a tremendous knock came at the door, followed by the
immediate entrance of the washerwoman's sister, whom I afterwards knew
as Eulalie Carpaux.

I explained my position, half under the bed, feeling that she had caught
me in an attitude lacking in dignity, but the good creature sympathized
with me and discovered my money at once, after which she insisted on
taking my whiskbroom and vigorously dusting my knees.

"I have come, Monsieur," she informed me, "to ask if your door may be
left open. The heat is terrible and the poor, dear lamb has perspiration
on her forehead. I know that currents of air are dangerous, but
suffocation is worse. What shall I do?"

"You will open as many doors as you please," I answered meekly.

"Thank you. One can see that Monsieur has a good heart, but then any
friend of Mademoiselle Frieda must be a good man. She is adorable and
uses a great deal of linen. May I ask who does Monsieur's washing?"

"A Chinaman," I answered shortly. "He scrubs it with cinders and irons
it with a nutmeg grater. I keep it in this closet on the floor."

"My sister," she informed me, "has four children and washes beautifully.
I am sure that if Monsieur allowed me to take his linen, he would be
greatly pleased."

"Take it," I said, and waved my hand to signify that the interview was
closed, whereupon she mopped her red face, joyfully, with her apron and
withdrew.

Here was a pretty kettle of fish. Immediately the most gorgeous ideas
for my story crowded my brain and the language came to me, beautiful and
touching. But the Murillo-woman's door was open and so was mine. Since
Eulalie had ventured to leave the room, it was most probable that her
charge was sleeping. The typewriter, of course, would awaken her at
once. Was that infant destined to deprive me of a living, to snatch the
bread from my mouth? But I reflected that temperatures of ninety in the
shade were inconstant phenomena. It would be but a temporary annoyance
and the best thing I could do, since I was driven out of house and home,
was to take my hat and go to the beach for a swim. The die was cast and
I moved to the door, but had to return to place a paperweight on loose
sheets littering my desk, whereupon my eyes fell on the old pack of
cards and I threw the hat upon the bed and began solitaire. My plans
often work out in such fashion. Ten minutes later I was electrified by a
cry, a tiny squeak that could hardly have disturbed Herod himself. But
it aroused my curiosity and I tiptoed along the hallway, suspecting that
the woman Eulalie might not be attending properly to her duties,
whatever they were. Everything was still again, and the unjustly
mistrusted party was rocking ponderously, with an amorphous bundle in
her lap. She smiled at me, graciously. Upon the bed I caught a glimpse
of wonderful chestnut hair touched by a thread of sunlight streaming
tenuously from the side of a lowered blind; also, I saw a rounded arm.
Eulalie put a fat finger to rubicund lips and I retired, cautiously.

How in the world could I have been bothering my head about a trumpery
and impossible dog? In that room Nature was making apologetic amends. A
woman had obeyed the law of God and man, which, like all other laws,
falls heaviest on the weak. She was being graciously permitted to forget
past misery and, perchance, dream of happier days to come, while David
Cole, scrub coiner of empty phrases, bemoaned the need of keeping quiet
for a few hours. I decided that I ought to be ashamed of myself. "The
Professor at the Breakfast Table" was at my hand and I took it up, the
volume opening spontaneously at the "Story of Iris," and I lost myself
in its delight.

An hour later came a light step, swiftly, and the little doctor
appeared. He is as tall as I, but looks so very young that he seems
small to me. He entered my room, cheerfully, looking as fresh and nice
as if rosy dreams had filled his night.

"Well! How are things wagging?" he inquired breezily.


He was fanning himself with his neat straw hat, and I asked him to sit
down for a moment.

"Sure! But only for a minute or two. I have a throat clinic to attend at
one o'clock. There's just time for this visit, then a bite at Childs'
and a skip to Bellevue."

I looked at my watch and found he had allowed himself just fifty minutes
for these various occupations.

"Don't let me detain you, my dear boy," I told him. "I--I just wanted to
say that I haven't the least idea whether--whether that young creature
in the other room has a cent to bless herself with. It seems to me--I
think that she should have every care, and I shall be glad if you will
consider me responsible--er--within the limits of a moderate income."

"Thanks," he said, "that's very kind of you."

His eyes strayed on my desk, and he pounced upon a copy of "The City's
Wrath."

"Tell you what," he said, "that's a tip-top book. I borrowed my mother's
copy and read it all night. The fellow who wrote it knows something
about the slender connection between body and soul, in this big city.
He's looked pretty deep into people's lives."

No compliments I ever received, with the exception of Frieda's, gave me
greater pleasure than the appreciation of this honest, strong lad.

"Will you kindly give me your full name?" I asked him.

"Thomas Lawrence Porter," he answered.

I took the volume and wrote it down on the first page, adding kindest
regards and my signature, and handed it to him, whereat he stared at me.

"D'ye mean to say you're the chap who wrote that book," he said, and
wrung my hand, painfully. "I'm proud to meet you. If you don't mind, I'd
like to come in some time and--and chat about things with you, any
evening when you're not busy. You know an awful lot about--about
people."

"My good friend," I told him, "don't permit youthful enthusiasm to run
away with you. But I shall be delighted to have you drop in. And now,
since your time is so limited, you had better go and see your patient."

He tucked his book under his arm and went down the hallway. After
remaining in the room for perhaps a quarter of an hour, he came out
again, cheerfully.

"Doing exceedingly well," he called to me. "By-by; see you again very
soon, I hope."

He vanished down the stairs, and I took up my book again, holding it in
one hand while I went to the windows, intending to draw down a blind
against the sunlight that was streaming in. The heat was entering in
gusts and, for a second, a sparrow sat on my window ledge with head
drooping, as if it were about to succumb. Then I drew down the blinds
and immediately let them up again, reflecting that in the room opposite
mine they were lowered for the sake of darkness and air and that my
action would lessen the latter. So I sponged off my cranium and panted.
It was being revealed to me that babies, whatever their other
qualifications, were exquisitely complicated nuisances.

Yet an Arab, I told myself, refuses to step on a piece of paper, lest
upon it might be written the name of the Deity, while some Hindoos carry
little brooms and sweep the path before them, that they may not tread
upon one of Buddha's creatures. Who knows whether divinity does not
leave its signature on every infant, and who can reasonably doubt that
infinite goodness possesses an equity in prospective men and women.
Shall I be less civil than a sand-washed Bedouin or the monk of a
Benares shrine? It behooves me to welcome a chance to acquire merit by
showing patience.

The book I held was as charming as ever, of course, but since I knew the
story by heart I dropped it on my knees and waged a losing fight against
a fly, which persisted in perching itself on my brow. Before me flitted
the idea that a skull-cap made of sticky fly-paper might be patentable
and sell by the million, combining protection and revenge; I must look
into the matter. Finally hunger troubled me and I decided to go out for
refreshment. Before my neighbor's door I stopped for an instant, my eyes
seeking to penetrate the dimness. Eulalie came to me at once and began
to whisper.

"Would Monsieur be so very kind as to remain here for a few moments and
watch?" she said. "I am going to run over to my sister's and tell her to
buy a chicken and make broth. It will be very good for our poor, dear
lady. In ten minutes I will be back."

Man's freedom of action is apparently a mere academic concept.
Theoretically, I was entirely at liberty to refuse, to look down upon
this woman from the superior height of my alleged intellectuality and
inform her that my soul craved for an immediate glass of iced tea and
some poached eggs on toast. I could have asserted that I did not purpose
to allow myself to be bulldozed by an infant seven hours and ten minutes
old. As a matter of fact, I was helpless and consented, Eulalie shaking
the stairs during her cautious, down-ward progress. It was with some of
the feelings of an apprentice in the art of lion-taming that I entered
the room. Would the proceeding be tranquil and dignified, or accompanied
by roars?

I sat down upon the rocker just vacated by Eulalie and gazed on the
horsehair sofa as if the package resting on it were explosive, with a
fuse alight. I had feared that it would be thrust upon my lap, but it is
likely that my competency had been justifiably suspected. I dared not
move the chair, fearing to make a noise, and could see nothing of the
white arms or the Murillo face. Suddenly, an orgy of steam-whistling
began, rousing my apprehensions while recalling workers to their
factories. It proved but a false alarm and stillness prevailed in the
top-floor back, for at least three minutes, when the dreaded wail
arose.

"Please, Eulalie," came a husky, low voice. "Give me my baby."

It was then that my already damp brow began to stream. She wanted her
baby and wouldn't be happy till she got it. My duty, I realized, was to
go to the sofa and pick up the animated and noisy parcel. It would then
have to be conveyed to the bed! Nervously, I prepared to obey.

"Eulalie has gone out for a few minutes," I explained, in the subdued
tones I deemed suitable to a sickroom. "Here--here is the bundle. I
think it wriggles."

"Thank you ever so much and--and please turn him the other way--yes,
those are the feet. And would you pull up the shade a little bit, I
think I would have more air."

I raised the thing, letting in a flood of light, and feasted my eyes in
utter liberty. Poor child, she must have a cold, for she suffers from
hoarseness. She paid little more heed to me than did the ancient Roman
ladies to the slaves they refused to recognize as men. I realized my
small importance when she tenderly pushed aside the little folds and
revealed diminutive features over which she sighed, contentedly, while I
drew my chair a little nearer to the bed. Since a Murillo was on free
exhibition, I might as well gaze upon it and admire. That faint little
wailing had stopped at once.

"Don't you think he is ever so good and well-behaved?" she asked me,
after a while.

I assented, forbearing to tell her that his existence had not yet been
sufficiently long to prove him entirely free from all taint of original
sin.

"It's such a comfort," she assured me.

Already, by the saintly grace of a mother's heart, she was endowing her
offspring with all the virtues. The wondrous optics of motherhood
revealed beauty, wisdom, good intent, the promise of great things to
come, all concentrated in this tabloid form of man. So mote it be!

The tiny head rested on her outstretched rounded arm and she closed her
eyes once more. The plentiful chestnut hair had been braided tight and
pinned at the top of her head.

"I wish Gordon McGrath could see her," I told myself. "No, Frieda
wouldn't do the picture justice. She would seek to improve on Nature's
handiwork; she would etherealize it, make it so dainty that it would
become poetry instead of the beautiful plain language the universal
mother sometimes speaks. Gordon would paint something that lived and
breathed. He would draw real flesh and blood, recognizing that truth
unadorned is often very splendid."

At this time I bethought myself of the baby's father. The man was over
there, taking his part in the greatest tragedy ever enacted. At this
very moment, perhaps, he was engaged in destroying life and knew nothing
of this little son. I pitied him. Ye Gods! But for the strength and
insolence of some of the mighty ones of this earth he would have been in
this room, and I should have been quietly engaged in consuming poached
eggs. He would have been appeasing the hunger of his eyes and the
longing of his soul with the sight of the picture now before me, in the
solemn happiness that must surely come to a man at such a time. A
feeling of chilliness came over me as I inopportunely remembered an
interview I had some months ago with a fellow called Hawkins. I was in
his office downtown when the telephone rang, and he took down the
receiver.

"A son," he called back. "Good enough! I was afraid it might be another
girl!"

Then he dictated a short letter to his stenographer and calmly picked up
his hat.

"Come along, Cole," he said. "They tell me I have a boy. Let's go out
and have a highball."

Knowing Hawkins as I do, I am certain he would have had the drink
anyway. This new-born offspring of his merely served him as a peg
whereon to hang the responsibility for his tipple. The great and
wonderful news really affected him little.

But why was I thinking of such monsters? The father of this little baby,
I am sure, must be a decent and normal man. He would have come in,
hatless and breathless, and thrown himself upon his knees to worship and
adore. The very first clumsy touch upon the tiny cheek would have sent a
thrill through him, and tears would have welled up in his eyes!


Such were my thoughts when I remembered that, as a delver in fiction, it
was probably becoming my second nature to exaggerate a little. To me,
after all, a recent father was perhaps like the mule whose story had
brought the check. My notions in regard to them were of pure
imagination, and I only knew them as potentially picturesque ingredients
of literary concoctions. Yet, on further reflection, I conceded to
myself the right to imagine newly made fathers as I saw fit. Millions of
them are produced every year and among them must be some counterparts of
my special conception of the type.

I was thus comforting myself when I heard a familiar wheezy breathing on
the stairs. It was Frieda, who presently irrupted into the room.

"David," she commanded, "you go right out and have something to eat. I'm
sure you are starving. I will stay here till that woman comes back. I
left her at the corner, carrying a fowl to her sister's, and she told me
I would find you here."

She deposited voluminous parcels on the sofa, handled the infant with
absolute confidence in her ability, and waved me out of the room. Some
men are born meek and lowly, while others become monarchs and janitors;
my place was to obey, after I had caught the smile suddenly come to the
Murillo-woman's pale features. Frieda, I know, sees more affectionate
grins than any one in Greater New York. Her presence suffices to make
them sprout and grow. Mrs. Dupont had also smiled at me, true enough,
but I think it was but a ray of sunshine really intended for the baby,
and I had found myself in the same general direction and intercepted a
trivial beam of it.

Downstairs, Mrs. Milliken met me with a frown, but her features relaxed
when I handed her my week's rental and board, which I seldom partake of.
Seeing her in such a happy disposition, I hastened to the door.

"I'm going upstairs to take a look at it," she announced gloomily.

I thanked Providence that Frieda was on guard and felt that I had no
cause for worry. The landlady, after all, is undeniably a woman and I
believe she is the erstwhile mother of several. Her asperity must surely
be smoothed down by the sight of the baby's face.

As I put my hand upon the door, the old lady appeared.

"How is that baby?" she shouted, putting a hard-rubber contrivance to
her ear.

"Doing splendidly and endowed with all the virtues," I clamored in the
instrument.

"I'd give him sugared water for it," she responded severely.

I rushed out. Dr. Porter had strictly forbidden the stuff, calling it a
fount of potential colic. I must say that I felt a sneaking sympathy
with the old lady's view. Why refuse a bit of sweetness to a tiny
infant, perhaps destined to taste little of it in afterlife? But,
fortunately, the realization of my ineptitude came uppermost. That
silly, romantic tendency of mine was leading me to think more of future
privations than immediate pains in a diminutive stomach. I wondered
whether I should ever become a practical member of society. The doctor's
orders must and shall be obeyed, or my name is not David Cole!




CHAPTER IV

THE BOLT


"And by the way," asked Gordon, a few days later, "how's Frieda getting
along?"

"Very well," I answered. "I think she's painting nymphs and angels, as
usual."

"Angels, eh? The natural history of such fowl is interesting."

I had met him in the middle of Bryant Park as I was on the way to the
Public Library to look up information in regard to feminine garb of the
Revolutionary period. It appeared that he was returning from an
interview with a Fifth Avenue picture dealer. At once we sought a bench
and found seats between a doubtfully-clean young gentleman, reading the
sporting page of a dilapidated paper, and an old lady, with rheumy eyes,
who watched a ragged urchin.

I nodded, much interested, and he pursued the subject.

"You may have noticed that the very first angels all belonged to the
masculine persuasion and you are, perhaps, also aware that it was rather
late in the world's growth before women were accorded the possession of
a soul. Hence, at the time, there could be no female angels, either
worthy or evil. To-day, we have changed all that, as Moliere said. In
order to flatter the feminine taste people began to talk of little boy
angels, because women think more of boy babies than of girl ones. The
time arrived when men forgot about the women, the dogs and the walnut
trees and, instead of taking a club to the ladies, they began to write
sonnets to them. It is evident that no one can rhyme words without
everlastingly trying to gild the lily. To call a spade a spade, or a
woman a woman, became scant courtesy, and, hence, the poets devised
female angels. The painters and sculptors naturally pounced upon them,
for their decorative effect, and the she-angel took a firmly-established
place in art and fiction. Let me see, I think you said that your Murillo
lady describes her little sprout as an angel. This merely shows her to
be a normal creature of her sex."

"You are entirely wrong, if by normal you mean just average," I
retorted reproachfully. "Frieda declares that she is the most beautiful
thing she ever saw."

"Frieda is a waddling and inspired goose, whose goslings are all swans,"
he asserted disrespectfully. "Through her unbecoming goggles humanity
assumes pink and mauve colors instead of remaining drab. It may be good
for Frieda and enables her to turn out some very attractive stuff, but
it isn't the real thing. Well, I'll have to run away! Couple of fellows
waiting to drive me over to Long Beach. By-by!"

He was gone with his usual startling suddenness, and I went off to the
library, pondering. When Gordon is talking to me, I can hardly help
believing him. Indeed, if the man had been a life insurance agent he
would have made a fortune. At first, one feels absolutely compelled to
accept all his statements, and it is only after he departs that I begin
to wonder whether some flaws can't be picked in his arguments. I
occasionally discover a few, I am quite sure. Humanity is no more drab
than the flowers of the field, except in terms of the million. There is
but slight beauty in violets by the ton, as I have seen them in
Southern France, brought in cartloads to the perfume factories. They
become but a strongly-scented mass of color. I desire to pick mine as I
wander afield, one at a time, and admire the petals, while making myself
believe that they grew for my pleasure. Gordon would scoff at the idea
and declare it an accidental meeting, but what does he know of the
forces that may direct our footsteps? There is comfort in the Mohammedan
belief that everything is written before-hand.

The particular book I wanted was being read by a snuffy old gentleman,
seated at the long table in the Department of History. I wondered why he
should be interested in the frocks and flounces of a past century, and
asked for a volume on Charles the Great, a ponderous tome I carried
reverently to the big oaken table.

It was exceedingly warm, and flies were buzzing drowsily. A big handsome
girl was extracting wisdom from a dusty folio and taking notes on sheets
of yellow paper. I remember that her face was finely colored and her
lashes long. Three chairs away, on the opposite side, a little deformed
man looked up from his book, stealthily, and glanced at her. She never
saw him, I am very certain, nor was she ever conscious of the deep-set
and suffering eyes that feasted on her beauty. To him she could be no
more than a splendid dream, something as far from his reach as the
Koh-i-noor might be from mine. But I wondered whether such visions may
not be predestined parts of life, making for happiness and charm. The
young women at Mrs. Milliken's, who sell candy, will hand you out
material sugar-plums, yet even those have but an evanescent flavor and
become only memories.

Frieda has returned my twenty-dollar bill, which I stuffed in my pocket.

"One has to be very careful about such things," she told me. "Neither of
us would offend the poor thing for any consideration. I have found out
that she has a little money, but it cannot be very much because she was
very anxious about the doctor's fee and how much Eulalie would charge.
But I didn't think it best to proffer any help just now, saving such as
we can render by making her feel that she has a friend or two in the
world. Isn't it hot?"

I assured her that it was and said I was very glad that Mrs. Dupont was
not quite destitute. By this time the baby was a week old and most
reasonably silent. Mrs. Milliken felt reassured, and the two young women
who sold candy had come up, one evening, to admire the infant. From the
goodness of their hearts they had brought an offering of gummy sweets,
which I subsequently confiscated and bestowed upon Eulalie for her
sister's children, who, she assures me, are to be envied in the
possession of iron stomachs. The commercial young men have instinctively
slammed their doors less violently, and the deaf old lady, precluded by
age from ascending to top floors, sent up a pair of microscopic blue and
white socks and a receipt for the fashioning of junket, which, I
understand, is an edible substance.

"Tell you what!" exclaimed Frieda. "You might take me to Camus this
evening. Dutch treat, you know. I insist on it. I'm tired to-day and
don't want to wrestle with my gas-stove. Besides, I want to talk to you
about Kid Sullivan."

"I'm afraid I'm unacquainted with the youthful Hibernian," I said. "Is
it another baby that you take a vicarious interest in?"

"No, he would have been the lightweight champion, but for his losing a
fight, quite accidentally," she explained. "He told me exactly how it
happened, but I don't remember. At any rate, it was the greatest pity."

"My dear Frieda," I told her, "no one admires more than I a true
democracy of acquaintance and catholicity of friendship, but don't you
think that consorting with prizefighters is a little out of your line?"

"Don't talk nonsense," she said, in her decided way. "I just had to get
a model for Orion, and he's my janitress's brother. The most beautiful
lad you ever saw. He already has a wife and two little children, and his
shoulders are a dream!"

"So far," I told her, "I have fought shy of the squared circle in my
literary studies and know little about it. But I surmise that, if your
Orion continues his occupation, he is likely to lose some of his good
looks. Be sure and paint his face first, Frieda, while the painting is
still good, and before his nose is pushed askew and he becomes adorned
with cauliflower ears."

"I know nothing of such things," she answered, "and he's a delight to
paint."

"But for that perfectly accidental defeat, the man would have refused to
appear as a demigod," I asserted. "A champion would think himself too
far above such an individual."

"That's neither here nor there," she asserted, impatiently. "When I try
to talk, you're always wandering off into all sorts of devious paths.
What I wanted to say was that, if any of your acquaintances happen to
require a very competent truck-driver, the Kid is out of a job. Of
course I can't afford to pay him much. He poses for me to oblige his
sister."

"The youth appears to have several strings to his bow," I remarked,
wondering why Frieda should ever think I could possibly know people in
need of truck-drivers. But then, she never leaves a stone unturned, when
she seeks to help more or less deserving people.

In my honor she put on her most terrific hat, and we went arm in arm to
Camus, where she revelled in olives and radishes and conscientiously
went through the bill of fare.

"Do you know, Frieda, I am thanking goodness for the advent of that
baby," I told her. "It has permitted me to enjoy more of your company
than I have for months and months. Every minute I can feel that you are
growing nearer and dearer to me."

She showed her fine teeth, laughing heartily. She delights in having
violent love made to her by some one who doesn't mean it. To her it
constitutes, apparently, an excruciatingly funny joke. Also to me, when
I consider her hat, but, when she is bareheaded, I am more serious, for,
then, she often looks like a real woman, possessing in her heart the
golden casket wherein are locked the winged passions. _Quien sabe?_ She
is, perhaps, fortunate in that filmy goddesses and ethereal youths have
so filled her thoughts that a mere man, to her, is only the gross
covering of something spiritual that has sufficed for her needs. Poor,
dear, fat Frieda! A big gold and crimson love bursting out from beneath
the varnish covering her hazy pigments would probably appal and frighten
her.

"Will you have some of the _sole au vin blanc_?" she asked, bringing me
down to earth again.

I thanked her and accepted, admiring the witchery whereby the Widow
Camus can take a vulgar flounder and, with magic passes, translate it
into a fair imitation of a more heavenly fish. One nice thing about
Frieda is that she never appears to think it incumbent upon her
companion to devote every second of his attention to her. If I chance to
see a tip-tilted nose, which would serve nicely in the description of
some story-girl, and wish to study it carefully and, I hope,
unobtrusively, she is willing to let her own eyes wander about and enjoy
herself, until I turn to her again. I was observing the details of a
very fetching and merry little countenance, when a girl rose from an
adjoining table and came up to Frieda.

"I happened to turn my head and see you," she exclaimed. "So I just had
to come over and say howdy. I'm so glad to see you. I have my cousin
from Mackville with me and am showing him the town."

She was a dainty thing, modestly clad, crowned with fluffy auburn, and
with a face pigmented with the most genuine of cream and peaches.
Frieda presented me, and she smiled, graciously, saying a few bright
nothings about the heat, after which she rejoined her companion, a
rather tall and gawky youth.

"She posed for me as Niobe two years ago," said my friend. "At present,
she teaches physical culture."

"What!" I exclaimed, "that wisp of a girl."

"Yes, I don't know how many pounds she can lift; ever so many. She's a
perfect darling and looks after an old mother, who still deplores
Mackville Four Corners. Her cousin is in safe hands."

I took another look at the six-footer with her, who smoked a cigarette
with evident unfamiliarity.

"Would," I said, "that every youth, confronted by the perils of New York
for the first time, might be guided in such security. She is showing him
the revelry of Camus and has proved to him that a slightly Bohemian
atmosphere is not incompatible with personal cleanliness and a soul kept
white. It will broaden his horizon. Then she will take him home at a
respectable hour, after having demonstrated to him the important fact
that pleasure, edible viands and a cheerful atmosphere may be procured
here out of a two-dollar bill, leaving a little change for carfare."

"If I were a man," said Frieda, "I should fall in love with her."

"If you were a man, my dear, you would fall in love a dozen times a
day."

"Gordon McGrath says it's the only safe way," she retorted.

"Don't be quoting him to me," I advised her. "To him it is a mere
egotistic formula. Like yourself, he has always been afraid to descend
from generalities. I don't like the trait in him, whereas, in you, I
admire it, because, with you, it is the mere following of a tendency to
wholesale affection for your fellow-beings. Yet it is a slightly curious
and abnormal condition."

"Like having to wear spectacles," she helped me out.

"Just so, whereas in Gordon it is simply the result of a deliberate
policy, a line of conduct prepared in advance, like a chess-opening.
Some day, in that game of his, a little pawn may move in an unexpected
way, and he will be hoist with his own petard."

"I hope so," she answered cheerfully. "It will probably be very good for
him."

"But it might also break his heart," I suggested.

"Don't get gloomy," Frieda advised me. "What about yourself? Here you
are abusing your friends because they fight shy of the archer godling. I
should like to know what you have done to show any superiority."

"Well, if my memory serves me right, I have proposed to you, once or
twice."

"O dear no! You may have meant to, perhaps, but never really got to the
point," she answered, laughing. "I haven't the slightest doubt that once
or twice you came to my flat all prepared for the sacrifice. But,
suddenly, you doubtless became interested in some other trifling matter.
Give me three lumps of sugar in my coffee, and don't let them splash
down. This is my best gown."

We left Camus and returned together to Mrs. Milliken's. Frieda had a
curious notion to the effect that, as she hadn't seen the baby since
several hours, something very fatal might happen to it, if she failed
to run in again. My landlady and her ancient male relative were sitting
on the steps, fanning themselves and discussing the price of coal. By
this time, the woman ate right out of Frieda's hand, although the latter
does not seem to be aware that she has accomplished the apparently
impossible. The old night-watchman informed us that he was enjoying a
week's holiday from the bank. He was spending it, cheerfully, dividing
his leisure between the front steps and the backyard. He also told us of
a vague and ambitious project simmering in his mind. He was actually
planning to go all the way to Flatbush and see a niece of his. For
several years he had contemplated this trip, which, he apprised us,
would take at least an hour each way. I bade him good courage, and we
went upstairs. While Frieda went into Mrs. Dupont's room, I turned on
the gas in mine and sat before my window, with my feet on the ledge,
smoking my calabash.

"Has Monsieur looked upon his bed?" Eulalie startled me by asking
suddenly.

Now, in order to respond with decent civility, I was compelled to remove
my feet from their resting place, to take the pipe from my mouth and
turn in my chair. Women can sometimes be considerable nuisances.

"No," I answered, "I have not looked upon the bed. Why should I? A bed
is the last resource of the weary and afflicted, it is one of the things
one may be compelled to submit to without becoming reconciled to it. I
take good care never to look at it so long as I can hold a book in my
hand or watch passers-by in the street."

"Very well, Monsieur," she answered placidly. "It is all there, and I
have darned the holes in the socks."

This was highly interesting and I hastily rose to inspect her handiwork.
She had placed my washing on the coverlet and the result looked like an
improvement on Celestial efforts. I took up the topmost pair of socks
and gazed upon it, while a soft and chastened feeling stole over me.

"Thank you, Eulalie," I said, with some emotion. "It is exceedingly
nice; I am glad you called my attention to it. In the future I shall be
obliged, if you will stuff it in the chiffonier. Had I first seen all
this on going to bed, I am afraid I should have pitched it on the
floor, as usual, and been sorry for it next morning."

She smilingly complied at once with my request and withdrew, bidding me
a good night, while I sat again, feeling great contentment. I had now
discovered that a man, if lucky, might have his socks darned without
being compelled to take a wife unto himself, with all the uncomfortable
appurtenances thereof. It was a new and cheering revelation. No sooner
had I begun to cogitate over the exquisiteness of my fate than I was
disturbed again, however. Frieda partly obeyed conventionality by
knocking upon my open door and walking in.

"Frances Dupont wants me to thank you ever so much for the pretty roses,
David," she told me. "It was really very kind of you to bring them. I
have snipped the stems and changed the water and put them on the window
sill for the night."

"Yes," I explained, "I had to change that twenty-dollar bill, and there
was a hungry-looking man at the corner of Fourteenth Street, who offered
them to me for a quarter. So we had to go over to the cigar store to get
the note broken up into elementals. The fellow really looked as if he
needed money a great deal more than roses, so I gave him a dollar."

"But then why didn't you take a dollar's worth of flowers?" asked
Frieda, high-priestess of the poetic brush, who is a practical woman, if
ever there was one.

"Never thought of it," I acknowledged; "besides, he had only three
bunches left."

"And so you didn't want to clean out his stock in trade. Never mind,
Dave, it was very sweet of you."

She hurried away, and, finally, I heard the front door closing, after
which I made a clean copy of that dog story, flattering myself that it
had turned out rather neatly. It was finished at two o'clock, and I went
to bed.

The next morning was a Sunday. I dawdled at length over my dressing and
sallied forth at eleven, after Mrs. Milliken had knocked at my door
twice to know if she could make the room. If I were an Edison, I should
invent an automatic room-making and womanless contrivance. These great
men, after all, do little that is truly useful and practical.

My neighbor's door was open. I coughed somewhat emphatically, after
which I discreetly knocked upon the doorframe.

"Come in, Mr. Cole," said a cheery, but slightly husky, voice. "Come in
and look at the darling."

"That was my purpose, Madame Dupont," I said most veraciously.

"Eulalie has gone out again," I was informed, after the infant had been
duly exhibited, as it slept with its two fists tightly closed. "She has
gone for a box of Graham crackers and the Sunday paper."

I smiled, civilly, and opined that the day's heat would not be so
oppressing.

"Don't you want to sit down for a moment?" she asked me.

I was about to obey, when I heard the elephantine step of the
washerwoman's sister, who entered, bearing her parcels and the _Courrier
des Etats Unis_.

"Excuse me for just a second," said the husky little voice.

I bowed and looked out of the window, upon yards where I caught the
cheery note of a blooming wisteria.

Suddenly, there came a cry. The bedsprings creaked as the young woman,
who had raised herself upon one elbow, fell back inertly.

"_Oh, mon Dieu!_" bellowed Eulalie, open-mouthed and with helpless arms
hanging down.

I rushed to the bed, with some vague idea of bringing first aid. In the
poor little jar of roses I dipped my handkerchief and passed it over
Mrs. Dupont's brow, scared more than half to death. Presently, she
seemed to revive a little. She breathed and sighed, and then came a
flood of tears. She stared at me with great, deep, frightened eyes, and
with a finger pointed to a column of the paper. I took it from her and
held it out at a convenient distance from my eyes, about two feet away.
There was a printed list referring to reservists gone from New York. For
many weeks, doubtless, she had scanned it, fearing, hopeful, with
quick-beating heart that was only stilled when she failed to find that
which she tremblingly sought.

I caught the name, among other announcements of men fallen at the front.

    --Paul Dupont--

I also looked at her, open-mouthed, stupidly. She stared again at me,
as if I could have reassured her, sworn that it was a mistake, told her
not to believe her eyes.

Then, she rose again on her elbow and turned to the slumbering mite at
her side, but, although the salty drops of her anguish fell on the
baby's face, he continued to sleep on.




CHAPTER V

GORDON HELPS


The passing of the next week or two can only be referred to in a few
words, for how can a man gauge the distress of a soul, measure the
intensity of its pangs, weight the heavy burden of sorrow? That good
little Dr. Porter came in very often. Most tactfully he pretended that
his visits were chiefly to me, and would merely drop into the other room
on his way out of mine; at any rate the smallness of the bill he
rendered long afterwards made me surmise that this was the case.

In the meanwhile, the weather remained very warm and the doors were
often left open. I went into the room quite frequently. Eulalie is the
salt of the earth, but she still has a little of the roughness of the
unground crystal so that, for conversational purposes, Frances Dupont
perhaps found my presence more congenial. Her faithful, but temporary,
retainer was always there, exuding an atmosphere of robust health and
lending propriety to my visits. She was generally darning socks.

The hungry one snatches at any morsel presented to him, while those who
are dying of thirst pay little heed to the turbidity of pools they may
chance upon. The poor Murillo-girl, perforce, had to be content with
such friendship and care as her two new friends could give her. Frieda
always came in once a day, but she was tremendously busy with her Orion.
Indeed, her visits were eagerly awaited; she brought little doses of
comfort, tiny portions of cheer that vied with Porter's remedies in
efficacy and, possibly, were much pleasanter to take.

From my friend Hawkins I borrowed baby-scales, fallen into desuetude,
and triumphantly jotted down the ounces gained each week by Baby Paul. I
believe that the humorous peculiarities of my countenance excited the
infant's risibilities; at any rate, the young mother assured me that he
smiled when he looked at me. Presently, after the violence of the blow
had been slightly assuaged and the hours of silent weeping began to grow
shorter, she managed, at times, to look at me as if I also brought a
little consolation.

I remember so well the morning when I found the bed empty and neatly
made up and the young woman sitting in an uncomfortable rocker. I
insisted on returning at once to my room for my old Morris chair,
knowing that she would be much easier in it. At first, to my
consternation, she refused to accept it, under some plea that she did
not want me to be deprived of it. When she finally consented, her eyes
were a little moist and I was delighted when she acknowledged that it
gave her excellent comfort. A little later came the chapter of
confidences, memories of brief happy days with her husband, the warp and
woof of an existence that had already suffered from broken threads and
heart-strings sorely strained.

She had an Aunt Lucinda, it appeared, and when the teacher of singing in
Providence had declared that the girl's voice was an uncut jewel of
great price that must be smoothed over to perfection by study abroad,
the aunt had consented to extend some help and Frances had gone over.

There had been nearly two years of hard study, with some disappointments
and rebuffs, and, finally, great improvement. The crabbed teacher had
begun to smile at her and pat her on the back, so that other young
women had been envious. This, I presume, was tantamount to a badge of
merit. Then, she had sung in one or two concerts and, suddenly, Paul
Dupont, the marvelous, had come into her life. He was a first prize of
the _Conservatoire_, for the violin, and, people said, the coming man.
There had been another concert and, among other things, Frances had sung
Gounod's "Ave Maria" while Paul had played the obligato. It was then
that, for the first time, her own voice thrilled her. Joined to the
vibrant notes the man could cause to weep and cry out in hope, her song
had sounded like a solemn paean of victorious achievement. Critics had
written of her power and brilliancy, of her splendid ease of execution.

And then had come the making of love. He had played again for her, and
she had put her soul in the songs, for him to revel in, for her to cry
out the beating of her heart. It seemed to have come with the swiftness
of a summer storm, and they had married, with just a few friends present
to witness the ceremony and rejoice in their happiness.

Aunt Lucinda had written that a woman, who would go abroad and espouse
a Papist and a fiddler, was utterly beyond the pale. Let her never show
her face in Providence again!

But what did it matter! Happiness lay in the hollow of their hands, rosy
and bright, full of wondrous promise. Yet she had written to Aunt
Lucinda, dutifully, expressing hope that at some later time she might be
looked upon with greater indulgence. And there had been more beautiful
songs, and Paul had played, and their souls had vibrated together.
Finally, a man from New York had engaged them to come over to America
and give a series of concerts. When they started away, she thought she
was getting a bad cold, for her voice was beginning to get a little
husky. Paul asserted that the trip at sea and the long rest would
certainly make everything all right. But in New York she had been
compelled to call on a doctor, who was an exceedingly busy man, with
hosts of patients, who sprayed her throat and gave her medicine to take
and charged very high fees, and--and the voice had kept on growing
huskier and--and it was no use trying to sing, and--and the engagement
had been broken. And Paul had been so good and swore she would be better
by and by, and he had played in concerts, without her, and everything
went on very well, except her voice. Then, one day, she had told a most
marvelous secret to Paul, and they had rejoiced together and been very
happy. Then the war had come like a bolt from the blue, and Paul had
taken the very first boat with hundreds of other reservists. She would
follow him to France after the baby was born, and there she would wait
for him in the dear old house of his parents, who were country people,
cultivating a farm and oh! so proud of their wonderful son. They had
been ever so good and kind to her. She had written to them several
times, but no answer had ever come and then some one told her that the
small village in which they lived had been razed to the ground. It was
over there on the other side of the Marne. And now it was ever so long
since she had received any word from Paul, and they had saved very
little, because money came so easily, and--and now Paul was dead and she
couldn't sing!

Frieda was in the room with me when the tale was told. She rushed out,
and I found her, a few minutes later, in my room, her nose swollen and
her eyes devastated by weeping. But she used my wash-basin and towels
for plentiful ablutions and returned to the room where I left her alone
with Frances Dupont, realizing the futility of a man in such
circumstances.

At the end of another week our stout angel burst again into my room.
Eulalie had been discharged, with mutual regrets, and little Paul was
growing apace. Three and a half ounces in seven days!

"Dave! We've got to find something for Frances to do! In a very short
time she will not have a penny left. Go to work at once and, in the
meanwhile, I'll do my best also. Yes, I know perfectly well that the two
of us will see that she doesn't suffer, but she doesn't want charity;
she wants work!"

She was off again, and I knew that she would at once inquire of the
butcher, the baker and the candlestick-maker in regard to positions
suited to a young woman with a Murillo-face and a baby. I put on my hat
and went at once to Gordon's studio, facing Central Park. I was lucky
enough to find him in.

"Sit down and don't bother me," he said pleasantly. "I must use up the
last of this light."

Before him stood an easel with a wonderful portrait of a young woman
endowed with splendid neck and arms. He was working at some detail of
the gown, which the lady had evidently sent over for him, since the
garment was disposed about a large mannikin with a vacuous face. I
watched delightedly the sure touches with which he reproduced the sheen
of the silk. Gordon doesn't want to talk while he paints, pretending
that in order to do his best work a man must bend all his energies to
it, whether he is sawing wood or writing elegies.

"People wouldn't begin chatting to a fellow while he played Chopin," he
told me one day. "What right have they to disturb the harmonies in a
man's mind when he's creating melodies in color? Hang their
impertinence!"

I presume, however, that painting a silk dress was somewhat mechanical
work to him, for, after some minutes of silent toil, during which he
only stepped back once to survey his work, he began to speak. Like many
other people, he has not the slightest objection to the infringing of
his own rules. It only behooves others to obey them.

"That's Miss Sophia Van Rossum," he told me, taking his short pipe out
of his mouth and putting it down on his stool. "She's been coming in
from Southampton three times a week, to pose. Drives her own car, you
know, and has been arrested a dozen times for speeding. So I finished
the face and hands first, and now I'm sticking in the dress. Don't need
her for that."

"Very rich people, are they not?" I asked.

"You bet. Zinc and lead, I believe; the old man made it in. Fine buxom
creature, isn't she? And mighty good hearted in her way. She hasn't much
more brains than a linnet, I think, and she swims and rows and shoots.
Golf and tennis, too. Found her rather hard to paint, because it's
difficult for her to keep still. Keeps on asking indignantly why I put
blue on her nose, and reaching out for the box of chocolates. I told her
last time I couldn't paint her with one cheek all bulged out with
_pralines_. It made her laugh, and I lost fifteen minutes before I could
quiet her down."

He worked hard for another ten minutes, during which I considered that
he was rather severe on the young lady, or else had idealized her, which
is not a habit of his. To me she looks kindly and not a bit
unintelligent, a rather fine specimen of the robustious modern young
woman. Gordon picked up his brushes.

"That'll do," he said. "The light is changing. Now what the devil do you
want? Awfully glad to see you."

My friend is a good listener. I told him about Frances Dupont, giving
him a brief account of her story and explaining that Frieda and I wanted
to find something for her to do.

"Of course," I finally said, "I suppose that you are going away very
soon to spend the rest of this hot summer in the country. Otherwise, I
would have asked if you couldn't make use of her for a model, at least
till we can find something else."

"I'm not going away yet," he answered, "and I emphatically cannot employ
her, or, at any rate, I won't, which comes to the same thing. Hitherto I
have kept my serenity of mind unimpaired by the simple process of
fighting shy of females in distress. There are lots of models who can be
depended on to keep their mouths shut and not bother a fellow. My
interest is in my picture and nothing else, and I refuse to have it
diverted by the economical problems of ladies on their uppers. If you
want a check, I'll give it to you for her, not on her account, but
because you're the best, old, weak-minded idiot in this burg and I'm
glad to help you out, however silly your quixotic ideas may be. Wait a
minute, I'll write one out for you."

"No," I answered, "I've just sold two stories and got some advance
royalty on my novel. I'd come and ask you for money, if I needed it,
urgently. I might have to, some day. But this poor thing's worrying
herself to death and that's what I want to remedy at once, if possible.
A little occupation would give her something else to think about. If I
tell her that she will have to pose in silence, that it's a part of the
work she's engaged for, she won't say a word. She's an intelligent
woman."

"Why doesn't Frieda employ her?" he asked.

"Because she's no slender, ethereal sprite. Doesn't have anything of the
woodland nymph about her, that's why. Besides, Frieda's doing an Orion
with a covey of Pleiades scattering before him, at present."

"I have nothing for the Winter Academy, just now," said Gordon,
appearing to relent a little. "Strangely enough, Miss Van Rossum doesn't
care to have her portrait exhibited. If I really found a remarkable
type, I'd like to do a mother and child. If you really think this Mrs.
Dupont will keep still and is willing to earn a few weeks of bread and
cheese by the silence of her tongue and some ability to sit quietly in a
chair without getting the fidgets, I shouldn't mind trying her. But, of
course, she'd have to come up to specifications. I'll have to look at
her first. Have you spoken to her about it?"

"Not a word," I answered, "I didn't want to see her disappointed."

"Of course, it's a foolish thing to do," he said, "but you're so anxious
about it that I'll see whether it can be managed. She's just heard of
her husband's death, has she? Well, she won't be thinking of other men
for a while and won't expect to be made love to. Take up your hat, and
we'll go over to that nursery of yours. I'll look her over."

If I hadn't known him so well, I should have been provoked at his
speaking as if the woman had been some second-hand terrier I wanted to
dispose of. We took the elevator and were shot down to the ground
floor.

"Mind you," he warned me, "it's ten to one that I'll discover something
that will make this errand useless. The mere fact of a woman's having a
broken-down voice and a baby doesn't necessarily qualify her to pose as
a mother. The woods are full of them. You've probably endowed her with
good looks that exist only in your imagination."

To this I made no answer. The mere fact of his having consented to
investigate was already a distinct triumph for me. Twenty minutes later
we were climbing up the stairs of what he called my zoological
boarding-house.

On the second landing, he stopped abruptly and listened. Then he turned
to me with a corner of his mouth twisted in the beginning of one of his
sarcastic grins.

"Who's that playing your piano?" he asked.

"I--I fancy it must be Mrs. Dupont," I answered. "You see, she's very
much alone, and my door was open, and I suppose she saw the thing and
walked in, not knowing that I should return so soon."

"Oh! You needn't look so sheepish," he told me. "You look as if a
policeman had caught you with a jimmy in your hip-pocket. My dear old
boy, I hope she isn't the straw that's going to break your back, you old
Bactrian camel! The little wagons they use for the carrying of dynamite
in New York, wherewith to soften its tough old heart and permit the
laying of foundations, are painted red and marked _explosives_. Were I
the world's czar, I should have every woman labelled the same way.
They're dangerous things."

Gordon is somewhat apt to mix his metaphors, a thing rather natural to
one who seeks to wed his wit with a pose of scepticism. Really simple
language, clothing ordinary common sense, is inadequate for a scoffer;
also, I am afraid, for a man who writes about mules and virtuous dogs.

I think we both instinctively stepped more lightly in ascending the
remaining stairs. She was playing very softly. It was a dreamy thing
with recurring little sobs of notes. For a moment we stopped again; I
think it had appealed to us. Then I went in, accompanied by Gordon, and
she ceased at once, startled and coloring a little.

"I am so glad you were diverting yourself with the old piano," I told
her. "I hope you will always use it when I am out, and--and perhaps
once in a while when I am in. My mother used to play such things; she
wasn't always happy. I beg to present my friend Gordon McGrath, who is a
great painter. He's awfully fond of Frieda."

This, I think, was a canny and effective introduction. Any friend of
Frieda's must be very welcome to her.

"Madame," said Gordon, after she had proffered her hand, "won't you
oblige us by sitting down. You have been caught in the act and deserve
the penalty of being humbly begged to play that over again."

She looked at me, uncertainly.

"It would give me ever so much pleasure," I assured her.

At once she sat again and touched the keys. I know so little of music
that my opinions in regard to it are utterly worthless, but I knew at
once that she was no marvelous pianist. No, she was only a woman with a
soul for harmony, which found soft and tender expression on my mother's
old Steinway. Gordon, I noted, sat down in my worst chair, with an elbow
on his knee, his chin resting on the closed knuckles. It was evident
that he was watching her, studying her every motion, the faint swaying
of her shapely head, the wandering of her hands over the keyboard. Once,
she stopped very suddenly and listened.

[Illustration: No, she was only a woman, with a soul for harmony.]

"I beg your pardon," she said, "I thought it was Baby."

She went on, reassured, to an ending that came very soon. It left in me
a desire for more, but I could not ask her to continue. She had brought
a tiny bit of herself into the room, but she belonged body and soul to
the mite in the other.

"I am ever so much obliged to you," I said, as she rose.

"Madame," said Gordon, "it was indeed a treat."

"I am very glad you liked it," she said very simply, "and--and now I
must go back."

She smiled, faintly, and inclined her head. We had both risen and
thanked her again. She passed out of the room and, once she had regained
her own, I heard her faint, husky voice.

"It's mother's own wee lamb!" it said.

Gordon picked up one of my cigarettes, looked at it, put it down, and
took one of his own from his case. Then, he went and stood in front of
my open window, looking out, with his hands stuffed deeply in his
trousers pockets. I maintained a discreet silence.

"Come over here," he ordered, brusquely, as is often his way, and I
complied, holding on to my calabash and filling it from my pouch.

"Dave," he said, very low, that his voice might not carry through the
open doors into the next room. "Those powder-wagons aren't in it. When
the dynamite happens to blow up some Dago, it's a mere accident; the
stuff itself is intended for permissible purposes. A woman like that is
bound to play havoc with some one, and I'm afraid you're the poor old
idiot marked by fate. You're as weak as a decrepit cat. I can see the
whole programme; sympathy at first and the desire to console, all mixed
up with the imagination that has permitted you to write that 'Land o'
Love.' My dear man, you might just as well go and commit suicide in some
decent way. If you don't look out, you're done for!"

"Don't be an ass, Gordon," I told him, lighting my pipe.

"All right, it's your own funeral. But don't come to me, afterwards, and
weep on my shirtfront, that's all. Women get over the loss of a
husband, they even become reconciled to the death of a baby, sometimes.
And this one has music in her soul, and for ever and a day she is going
to deplore the song that fled from her lips. She'll always be unhappy
and you'll have to keep on consoling, and the freedom of your thoughts
will vanish, and, when you try to write, you will have her and her
miseries always before you. Then you will shed tears on your typewriter
instead of producing anything. Better give Frieda some money for her and
go fishing. Don't come back until the Milliken woman sends a postal
telling you that the coast is clear."

"I know nothing about fishing," I answered.

"Then go and learn."

"You're talking arrant nonsense," I informed him.

"I am giving you the quintessence of solid wisdom," he retorted. "But
now I'll tell you about her posing for me. I'm not doing this for your
sake or hers, but because she has a really interesting head, and I know
myself. I can get a good picture out of her, and I'll employ her for
about three weeks. That'll be plenty. After that, I expect to go away
and stay with the Van Rossums in the country. While Mrs. Dupont is busy
posing for me, you and Frieda can look up another job for her. Let me
see; I might possibly be able to pass her on to some other studio, if
she takes to posing, properly."

I put my pipe down, intending to strike while the iron was hot.

"Come in with me," I told him.

"Of course you understand that in some ways she's going to be a good
deal of a nuisance," he said hurriedly. "The baby squalling when I've
just happened to get into my stride and the mother having to retire to
feed the thing. But never mind, she's got quite a stunning face."

I knocked at her door, although I could see her sitting at the window
with the baby in her arms.

"Please don't trouble to get up," I said. "My friend Gordon happens to
need a model; he's thinking of a picture of a mother and child and has
told me that, if you could pose for him, he would be glad to employ you.
It wouldn't last very long, but you would have the baby with you. By the
way, painters have to think very hard when they're at work and so they
can't talk much at the same time, so that models have to keep very
still. I know you won't mind that, because it's part of the work."

The top button of her waist was open. Instinctively her hand went up to
it and covered the very small expanse of white neck that had been
revealed.

"A model!" she exclaimed huskily. "I--I don't know----"

Gordon's face looked as if it was graven in stone.

"It is just for the face and hands," he said coldly. "It will be a
picture of a woman sitting at an open window; just as you were when we
came in. Of course, if you don't care to----"

"Oh! Indeed, I shall be very glad and--and grateful," she answered, very
low. "I will do my best to please you."

"Thanks! I shall be obliged, if you will come on Monday morning at ten."

"Certainly. I shall be there without fail," she answered.

"Very well. I am glad to have met you, Mrs. Dupont. David, I wish I
could dine with you at Camus, this evening, but I have an appointment to
meet some people at Claremont. Good-by."

He bowed civilly to Frances Dupont, waved a hand at me, and was gone.

"Gordon is a tip-top painter," I told her. "His ways are sometimes
rather gruff, but you mustn't mind them. He means all right."

"Oh! That makes no difference. Some of my teachers were pretty gruff,
but I paid no attention. I only thought of the work to be done."

"Of course, that's the only thing to keep in mind," I answered.

"Yes, and I am ever so much obliged to you," she said gratefully.
"You're the best and kindest of friends."

With this I left her and returned to my room, hoping that Gordon
wouldn't be too exacting with her, and thinking with much amusement of
all his warnings and his fears for my safety. That's the trouble with
being so tremendously wise and cynical; it doesn't make for optimism.




CHAPTER VI

A BIT OF SUNSHINE


The ignorance of modern man is deplorable and stupendous. The excellent
and far-famed Pico della Mirandola, for one whole week, victoriously
sustained a thesis upon "_De Omne Scibile_." Now we have to confess that
human knowledge, even as it affects such a detail as women's raiment, is
altogether too complicated for a fellow to pretend he possesses it all.
The display windows of department stores or a mere glance at an
encyclopedia always fill me with humility.

Frances sadly showed us some things she had pulled out of a trunk and,
foolishly, I exclaimed upon their prettiness. She looked upon them, and
then at me, with a rather pitiful air.

"I can't wear them now," she said, her lip quivering a little. "But this
black one might do, if----"

This halting was not in her speech and merely represents my own
limitations. She explained some of the legerdemain required by the
garment, and Frieda told her of a woman, related to Eulalie, who was
talented in juggling with old dresses and renovating them. This one
looked exceedingly nice to me, just as it was, but I was pityingly
informed that some things were to be added and others removed, before it
could possibly be worn. The sleeves, as far as I could understand, were
either too long or short; the shoulders positively superannuated and the
skirt, as was evident to the meanest intellect, much too narrow, or,
possibly, too wide.

Also, there was the absolute need of a new hat. They discussed the
matter, and Frieda led her away to unexplored streets adjoining the East
River. With great caution I warned the young woman, secretly directing
her attention to Frieda's impossible headgear, but I received a
confident and reassuring glance. After a time they returned with an
ample hat-box adorned with one of the prominent names of the Ghetto, and
pulled the thing out, having come to my room to exhibit to me the result
of their excursion.

"How much do you think we paid for it?" asked Frieda, with a gleam of
triumph.

"I can speak more judiciously, if Mrs. Dupont will be so kind as to put
it on," I told her.

My request was immediately acceded to. I surveyed the hat from many
angles and guessed that it had cost eighteen dollars. I was proudly
informed that the price had been three twenty-seven, reduced from eight
seventy-nine, and that they had entered every shop in Division Street
before they had unearthed it.

"It is very nice and quiet," Frieda informed me. "There wasn't much
choice of color, since it had to be black. I think it suits her
remarkably well."

"It certainly does," I assented. "Oh, by the way, Frieda, you may be
glad to hear that my publishers have accepted the 'Land o' Love' and are
to bring it out very early next Spring. It is a very long time to wait.
I am afraid that Jamieson, their Chief High Lord Executioner, is rather
doubtful in regard to it. He's afraid it is somewhat of a risky
departure from my usual manner and may disappoint my following, such as
it is."

"Poor old Dave," said Frieda encouragingly. "Don't worry, I'm sure it
will sell just like the others."

"I hope so, and now what do you say to celebrating that new hat by going
over to Camus for dinner?"

"Oh! I couldn't think of such a thing!" exclaimed Frances Dupont.
"In--in the first place it is much too soon--after--and then you know I
haven't a thing to wear."

"In the first place, not a soul will know you at Camus," said Frieda
firmly, "and, in the second, you have a hat anyway, and I'm going to fix
that black dress a little. Just a dozen stitches and some pins. Come
into your room with me."

She dragged her out of the room, and I was left to wonder how that
complicating baby would be disposed of. I had begun to think the infant
sometimes recognized me. When I touched one of his little hands with my
finger, he really appeared to respond with some manifestations of
pleasure; at least it never seemed to terrify or dismay him. His mother
was confident that he liked it.

Perhaps an hour later they came out, and I looked at Frances in some
surprise. I gained the impression that she was taller and more slender
than I had thought.

"You give me that baby," commanded Frieda. "I want you to save your
strength, my dear. I should make David carry it, but he would drop it or
hold it upside down. Come along, my precious, we're going out to walk a
by-by."

Master Paul seemed to make no objection. I call it a dreadful shame that
Frieda never married and had a half a dozen of her own. She's the most
motherly old maid in the world, and infants take to her with absolute
enthusiasm. I followed them, somewhat doubtfully, wondering what figure
Master Paul would cut at Camus. I knew that they allowed little dogs and
there was a big tortoise-shell cat that wandered under the chairs and
sometimes scratched your knee for a bit of fish, but I had never seen
any young babies in the widow's establishment. This one might be deemed
revolutionary or iconoclastic. Should we be met by uplifted and
deprecating palms and informed with profuse apologies that the rules of
the house did not favor the admission of such youthful guests?

In a few minutes my doubts were set at rest, for we walked off to the
hive inhabited by the washerwoman. At the foot of the stairs Mrs.
Dupont kissed her baby, as if she were seeing it for the last time. Then
Frieda hastened upstairs with it and came down, two minutes later,
blowing like a porpoise.

"He'll be perfectly safe," she declared. "Madame Boivin says he is an
angel, and Eulalie was there. She said he would sleep straight on end
for two hours. I told her we should be back before--I mean in good time.
Now come along!"

I could see that the young mother only half approved of the scheme
originated in Frieda's fertile brain. Two or three times she looked back
as if minded to return at once and snatch up her baby, never to leave it
again.

"My dear," said Frieda, "don't be getting nervous. Nothing can possibly
happen, and you know how very careful Eulalie is. Little by little you
must get back into the world. How are you going to face it, if it
frightens you? Put on a brave, bold front. Here is a chance for you to
have a few moments of enjoyment. Seize upon it and don't let go. A dark
cellar is no place to pick up courage in, and you must come out of the
gloom, child, and live a little with the others so that you may be able
to live for Baby Paul. There's a good girl!"

Frances opened a little black bag and pulled out a handkerchief with
which she dabbed her eyes once or twice. Then she looked up again.

"Oh! Frieda! I ought to be thanking God on my bended knees for sending
you to me, and--and Mr. Cole too. Indeed I'll do my best to be brave.
It's--it's difficult, sometimes, but I'm going to try, ever so hard."

I am afraid that the little smile with which she ended these words was
somewhat forced, but I was glad to see it. It was a plucky effort. She
was seeking to contend against a current carrying her out to sea and
realized that she must struggle to reach the shore in safety. I saw
Frieda give her arm a good hug, and the three of us walked to Seventh
Avenue, then north a couple of blocks, after which we turned to the
right till we came to the electric lights of the Widow Camus's
flamboyant sign, that winked a welcome at us.

I remember little about the dinner itself, but, after the rather insipid
fare at Mrs. Milliken's, I know that Frances enjoyed it. The place did
not surprise her, nor the people. During her life in Paris, after her
marriage, she had probably been with her husband to some more or less
Bohemian resorts, such as are beloved of artists. At first, she choked a
little over the radishes and olives, but took her _consomme_ with
greater assurance and was quite at her ease before the chicken and
salad. With her last leaf of lettuce, however, came over her a look of
anxiety, and I pulled out my watch.

"Don't be afraid," I told her, "we have only been away from the
washerlady for fifty minutes. See yourself, there is no deception."

"I am absolutely certain that he is sleeping yet," Frieda assured her,
and turned to the perspiring waiter, ordering three Nesselrodes and
coffees.

Now, when I treat myself to a _table d'hote_ dinner, I love to linger
over my repast, to study the people about me, or at least pretend to.
Also, I sip my coffee very slowly and enjoy a Chartreuse, in tiny gulps.
Frieda, if anything, is more dilatory than myself. But the dear old girl
positively hurried over the little block of ice-cream, and I suspect
that she scalded her mouth a trifle with her coffee. A few minutes later
we were out in the street again, hurrying towards Madame Boivin's, and
I wondered whether such unseemly haste could be compatible with proper
digestion. We reached the tenement in a very short time.

"Frances is going upstairs with me," announced Frieda. "You had better
not wait for us, for we might be detained a little. I'll bring her home,
and we shall be perfectly safe. You go right back and smoke your old
pipe till we return."

"Don't hurry," I told her. "I might as well wait here as anywhere else.
It is an interesting street. If I get tired of waiting, I'll stroll
home; take your time."

So they went up the stairs, Frieda panting behind, and I leaned against
a decrepit iron railing. A few steps away some colored men were
assembled about a lamppost, their laughter coming explosively, in
repeated peals. Opposite me, within an exiguous front yard, a very fat
man sat on a rickety chair, the back resting against the wall, and gave
me an uncomfortable sense of impending collapse of the spindly legs.
Boys, playing ball in the middle of the street, stopped suddenly and
assumed an air of profound detachment from things terrestrial as a
policeman went by, majestic and leisurely, swinging his club. Somewhere
west of me an accordion was whining variations on Annie Laurie, but,
suddenly, its grievous voice was drowned by a curtain lecture addressed
to a deep bass by an exasperated soprano. To the whole world his sins
were proclaimed with a wealth of detail and an imagery of expression
that excited my admiration. Then the clamor ceased abruptly and a man's
head appeared at the window. I speculated whether he was contemplating
self-destruction, but he vanished, to appear a moment later in the
street, garmented in trousers, carpet-slippers and undershirt and armed
with an empty beer-pail. With this he faded away in the corner saloon,
to come forth again with his peace-offering.

With such observations I solaced myself and whiled away the time.
Humanity in the rough is to me fully as interesting as the dull stones
picked up in Brazil or the Cape Colony. Some are hopelessly flawed,
while others need but patient grinding to develop into diamonds of the
first water.

Nearly a half an hour had gone by, and I had seated myself upon the
railing, in a position once dear to me when I shared a fence with Sadie
Briggs, aged fourteen, and thought that the ultimate had come to me in
the way of love and passion. Fortunate Sadie! She afterwards married a
blacksmith and did her duty to the world by raising a large family,
while I pounded typewriter keys and wrote of imaginary loves, in
shirt-sleeves and slippers, lucky in the egotistic peace of the enviable
mortal responsible for no human being's bread and butter but his own.

Then Frieda and Frances appeared. The latter held her baby in her arms,
surely feeling that it had received enough vicarious attention.

"Why, Dave!" exclaimed the former. "I'm awfully sorry you waited so
long. Our little darling was sleeping ever so comfy, like a blessed
angel, and we sat down, while Madame Boivin rested from her ironing, and
we just talked about starch and cockroaches and things, and then Paul
awoke and we were afraid he might cry in the street and it was nearly
time anyway and--and he was ever so greedy. And now he's sleeping
again."

I reflected that, gastronomically, Master Paul had probably enjoyed
himself better than ourselves. He had not been hurried. His little lips
had not been scalded, nor had he been compelled to hasten over a
_ravigote_ that should have been eaten in seemly leisure and respect. I
wished he had been able to realize the compensations he was getting now
for whatever might come later on. For him I trust there will be little
of sorrow, and yet there must be some, since pain and shadow are
indispensable, in this world, to the appreciation of light and of ease.

I noticed how well the young mother walked with her burden. It appeared
to lend her form added grace and to complete her beauty.

On the steps leading to the front door of Mrs. Milliken's refuge nearly
all the lodgers were assembled, taking the cool of the evening. The two
girls who sold candy clamored for a view of little Paul. The old lady
looked at us in stern disapproval and said the baby should have been in
bed for hours. The landlady, mindful of her interests, maintained a
neutral attitude. One of the young men assured Mrs. Dupont that her baby
was a corker.

"This," said Mrs. Milliken, urbanely waving her hand towards a heavy and
florid gentleman, who had kept in the background, "is Mr. O'Flaherty. He
owns the garage on the next block and has the second floor back."

This individual bowed to the ladies, keeping a large black cigar in the
corner of his mouth, and gave me a crushing grasp. I rejoiced for Mrs.
Milliken that she had the room rented, but promised myself to keep my
hands behind my back in his presence. We declined an invitation to share
the steps and went upstairs, where Mrs. Dupont, after putting the baby
down on the lounge, came to me with both hands extended.

"Thank you," she said. "Thank you ever so much. Indeed I enjoyed every
minute of it."

So we parted, and I went to my room and put on my old slippers, feeling
that I had also enjoyed a pleasant couple of hours. Frances Dupont says
that my typewriting does not trouble her at all, and I went to work,
having thought of a story about a blind man. I wrote a couple of pages
and then had to stop and close my eyes. How do blind men really feel,
and through what gift from on high does that peculiar smile come, which
their faces always show? I always have to try and put myself in the
place of folks I write about. The other day I told this to McGrath, but
he answered that I had evidently done so in regard to the mule I have
spoken of and had failed, later on, to throw off the disguise. Of course
I laughed. The real test of true friendship is the ability to call the
other chap names, with a smile on one's lips and affection in one's
heart.

Then Frieda came in for a moment, to say good night.

"It has done the poor child a lot of good," she said. "I am sure she
will have a good sleep. Well, good-by, Dave. Ever so much obliged to
you."

She went away, ponderously and yet swiftly. The night was becoming
cooler and the door opposite was closed. I also shut mine and lit the
calabash. It didn't seem so difficult, after all, to write about the
blind man. When you think of it, it is possible that the difference
between him and ourselves is merely one of degree.

A few more days passed and the Monday came, and be it said to my shame
that I was sound asleep when Mrs. Dupont started away with little Paul
to keep her engagement. When I awoke, I reproached myself for having
failed to be on hand to speed her on her journey and wish her good
luck. She had gone out all alone with her child to confront the problem
of keeping body and soul together, poor girl.

Early in the afternoon I had to go over to Brooklyn and view the Erie
Basin, because my story unfortunately required the blind man to fall
into it and be saved by the main girl, and I pride myself upon some
accuracy of description. The result, if I remember correctly, was
condensed into a score of lines which, if I got two cents a word for
them, would leave a slight profit after paying carfare and increasing
the small sum of my knowledge. Also, I had become acquainted with a
gentleman on a canal boat, who grew geraniums and bachelor's buttons in
a box on deck. He showed me his pleasant cabin and introduced me to his
wife. The man was leading a peaceful life of leisurely travel, one that
offered many possibilities. I imagined myself drifting along the
tranquil borders of canals, edged with lush grasses and silvery willows.
It was ideal! What more could a man require for happiness?

When I returned, I was very anxious to interview Frances and ask about
her experiences with her first day's posing, but her door was closed.

No longer was she a sick woman, one whose bed was the clothing of
illness, the garment of pain. She had entirely recovered and, since I
could bring no solace of her troubles, I no longer had the right to
intrude upon her, even by knocking at her door. Normal life had claimed
her again, pitiless for her infirmities of voice and heart. She was
working now to earn the bread that would permit her to live for her
child. Her existence was her own, and the freedom of her privacy. All
that I could do now was to hope that, if she chanced to need any aid,
she would recognize some little claim upon her friendship by coming to
me again, as a bee may return for honey, leaving behind some of the
pollen that means life prolonged and other flowers to come. To me such
fertilizing dust would be replaced by a new interest given a life that
was sometimes dull, by an occasionally tired brain made younger and
mayhaps stronger through contact with a fresh young creature. All this
she could proffer, but I had no right to beg for it. 'Twould have been
like asking for a return of the few half-faded roses I had brought her,
or payment for the running of a few errands.

So I closed my door also and took up the "Light That Failed" and my
calabash, setting myself very determinedly to the task of reading and
puffing away my unseemly curiosity and, I am afraid, failing dismally. I
was wondering how Gordon had behaved towards her and whether she had
found the task a hard and ungrateful one? Was she already thinking
wearily about having to return there on the morrow?

Frieda, as a hundred times before, presently appeared to my rescue. I
have not the slightest doubt that her curiosity was fully as keen as
mine, and, of course, she could not have a man's reasons for discretion,
knowing that her coming would be hailed with an exclamation of pleasure,
or, perhaps, only a sigh of relief. I recognized her weighty steps on
the landing, heard her quick knock at the door, and was left again to
cogitate, while I put down my pipe and laid the book aside. Frieda can
always be relied on.

Fifteen minutes later she penetrated my den.

"Oh! You're in!" she exclaimed. "I asked Frances, and she said you must
be away since you would surely have knocked at the door. Of course she
wouldn't take the chance of disturbing you, if you had returned."

"Well, I didn't want to intrude either," I answered; "she might have
been changing--changing her boots for slippers or--or refreshing the
baby."

"You might have tried to find out."

"Yes, that's obvious. I'm afraid I've been remiss in my duty," I
replied, duly chastened.

Thus it was that the best of intentions had, as usual, gone to the place
paved with such things. Yet I was rather pleased than otherwise. I
learned that I was firmly enough established in the good graces of these
dear women to be permitted to lay aside minor points of etiquette and
act according to my first impulses. Since these must always be based on
high regard and friendship, I can have little fear that they will ever
be misunderstood.




CHAPTER VII

THE OTHER WOMAN


As we were speaking, Frances came to my room and I advanced a chair for
her.

"Thanks," she said, "I am not at all tired, Mr. Cole."

"Yet I beg that you will sit down for a moment," I asked her. "I shall
take the piano-stool and you ladies will give me the delightful feeling
of receiving a pleasant visit. I shall do my best to entertain two
callers charitable enough to penetrate a sere and yellow bachelor's
quarters. I shall proceed to make some tea."

"Gracious, Dave!" exclaimed Frieda hungrily, "you live in the lap of
luxury."

"At least your presence here gives me the illusion of it," I answered,
pulling out my alcohol lamp and other utensils.

There is little excuse for poor tea, unless it be considered as a vulgar
flavoring intended to lend a different taste to the water taken from the
faucet. A pound of the best lasts me for the greater part of a year,
for I take it seldom, and a dollar more than the price of green and
fibrous rubbish permits me to offer my friends and delight myself with a
cup such as brings joy and an eagerness for a second filling.

"Of course, I was a little afraid at first," confessed Frances, as I
measured out a spoonful for each of us and one for the greedy pot. "Mr.
McGrath was exceedingly civil, however, and briefly explained that for
the time being I must consider myself as one of his materials, like a
tube of paint or his easel."

"That's just like Gordon," I interjected.

"Well, it seemed quite right," she went on. "He made me sit down a dozen
times, in various ways, and then he'd look at me and move my chin a
little, or change the position of my arm. It took him quite a long time
and the more he shifted me around, the more he frowned, so that at last
I asked him just what he wanted.

"'I want you to hold that baby and look at it as if it were the biggest
thing on earth, and forget me, and forget that you're posing,' he said,
and I asked him to let me try all by myself. So I moved around a bit
and held my head differently, and he said that was just what he was
looking for. He told me to keep still and went to work at once. In a
half an hour he asked me if I didn't want to rest, and I told him I had
pins and needles in my legs, and he said I must get up and walk a few
times around the studio. A few minutes later I sat down again, and--and
that's all, I think."

"What did he talk about?" asked Frieda.

"He didn't talk; just kept on glaring at me and then staring at his
canvas and working away, ever so quickly. At the end of an hour he asked
me how it was that the baby kept so quiet, and I told him it was asleep.

"'When he wakes up he'll howl, won't he?' he asked me.

"'I don't think so. Paul never howls,' I told him, and just then the
poor wee thing woke up and began. It was perfectly dreadful! He never
cried so loud before. Then Mr. McGrath told me to go into the next room
and see if it was pins or hunger and to take my own time. So when I came
back he was walking up and down in front of his canvas and paid no
attention to me for the longest time. Then he said we might as well go
on, and I suppose he worked for another hour. He stopped suddenly and
told me I could take off the queer shawl he'd put about my shoulders and
run away. He warned me to be on time to-morrow, because he didn't like
to wait. After that he took his hat and went away and his Japanese man
showed me out, when I was ready."

"I told you it wouldn't be so dreadfully hard," said Frieda, "and
Gordon, in spite of his queer ways, is a very nice and decent fellow. He
paints like an angel, he does, but he's as cold-blooded about his work
as a pawnbroker."

"I'm glad," said Frances. "It makes it much easier."

I poured out the tea and produced a small box of vanilla wafers, which
Frieda is ever so fond of.

"I wonder Gordon didn't get mad, when Baby Paul began to scream," she
said.

"My dear," I remarked, "a man generally gets angry only at the
unexpected. He had made up his mind that the weather would be squally
and would have been rather disappointed if no shower had come. Before I
had the pleasure of Master Paul's acquaintance, I mistakenly thought
that every interval between waking and feeding, in a baby's life, must
be taken up with lusty shrieking. I'm positively frightened and
hopeless, sometimes, when I think of how much there is for me to learn.
I know I'll never catch up."

"You know good tea, for one thing," answered Frieda. "Give me another
cup."


I complied, and, presently, Frances, at our urging, sat down to the old
piano and played something that was very pretty and soft. And then the
old desire to sing must have come upon her, suddenly, for her low and
husky voice brought forth a few words of a sweet, old French song. This,
all at once, must have evoked some of the memories that weighed so
heavily upon her heart. Her hands went up to her face and she sobbed.
Frieda rose, swiftly and silently, and put her big, able hand upon the
girl's shoulder.

"I--I can't even sing to my baby!" Frances moaned.

What a cry from the heart! All else would have amounted to so little, if
she could only have poured out some of the melody in her soul to the
poor little mite. She was brave; working for Baby Paul was of small
moment; even the loss of the gallant soldier lad who had poured his
stream of life for the motherland was not for the moment the paramount
source of her distress. No! She could not sing for the diminutive
portrait of himself, the man had left behind!

As usual, in the presence of a woman's tears, I was mute and incapable
of giving comfort. I feared to utter some of the platitudes which cause
the sorrowing to revolt against the futility of wordy consolation.
Frieda's kindly touch was worth more than all I could have said in a
dog's age. Soon, the streaming eyes had been dabbed again to dryness,
but the smile I had hoped for did not return.

"I--I am sorry I was so weak," said Frances, and ran away to her room,
possibly for the powder surely invented by a great benefactor of
humanity, since it may serve to obliterate the traces of women's tears
and enables them to look at you again, hopefully and with courage
renewed.

       *       *       *       *       *

After this, three weeks went by. The literary agent upon whose kindly
head I pour my short stories announced the sale of my virtuous dog's
tale, on the strength of which I took Frieda and Frances to a
moving-picture theatre, one Saturday night. The latter's posing for
Gordon was always a subject of conversation. The picture, it appeared,
was now quite finished, and we were moving heaven and earth in our
endeavors to find something wherewith a woman with a young baby might
earn a few dollars. Frances spoke little of her experiences at the
studio, except to gratify our curiosity. It was always the same thing.
Baby was generally ever so good and Mr. McGrath fairly patient with his
occasional relapses from slumbering silence. An impression made its way
in my mind to the effect that Gordon rather awed his model. She had
watched the picture's growth and this process of creation, utterly new
to her, seemed to fill her with some sort of amazement.

"Tell me just what it is like," I asked her, as we sat on the stoop,
waiting for Frieda to turn up.

"I suppose it looks like me," she said, doubtfully, "but then, it isn't
a portrait, of course. I--I don't think I look just like that. Sometimes
he stands in front of me for the longest time and glares, looking more
and more disappointed, and all at once he says I've got a Sphynx of a
face or a deuce of a mouth, or something just as complimentary. Then he
turns to the picture again and changes something, with merely a touch of
one of those big brushes, and plasters on another dab of paint and moves
off to look at it. After this, he says it's much better, or declares
he's spoiled everything, and he lights his pipe and goes to work again.
Sometimes he wears the expression of a bulldog worrying a bone, and a
minute later he'll be just as nice as nice can be. He's a strange man."

"He certainly is," I assented. "At any rate, I am glad that your
experience with him, on the whole, has not proved a disagreeable one."

"Indeed, sometimes I have rather enjoyed it. Yesterday, I didn't. He
began, _a propos_ of nothing, to tell me about one of your books, and
said that your idea about a girl called Laura was so silly he had no
patience with you, because you had idealized her until it was rather a
caricature than a portrait, and you didn't know any more about women
than the baby did. So, of course, I got angry at him and he looked at
me, with a smile that was half a sneer, and told me to keep on looking
just like that. It seems that I had just the expression he wanted to
bring out. When you look too long at the baby,' he said, 'you get the
likeness of a girl who's been scolded at table and is going to cry into
the soup. I thought I'd wake you up!' I was ever so provoked, and he
painted right along without minding me in the least. When he was
through, he put on his most polite air and told me that all he had said
about that Laura was nonsense, and that she was just a fool girl like
any other. As for the picture, he said it would make some fellows sit up
and take notice. He appeared to be intensely pleased with it and thanked
me for being so patient with him."

"I am not surprised," I told her. "When our good little friend, Dr.
Porter, who is the best-hearted chap you'll meet in a long day's
journey, becomes very interested in some dreadful malady and wants to
make experiments, I am sure he considers guinea-pigs and rats in the
light of mere material. Gordon will not have the slightest compunction
about vivisecting a model, if it suits his purpose."

"But he can be ever so kind. He very often is," declared Frances. "On
the very first day he told me not to allow myself to get overtired, and
he's kept on asking me ever since, if I didn't want to take a rest.
Sometimes he made me stop, when I could very well have kept on."

Frieda appeared, coming around the corner under full steam, and we got
in the car and went off to the movies. The services of Eulalie had been
obtained, to mind the baby for a couple of hours. She likes to do it,
and it gives her an opportunity to go into my room and rummage in my
bureau drawers, where she hunts for missing buttons with the eagerness
of a terrier looking for rats.

When we returned, satiated with picturesque tragedy and second-rate
vaudeville, Frances, as usual, flew upstairs, obsessed with the idea
that obviously grease-painted and false-whiskered villains such as we
had seen on the screen must have penetrated the citadel and stolen her
baby. Frieda had left us at the door, and I climbed up in more leisurely
fashion, meeting Eulalie on the stairs, loaded with my soiled linen, who
bade me good evening, pleasantly.

Frances was waiting for me on her door-sill.

"Paul is all right. Nothing has happened," she confided to me. "Good
night, Mr. Cole, and thank you ever so much."

She smiled at me, and I was pleased that I had been able to divert her
thoughts for a few moments. How glad I should be if I could render more
permanent that little look of happiness she showed for an instant!

On my desk I found a message from Gordon, asking me to come to the
studio next day, which was a Sunday, for lunch.

I kept the appointment, walking all the way up. As I passed Bryant Park,
I noticed that the leaves were becoming slightly yellow. It was evident
that the summer was giving a hint of impending departure. I reached the
big building, just before noon, knowing that I should be somewhat ahead
of time, but glad to have a chat with Gordon.

"I know you've been dying to see that canvas," he told me. "That young
woman's a wonder. A clever and intelligent woman's the one to really
understand what a fellow's after and help him out. I really think she
took some interest in the thing. If she isn't otherwise occupied when I
return from Southampton, I might possibly make use of her for another
week or two. And there's Spinelli, the sculptor, who has a commission
for a big group of sirens, for a fountain. He was in here and looked at
the picture. Asked about her, he did, but I told him I didn't think
she'd pose that way."

"I should think not," I declared.

"You needn't get mad," he retorted. "I've been looking around to see if
I could get her something to do. Come in the front room and light your
pipe, if you want to. Windows are open. I'm expecting a couple of women
in to lunch. Glad you came in early. Yumasa's juggling in the
kitchenette; the chap's an artist, when it comes to playing tunes on a
chafing-dish. Well, how does it strike you?"

The picture stood before me. It was practically finished. I sank down on
the cushioned bench that ran beneath the broad window facing the north
and stared at the canvas.

"Great Heavens, Gordon!" I exclaimed.

"It hits right out from the shoulder, doesn't it," he said. "Ever see
anything much more alive than this?"

"She's going to lift her eyes from the baby," I answered. "She's going
to indulge in that little half-timid and half-boastful look of the
young mother challenging the whole world to say that her infant isn't
perfection in flesh and blood!"

Gordon made no answer. He was standing before the canvas, his left arm
crossed over his breast with the right elbow resting upon it and the
square bluish chin in the grasp of long thin fingers.

"You've evidently stuck to the model a great deal," I commented further,
"but you've also idealized, made poetry of her."

"And you're talking like a donkey," my friend told me, rather
impatiently. "I simply have better eyes than you. Of course, I suppose
you've seen a lot of her, for she seems to think the sun rises and sets
on you, but you haven't studied every bit of her face as I've done. I've
idealized nothing at all, but my own appreciation of her, and perhaps a
trick or two, have caught you. The light came right through this open
window, naturally, and caused that glint of the fluffy ends of hair,
like powdered sunlight dusted over the dark chestnut. It also threw
those strong high lights over the edges of the features. Then, I stuck
those roses between her and the window and they gave the reflected
tints. It's just a portrait, you old idiot, and nothing else, except
perhaps for the fancy shawl. Of course, everything that wasn't directly
illumined was in subdued tones, which account for the softness. You may
think it's rather ideal, but that's only because I saw her right and got
an effective pose. Hang it all, man! If I gave you a pond and a bunch of
trees and blue hills back of them, you might describe them accurately,
and yet make the picture an interesting one, in one of those fool
stories of yours."


"She is very beautiful," I said, knowing that he expected no direct
answer to his tirade.

"If she hadn't been, I shouldn't have bothered with her," he replied, in
a tone that rather rasped on my feelings. "That's just what's the matter
with her; she's a good-looker and you daren't change anything. If I were
to use her again for anything important, fellows would ask if I intend
to stick to the same old model, all my life. If I get her to pose just
once more, it will be about the end of her usefulness to me, and I'd do
it just for the fun of making another study of an interesting type,
something to stick among the unframed things piled up against the wall
and show people, after this one's sold."

He moved off to get a cigarette from the small square stool on which he
keeps brushes and tubes, leaving me to stare in great desolation at the
picture of Frances and her baby. So he's going to sell it! Indeed, the
more I looked at it the better I realized that it was the woman herself,
described by a master. He had naturally seen things I had not noticed,
that was all. I think I've never had a great desire for money, but the
idea was very irksome that her portrait would be sold and that it would
hang on some rich man's wall, stared at only by people merely concerned
with the beauty their dollars had bought.

It is, perhaps, just as well that I have some sense of humor. The idea
of this wonderful thing hanging in my rather dingy room suddenly struck
me as rather incongruous. As well think of a necklace of brilliants
about some ragged pauper's neck. To the best of my belief I have never
envied the people who can afford to possess the gauds I have sometimes
admired in the windows of shops, in which only the rich can ever deal.
Why this sudden obsession of a desire to have that picture of the young
woman where I could look at it, daily, and delight in its perfection? I
have often thought that in my den or in her own room she is as nearly
out of place as her picture would be. She impresses one as being able to
lend further grace to the most splendid dwelling-place.

Once more I catch myself communing with my folly. After all, Madame
Dupont is just a woman; her smile gives charm to her surroundings. When
she sits in my old Morris chair, she converts it into the throne of
beautiful motherhood and the place into a palace of grace. Why should I
care for daubs, for splashes of paint never so cleverly put on, since I
can see the model from time to time and rejoice that she counts me among
her friends?

"You're the grumpiest old curmudgeon I ever knew," said Gordon,
interrupting my cogitations. "You haven't said a word for ten minutes.
And so you like it, do you?"

"You've never done anything half so good," I affirmed.

"To tell you the truth, I've a notion I've happened to do something
pretty big," he said, nodding. "But a fellow's apt to get hypnotized by
his own work, sometimes. I'll have to stop looking at the thing. It'll
stay here while I go off to the country for a few weeks and, when I come
back, I'll have the right perspective again. But I know it's devilish
good. I feel as I did once at the _Salon_, when I got the _Mention
Honorable_ for that codfish and lobster on a marble table. You know, the
one Tilson bought. I knew it was right, as soon as I'd finished it."

Mutely, I committed him to the devil and all his fallen angels. What had
this picture to do with still-life in a fishmonger's shop? Hang it, I
really believe Gordon has no soul! Or can it be a part of the pose
inseparable from him, of which he certainly is sometimes unconscious?

At this moment, the bell rang and Yumasa came out of some cubby and
rushed to the outer door. Gordon followed him and warmly welcomed a
rather stout lady of uncertain age and very youthful hair, after which
he held out his hand to the original of Miss Van Rossum's portrait.

"The steamer was awfully early," explained the young lady, "but she
took forever to dock. Don't you think we were awfully good to come in
town on such a warm day? I could have played thirty-six holes, you know,
but, of course, we hadn't seen Dad for a long time. Mamma asked him to
come with us, but he said he'd have to run over to the Club. He'll join
us here at three."

"Let me see, he was gone four months, wasn't he?" said Gordon.

"Yes, something like that," answered the mother, holding up a
tortoise-shell lorgnette and looking at me.

"I want to introduce my friend, David Cole, Mrs. Van Rossum," hastened
Gordon. "Miss Van Rossum, David is my very best pal. He's the novelist,
you know."

"How very interesting!" clamored the young lady. "Gordon has given me
two of your books to read. Now that I have met you, I shall certainly
have to begin them. You see, there is so much to do in summer, Mr.
Cole."

"Indeed there is, Miss Van Rossum," I assented. "I hardly find time even
to look over the morning paper."

"Oh! Newspapers are such rubbish," she declared, airily.

"Why, Sophia!" cried Mrs. Van Rossum. "One of them had your picture last
week."

"It was rotten," said Miss Sophia, with some firmness.

"Oh, my dear! Why will you use such dreadful language?" the mother
reproved her.

"That's all right, Ma, every one says it now."

Miss Van Rossum, having thus established the status of her vocabulary,
at least to her own satisfaction, took a few steps across the big studio
and stopped before the picture.

"Oh! I say! Did you do that, Gordon?" she asked. "Isn't she a stunner?
Was it her own baby or did she borrow it? Cunning little mite, isn't
it?"

"A study from a model," Gordon informed her. "Yes, it is her own baby."

The older lady also came forward and inspected the painting.

"Of course, you must have flattered her a great deal," she opined. "You
have _such_ an imagination, my dear Mr. McGrath!"

"It isn't a patch on David's," he replied. "Novelists can beat painters
all hollow at that sort of thing."

"I'm awfully hungry," interrupted Miss Van Rossum. "Had to get up at an
unearthly hour to come down and meet Dad."

At once we went to the small table in the next room. The flowers were
exquisite. The young lady crunched radishes, with enthusiasm, and spoke
disparagingly of a certain hackney which, according to her, had unfairly
been awarded a blue ribbon at Piping Rock, gaining a decision over her
own palfrey. Also, she discussed Mrs. Pickley-Sanderson's form at tennis
and spoke of the new shotgun her father had brought over for her, from
England.

"What's your handicap at golf, Mr. Cole?" she asked me, graciously.

"I'm afraid David's a fossil," put in Gordon. "He's utterly ignorant of
the most important things of life."

"What a pity," she sympathized. "And how do you manage to spend the
time?"

"I--I don't spend it, Miss Van Rossum," I answered, inanely. "I try to
save it and make it last as long as possible."

"How funny," she declared, and gave me up as hopeless, directing the
remainder of her conversation at Gordon.

Finally, I took my leave, conscious that I had been asinine in my
remarks and had made a deplorable impression. Upon the picture I cast
one more look before leaving. Those wonderful eyes of Frances were
directed towards the baby, of course, but for an instant I felt that she
was about to raise them and smile at me. At any rate she doesn't
consider me as a useless incumbrance of the earth because I can't play
golf or shoot birds. She is restful and gentle, whereas Miss Van Rossum
appears to me to have the soothing qualities of a healthy bass drum. But
then, I may be mistaken.




CHAPTER VIII

WE TAKE AN EXCURSION


The day was a hot one. In Gordon's studio a slight breeze had blown in
and mingled with the scent of the flowers with which his table was
adorned, and the behavior of my collar had been of the best. The ladies,
secure in the absence of starched things such as we men throttle
ourselves with, had been pictures of comfortable coolness. But in the
street I plunged in an atmosphere of sodden heat and refused to obey the
instinct that usually leads me to walk whenever I am not pressed for
time. This happens often, for the productive hours of a writer are few,
leaving many to be employed in alleged thoughts. Of these the most
harrowing lie in the fact that a laborer can dig for eight hours a day,
whereas helplessness comes to me after writing a few pages.

I took the car, turning in my mind the observations I had made in the
studio. Several times I had heard Miss Van Rossum call my friend by his
first name, and the mother had manifested no surprise. They are probably
old acquaintances. I think he once told me that he had first met them in
Paris. For aught I know, however, he may have dandled her on his knees
when she was a child. The process now would be lacking in comfort, for
she outweighs him by a good thirty pounds. Her forearms seem larger and
just as hard as those of Frieda's pugilistic model. And then, Gordon is
a misogynist and considers the feminine form divine from a chilly,
artistic standpoint. From this I judged that Miss Van Rossum is a young
lady who calls every man she meets two or three times by his first name.
Gordon certainly doesn't mind it, but then, he got five thousand for the
portrait, a sum that excuses some lack of formality.

The young woman's looks are undeniable. She's an utterly handsome
creature and, as far as I have been able to see, accepts the fact as she
does the family fortune. It is something due to a Van Rossum, and she is
too ladylike to boast of such advantages. This serves to make her very
simple and natural. Like many of the mortals built on a generous scale
she is good tempered. I wondered that she had asked so few questions in
regard to the model of the picture she had seen. Practically, she had
come, looked and turned away to the contemplation of scrambled eggs with
truffles, followed by squabs. True, she had inquired whether the baby
belonged to the model. To Pygmalion his sculptured beauty came to life,
but from the young lady's standpoint I think that the purchased beauty
that is to be changed into limned or chiselled grace must be already
considered to have turned to paint or stone. If I had declared that a
model was probably a thing of pulsing blood and quivering nerves, it is
likely that she would have opened her fine blue eyes in surprise. But
then, most of us, subconsciously, are apt to feel that those we deem
beneath us in position or talent or virtue can really possess but the
outward semblance of humanity.

The foregoing platitudes came to me, I think, because I actually
resented the scanty attention they had paid to Frances. They had looked
at the "Mother and Child," and approved. The signature made it a
valuable work of art and, as such, had awakened a polite interest. But
then, after all, it was worth but a few thousand dollars, and a Van
Rossum couldn't very well go into ecstasies over an article of such
moderate worth.

Poor Frances! She has come down to the rank of the women who stand
behind counters till ready to drop; of those who toil in spite of aching
heads and weary limbs. It is appalling to think of men by the million
considered as food for cannon, but it seems just as cruel on the part of
fate to designate women in equal numbers as carriers of burdens,
destined for most of their lives to bear pain and weariness and the
constant effort to smile in spite of these.

And then, Frances is further punished on account of that little child.
It hangs about her neck, a heavy treasure. She has fulfilled the most
glorious purpose of womanhood, and, for the time being, her reward lies
in the fact that she can scarce find an occupation that will keep body
and soul together. There is no room for sprouting manhood in workrooms,
in offices, in any of the places wherein only the ripe are of avail to
be squeezed into the vintage of the prosperity destined to a few. Her
gift of voice and her inheritance of beauty have served but to bring
bitterness. Had she possessed a shrill voice and ordinary looks, there
would have been no going abroad, no love for a kindred artistic soul, no
tiny infant to weep over. By this time she might have been a nice
schoolmarm, conscious of superiority over the small flock in her care
and tranquil in the expectation of a modest salary. Also, there might
have been dreams of a plush-covered parlor in a little home, some day,
when honest John or Joe should at last decide to let her teach little
pupils of her own providing. I suppose that such dreams must come to
all. Even the little cripple in the library, the other day, who was
looking at the fine girl who never noticed him, indulges in them, and
who shall say that they do not brighten some of his hours even if, at
other times, they deepen his darkness.

Gordon seems to me like the only exception I know to the rule I have
just formulated. He has the brain of an artist, but the soul of an
actuary, and, sometimes, I wish I were not so fond of him. The way he
speaks of Frances actually revolts me. For another week or two he may,
perhaps, make use of her, forsooth! But he must not indulge such
weakness too long, for fear he may be considered as a man of one model.
He has plucked the flower of her beauty and spread it on canvas,
destined to bring forth admiration and dollars. But now, like squeezed
out paint tubes and worn out brushes she may be discarded. He has
obliged me, and made a good speculation. Next week he will be playing
golf and cultivating damsels and dowagers who may desire immortality in
paint. On the putting-green he may obtain commissions, and in the tennis
court inveigle some white-flanneled banker into leaving his facial
characteristics to posterity. I could have forgiven him, if he had shown
a little real enthusiasm in his model and deplored his inability to
employ her further. After all, she has inspired him to great
accomplishment and he is a cold-blooded opportunist, in spite of our
mutual fondness. The last word I heard from him as he saw me to the door
was a whispered one, as he jerked his head towards the studio, where we
had left the ladies.

"I'm going to do the old girl this fall," he said.

The man has put all of his art and wonderful taste into his picture of
Frances. Just as hard he will toil over the fat face of the good lady he
thus disrespectfully alluded to. It may, perhaps, pay him better. The
man's temperature, if my young friend Porter took it, would probably
turn out to be that of a fish.

My thoughts made me forget the heat, but I arrived home in a dilapidated
state of moisture and with a face thoroughly crimsoned. As soon as I
reached my room I changed my stiff shirt and collar for a softer and
lighter garment of alleged silk, purchased at a bargain sale. When I
came out, Frances's door was opened and I looked in. She was sitting in
the armchair, with the baby in her lap, and the smile she greeted me
with could do little to conceal the fact that she had been a prey to
unhappy thoughts.

"Isn't it hot?" I observed, with scant originality.

"It is dreadful," she answered, "and--and I wonder if Baby suffers from
it. Do you think he is looking pale?"

At once, I inwardly decided that he was. The idea would probably not
have entered my head without her suggestion, but an uneasy feeling came
over me, born probably of reading something in the paper about infant
mortality. I took a blessed refuge in prevarication.

"He is looking splendidly," I told her. "But they take sick babies and
give them long jaunts out on the bay, with nurses and doctors. If that
sort of thing can cure an ailing infant, it must make a healthy one feel
like a fighting-cock. Get ready, and we'll take the boat to Coney Island
and spend a couple of hours at sea. It will put better color in the
little man's cheeks and do no harm to your own. I'm craving for the
trip, come along and hurry up!"

She began the usual objections, to which I refused any attentions. I
suspect I have a little of the bully in my nature. At any rate we
sallied forth, soon afterwards, and went to the Battery, where we
percolated through the crowd into a couple of folding seats on the upper
deck.

"Oh! It is such a blessed relief," she said, after the boat had started
and made a breeze for us, since, on the water, none but the tiniest
flaws rippled the surface. I called her attention to the remarkable
sight of Manhattan fading away behind us in a haze that softened the
lines, till they appeared to be washed in with palest lavenders and
pinks.

"The insolence of wealth and the garishness of its marts are
disappearing," I told her. "Our moist summer air, so worthless to
breathe and cruel to ailing babes, is gilding a pill otherwise often
hard to swallow. All about us are people, most of whom live away from
the splendors we behold. Some of them, like ourselves, burrow in
semi-forgotten streets and some dwell on the boundary where humanity
rather festers than thrives. They are giving themselves up to the
enjoyment of a coolness which, an hour ago, appeared like an
unrealizable dream. Let us do likewise."

Frances smiled at me, indulgently. Like all really good women, she has
an inexhaustible patience with the vagaries and empty remarks of a mere
man. Women are more concerned with the practicalities of life. About us
the fairer sex was apparently in the majority and the discussions
carried on around us concerned garments, the price of victuals and the
evil ways of certain husbands. Young ladies, provided with male escorts,
sprinkled poetry, or at least doggerel, over the conversation of more
staid matrons. Their remarks and exclamations seldom soared to lofty
heights, but in them there was always the undertone of present pleasure
and anticipated joys. One thin little thing, who had mentioned a
ribbon-counter, looked up with something akin to awe at a broad-faced
and pimply youth, who spoke hungrily of a potential feast of Frankfurter
sausages. I have no doubt that to her he represented some sort of Prince
Charming. Close to her a buxom maiden addressed a timid-looking giant,
all arms and legs, and described the bliss of shooting the chutes. It
was evident that he aspired to the dignity and emoluments of a gay
suitor, but was woefully new or incompetent at the game. She was helping
him to the best of her ability, with a perseverance and courage
entitling her to my respect. In her companion she must have discerned
the makings of a possible husband or, at least, the opportunity to
practise a talent of fascination she thinks ought not to lie fallow.

"And how is Baby Paul enjoying himself?" I asked my companion.

"For the time being, he is asleep," she answered, "and so, I suppose, is
having an excellent time. He's an exceedingly intelligent child and of
the happiest disposition. I'm sure he is aware that he has a mother to
love him, and that's enough to keep him contented."

"Of course," I assented. "That somewhere there is a good woman to love
him is all that a baby or a grown man needs to know in order to enjoy
perfect bliss. Those who are fortunate enough to reach such a
consummation are the elect of the world."

She looked at me with a smile, and I saw a question hanging on her lips.
It was probably one I had heard very often. Frieda and some others, when
hard put to it for a subject of conversation, are apt to ask me why I
don't get married. I tell them that the only proof of the pudding is the
eating and that, strangely enough, all the good wives I know are already
wedded. Moreover, I know that very few women would deign to look with
favor upon me. I have always deemed myself a predestined bachelor, a
lover of other people's children and a most timid venturer among
spinsters.

Frances, however, permitted the question to go unasked, which showed
much cleverness on her part. She recognized the obviousness of the
situation. As we went on, she gazed with admiration upon the yachts,
many of which were lying becalmed, but picturesque. The big tramps at
anchor awakened in her the wonder we all feel at the idea of sailing for
faraway shores where grow strange men and exotic fruits. Then, when the
steamer had turned around the great point of the island and her eyes
caught the big open sea, I saw them filling, gradually. She was thinking
of the gallant lad who had fallen for his first and greatest mother.
Recollections came to her of sailing away with him, with hopes and
ambitions rosier than the illumined shores before us, that were kissed
by the sun under a thin covering veil of mist. She remembered the days
of her toil, rewarded at last by the ripening of her divine gift, and
the days of love crowned by the little treasure on her lap. But now, all
that had been very beautiful in her life was gone, saving the tiny one
to whom she could not even sing a lullaby and whose very livelihood was
precarious.

I knew that when she was in this mood it was better to say nothing or
even appear to take no notice. Suddenly, a child running along the deck
fell down, a dear little girl I ran to and lifted in my arms.
Confidingly, she wept upon my collar which, fortunately, was a soft one.
A broad shouldered youth made his way towards me.

"Hand her over, Mister," he said, pleasantly, "she's one o' mine."

He took the child from me, tenderly, and I looked at him, somewhat
puzzled, but instant recognition came to him.

"Say," he declared, breezily, "you's the guy I seen th' other day when I
wuz havin' me picture took."


He extended a grateful hand, which I shook cordially, for he was no less
a personage than Kid Sullivan, who would have been champion, but for his
defeat. On my last call upon Frieda at her studio I had seen him in the
lighter garb of Orion, with a gold fillet about his brow, surmounted by
a gilt star. I bade him come with me, but a couple of steps away, to
where Frances sat, and I had left a small provision of chocolate drops.

"This," I said, "is my friend Mr. Sullivan. The child belongs to him,
and I have come to see whether I cannot find consolation for her in the
box of candy."

Frances bowed pleasantly to him, and he removed his cap, civilly.

"Glad to meet ye, ma'am," he said. "Thought I'd take the wife and kids
over to the Island. The painter-lady found me a job last week. It's only
a coal wagon, but it's one o' them five-ton ones with three horses.
They're them big French dappled gray ones."

I looked at Frances, fearing that this mention of his steeds might bring
back to her the big Percherons of Paris, the omnibuses climbing the
Montmartre hill or rattling through the Place St. Michel, that is the
throbbing heart of the Latin Quarter. But she is a woman, as I may have
mentioned a hundred times before this. Her interest went out to the
child, and she bent over to one side and took a little hand within hers.

"I hope you were not hurt," she said, tenderly.

At the recollection of the injury the little mouth puckered up for an
instant. Diplomatically, I advanced a chocolate and the crisis was
averted.

"She's a darling, Mr. Sullivan," ventured Frances.

"Yes'm, that's what me and Loo thinks," he assented. "But you'd oughter
see Buster. Wait a minute!"

About ten seconds later he returned with a slightly bashful and very
girlish little wife, who struggled under the weight of a ponderous
infant.

"Mr. Cole, Loo," the Kid introduced me, "and--and I guess Mrs. Cole."

"No," I objected, firmly. "There is no Mrs. Cole. I beg to make you
acquainted with Mrs. Dupont. Please take my chair, Mrs. Sullivan, you
will find it very comfortable. My young friend, may I offer you a
cigar?"

"I'm agreeable, sir," said the young man, graciously. "I've give up the
ring now, so I don't train no more."

The two of us leaned against the rail, while the women entered upon a
pleasant conversation. At first, Frances was merely courteous and kindly
to the girl with the two babies, but in a few minutes she was
interested. From a fund of vast personal experience little Mrs.
Sullivan, who looked rather younger than most of the taller girls one
sees coming out of the public schools, bestowed invaluable information
in regard to teething. Later, she touched upon her experience in a
millinery shop.

"I seen you was a lady, soon as I peeped at yer hat," she declared, in a
high-pitched, yet agreeable, voice. "There's no use talking, it ain't
the feathers, not even them egrets and paradises, as make a real hat.
It's the head it goes on to."

As she made this remark, I stared at the youthful mother. She was
unconscious of being a deep and learned philosopher. She had stated a
deduction most true, an impression decidedly profound. The hat was the
black one bought in Division Street, where the saleswomen come out on
the sidewalk and grab possible customers by the arm, so Frieda told me.

Frances smiled at her. In her poor, husky voice she used terms of
endearment to Mrs. Sullivan's baby. It was eleven months and two weeks
old, we were informed, and, therefore, a hoary-headed veteran as
compared to Baby Paul. Had they been of the same age, there might have
been comparisons, and possibly some trace of envy, but in the present
case there could be nothing but mutual admiration.

"Is you folks going ashore?" asked the Kid.

"We were thinking of remaining on the boat," I told him.

"Say, what's the matter with goin' on the pier and sittin' down for a
while? 'Tain't as cool as the boat, but it's better'n town, and the
later ye gets back, the cooler it'll be."

Mrs. Sullivan confirmed her husband's statements. I looked enquiringly
at Frances, who listened willingly to the words of experience. In a few
minutes we landed and found a comfortable seat.

Suddenly, as we were chatting pleasantly, there passed before us Mr.
O'Flaherty, of the second floor back. He wore a cap surmounted by
goggles and an ample gray duster, and with him walked several other
large and florid-looking gentlemen. His eyes fell on Frances and then
upon me. I thanked goodness that her head was turned so that she could
not possibly have seen the odious wink and the leer he bestowed upon me.

"Say," whispered Mr. Sullivan, in my ear. "D'ye see that big guy look at
ye? Made ye mad, didn't he? For two cents I'd have handed him one."

"My good friend," I whispered back, "none of us are beyond reach of the
coarse natured."

"That's so," he answered, "but a wallop in the jaw's good for 'em."

An hour later we took the boat back. The little girl slept all the way
home, in her father's arms. Frances gazed dreamily on the water. Little
Mrs. Sullivan sat on a chair very close to her husband, with the baby
secure on her lap. Her head soon rested on the young prizefighter's
shoulder, and she dozed off. I am sure he endured exquisite discomfort
with pins and needles rather than disturb her.

And I, like a fool, worried on account of a man perpetually scented with
gasoline and spotted with transmission grease who had taken the infernal
liberty of winking at me because of my being with poor Frances, taking
the air on a proletarian pier.

"The world," Gordon had told me, one day, "utterly refuses to permit a
man and woman to be merely good friends. Since the days of Noah's Ark,
it has been recognized as an impossibility, and, therefore, society has
ever frowned down upon any attempt in so foolish a direction."

I replied hotly that the world was evil-minded, at times, and he
retorted that the world was all right, but some men were jackasses. He
remarked that Carlyle had been too lenient when he declared that his
countrymen were mostly fools. But then, Carlyle was insular, after all,
and unduly favored the inhabitants of his isle, as any British subject
would. Nearly all men all over the world were fools, Gordon asserted.
Coyotes and foxes had an instinctive dread of traps, but men walked into
them so innocently that merely to behold them was enough to drive a man
to drink.

After all, I don't care what O'Flaherty and such cattle think! As long
as I can save Frances, or any other good woman, from shedding one more
tear than has been ordained for her, I shall do so. I refuse to be
envious of the intelligence of foxes and coyotes, and I will always
resent uncouthness and mean thoughts.

She looked rather tired when we came down the steps of the elevated
road. I begged her to let me take Baby Paul in my arms, and she finally
consented, after first declining. It did not awaken him, and we reached
the house in becoming tranquillity. Some of our fellow lodgers were on
the steps and greeted us civilly. They were the three young men and the
two girls. Thank goodness they appeared to be too unversed in the
wickedness of this world to entertain such ideas as must have passed
through the bullet-head of O'Flaherty!

       *       *       *       *       *

On the next day, I went up to Gordon's studio, and I confess it was with
the purpose of looking again at that picture. He was superintending the
packing of his suit cases and a trunk. I told him something of my
experience, my indignation throbbing in my throat.

"You're a donkey, Dave," he consoled me. "What right or title have you
to the belief that the millennium has come? I suppose the poor girl is
entitled to some commiseration, for her troubles are in the nature of a
series of accidents and misfortunes which no one could foresee. Yours,
on the other hand, are simply due to congenital feebleness of some parts
of your gray matter. By-by, old fellow, my taxi's waiting for me!"




CHAPTER IX

I HEAR RUMORS ABOUT GORDON


When we reached the top floor, Frances took the baby from me, while I
lit her gas-jet. She kissed Baby Paul effusively, and placed him on the
bed, after which she turned to me.

"It has done him ever so much good," she declared. "See how splendidly
he looks now. Tell me, why are you so kind to me?"

Women have been in the habit of propounding riddles ever since the world
began. This was a hard one, indeed, to answer, because I didn't know
myself. I could hardly tell her that it was because, at least
theoretically, every beautiful woman is loved by every man, nor could I
say that it was because she had inspired me with pity for her.

"We have had a few pleasant moments together," I replied, "and I am ever
so glad that Baby Paul has derived so much benefit. The kindness you
speak of is mere egotism. I have given myself the great pleasure of
your company. I do not suppose you realize how much that means to a chap
whose usual confidant is his writing machine, and whose society, except
at rare intervals, is made up of old books. My dear child, in this
transaction I am the favored one."

I was surprised to see a little shiver pass over her frame.

"Oh! Mr. Cole, sometimes I can't help feeling such wonder, such
amazement, when I think of how differently all these things might have
come to pass. I--I was going off to the hospital on the next day. I
should surely have met kindness and good enough care, but no one can
understand what it was to me to have Frieda come in, with her sweet
sympathetic face. It was as if some loving sister had dropped down to me
from Heaven, and--and she told me about you. I--I remember her very
words; she said that you were a man to be trusted, clean of soul as a
child, the only one she had ever met into whose keeping she would
entrust all that she holds most dear."

"Frieda is much given to exaggeration," I remarked, uneasily.

"She is not. Think of what my feelings would have been on the day when
they would have sent me out of the hospital, with not a friend in the
world, not a kindly heart to turn to!"

"My dear child," I said, "I believe that, if you have not been
altogether forgotten by the gods and goddesses, it was because you were
worthy of their kindest regard. I am confident that our little trip on
the water will make you sleep soundly, and I trust that you will have
pleasant dreams."

Yes! I occasionally call her my dear child, now. Neither my forty years
nor the thinness of my thatch really entitles me to consider myself
sufficiently venerable to have been her parent. But I am the least
formal of men and find it difficult to call her Madame or Mrs. Dupont.
If I did so now, I think that she would wonder if I was aggrieved
against her, for some such foolish reason as women are always keen on
inventing and annoying themselves with. Once in a while I even call her
Frances, but it is a habit I ought not to permit to grow upon me. There
are altogether too many O'Flaherty's in the world, masculine, feminine
and neuter.

She closed her door, after a friendly pressure of our hands, and I went
to my room to write. The ideas, however, came but slowly and, upon
arrival, were of the poorest. I, therefore, soon took my pipe, put my
feet on the window ledge and listened to a distant phonograph. At last,
came silence, a gradual extinguishing of lights in windows opposite, and
yawns from myself. I must repeat these trips, they make for sound
slumber.

On the next day I took it upon myself to go to the small house in
Brooklyn where Frances had formerly boarded. She was anxious to know if
any letters might have come for her that had not been forwarded. She had
wondered why her husband's parents had never written to announce the
dreadful news which, however, had been briefly confirmed on inquiry at
the Consulate. In the eastern section of our Greater City, which is
about as familiar to me as the wilds of Kamchatka, I promptly lost
myself. But kindly souls directed me, and I reached a dwelling that was
all boarded up and bore a sign indicating that the premises were to be
let. Thence, I went to a distant real estate office where the people
were unable to give me any indication or trace of the former tenants,
who had rented out rooms.

On my return I found Eulalie rummaging among my bureau drawers. She held
up two undergarments and bade me observe the perfection of her darning,
whereupon I assured her that she was a large, fat pearl without price.

"_Oui, Monsieur_," she assented, without understanding me in the least.
"Madame Dupont has gone to my cousin, Madame Smith. Her name was
Carpaux, like mine, but she married an American painter."

"An artist?" I inquired.

"_Oui, Monsieur._ He used to paint and decorate and put on wallpaper.
Then, he went away to Alaska after gold and never sent his address. So
Felicie has opened a cleaning and dyeing shop and is doing very well.
She has not heard from Smith for sixteen years, so that she thinks he
is, perhaps, lost. She has told me that she wanted an American person,
who could speak French, to wait on customers and keep the books and send
the bills and write names and addresses on the packages. She lives in
the back of the store. There is a big bed that would be very commodious
for putting the baby on. Madame Dupont has gone to see. Next week I go
to work there also and I will keep an eye on the baby when Madame is at
the counter."

I know the shop; it is on Sixth Avenue, not far away. In the window
always hang garments intended to show the perfection of dyeing and
cleaning reached by the establishment. There is a taxidermist on one
side of it and a cheap restaurant on the other. When weary of the odor
of benzine and soap suds, Frances will be able to stand on the door-sill
for a moment and inhale the effluvia of fried oysters or defunct
canaries.

Eulalie left my room, and I remained there, appalled. I wish I could
have found some better or more pleasant occupation for Frances.

When the latter returned, she looked cheerfully at me and announced that
she had accepted the position tendered to her.

"I shall be able to have Baby with me," she explained, "and it will keep
our bodies and souls together. I hope I shall suit Madame Smith. Do you
know anything about how to keep books?"

At once I took paper and pencil and launched into a long explanation,
undoubtedly bewildering her by the extent of my ignorance. Then I went
out and got her a little book on the subject, over which she toiled
fiercely for two days, after which she went to work, bearing little Paul
in her arms, and returned at suppertime, looking very tired.

"It is all right," she announced. "Felicie is a very nice, hard-working
woman, and tells me that Baby is a very fine child. I'll get along very
well."

When a woman is really brave and strong, she makes a man feel like
rather small potatoes. Her courage and determination were fine indeed,
and I must say my admiration for her grew apace. After the hopes she had
entertained; after the years spent in study, the fall must have seemed a
terrible one to her. Yet she accepted the pittance offered to her,
gratefully and with splendid pluck.

A week after this Gordon ran up to town in somebody's car, to make a
selection of cravats at the only shop in New York where, according to
him, a man could buy a decent necktie.

"Your limitations are frightful," I told him. "I know of a thousand."

"I know you do," he replied, "and most of your ties would make a dog
laugh. The rest of them would make him weep. Come along with me for a
bite of lunch at the Biltmore."

Over the Little Neck clam cocktails he announced some great triumphs he
had achieved at golf.

"And I can nearly hold my own with Miss Van Rossum at tennis," he said.
"She's a wonder at it. We got arrested last Friday on the Jericho
turnpike for going fifty miles an hour, but she jollied the policeman so
that he only swore to thirty, and we were let off with a reprimand. Good
thing she was at the wheel. If I'd been driving, I'd have been fined the
limit."

"You would have deserved it," I told him.

"I think the old judge knew her father; pretty big gun on the island,
you know. By the way, what's become of--of the Murillo young woman?"

I explained to him how she was occupied.

"The deuce! You could certainly have found something easier for her to
do, if you'd tried hard enough," he reproached me.

"I did all I could, and so did Frieda, but our hunt was in vain, on
account of the baby."

"Yes, there's that plagued infant," he said, reflectively.

"I'll be glad, if you can shed the light of your genius on the
situation, old man," I told him. "Among your enormous circle of
friends----"

"You go to the devil! I'm not going to have people saying that Gordon
McGrath is so interested in his model that he's trying to get rid of her
by placing her somewhere or other. No, old boy, if I should hear of
anything, I will let you know, but I'm not going to hunt for it. Do you
know, that woman's got a wonderful face. Did you ever see such a nose
and mouth? When she opens those big eyes of hers and looks at you and
speaks in that hoarse voice, it's quite pathetic. I--I think I'll take
her on again, for a short time."

"I'm afraid you won't," I replied. "I wouldn't advise her to lose steady
employment for the purpose of posing a couple of weeks for you."

"I suppose not. How do you like that Spanish omelette?"

Thus he cut short all reference to Frances, and, soon afterwards, we
parted on the Avenue.

       *       *       *       *       *

During the next two months there was little worthy of being chronicled.
Frances, I think, grew a little thinner, but always asserted that she
was in the best of health. Baby Paul was rapidly accumulating weight,
and Frieda and I offered him a small baby carriage, which folded up most
cleverly and took little room in the shop or at home. It was on the
occasion of the completion of his fourth month that the presentation was
made by my dear old friend.

"There, my dear, is a gimcrack thing David insisted on buying. The man
at the store swore it couldn't possibly fold up suddenly with the baby
in it. And now what do you think of my having that old blue dress of
mine dyed black?"

The reply of Frances was a heartfelt one as to the perambulator, but
discouraging in regard to the garment.

"Oh, never mind," said Frieda. "I'll make paint rags out of it, then. I
only thought I'd help out the shop. Now let us get David to give us a
cup of tea."

We were talking cheerfully together, when Gordon dropped in from the
skies, most unexpectedly. We were glad to see him and, since four people
in my room crowded it considerably, my friend took a seat on the bed. I
had first met him in the Bohemia of the Latin Quarter, when his necktie
out-floated all others and any one prophesying that he would become the
portrayer in ordinary to the unsubmerged would have been met with
incredulous stares. At that time, for him, Beranger was the only poet
and Murger the only writer. And now his clothes are built, while his
shoes are designed. Yet, in my top floor, he showed some of the old
Adam, joining gladly in our orgy of tea and wafers and utterly
forgetting all pose. I noticed that he looked a great deal at Frances,
but it was no impertinent stare. She was quite unconscious of his
scrutiny or, if at all aware of it, probably deemed it a continuation of
his method of artistic study. She had become accustomed to it in his
studio.

"David tells me that you are lost to me as a model," he said, suddenly,
with a sort of eagerness that showed a trace of disappointment.

"I must now plod along without interruption," she answered.

"I had thought of making another study. The finished thing is all right,
but one doesn't come across a face like yours very often."

"No," put in Frieda, "and it's a good thing for you that you've had the
exclusive painting of it. If she had continued as a model and been done
by every Tom, Dick and Harry----"

"True. Since I can't paint her again, I'm glad no one else will. No,
thank you, I won't have any more tea. How's the new picture, Frieda?"

For a few minutes the two monopolized the conversation. To some extent
they spoke a jargon of their own, to which Frances and I listened with
little understanding.

"And what do you think of it, Dave?" he asked, turning abruptly to me.

"It is a beautiful thing," I answered. "If I had Frieda's imagination
and her sense of beauty, I should be the great, undiscovered American
novelist. She makes one believe that the world is all roses and violets
and heliotropes, touched by sunshine and kissed by soft breezes. It is
tenanted only by sprites and godlings, according to her magic brush."

"The world is no such thing," he retorted, sharply.

"The world is what one's imagination, one's sentiment and one's
conscience makes it," I asserted, "at least during some precious moments
of every lifetime."

"Oh! I know. You can sit at that old machine of yours and throw your
head back and see more upon your ceiling than the cracked plaster, and
Frieda does the same thing. Now my way is to take real flesh and blood,
yes, and dead lobsters and codfish and dowagers and paint them in the
best light I can get on them, but it's the light I really see."

"It is nothing of the kind," I emphatically disclaimed. "It is the light
your temperament sees, and your rendering of it is not much closer to
truth than Caruso's 'Celeste Aida' can be to an ordinary lover's appeal.
There is no such thing as realism in painting, while, in literature, it
has chiefly produced monsters."

"Isn't he a dear old donkey?" Gordon appealed to the two women.

"One of those animals once spoke the truth to a minor prophet," remarked
Frances, quietly.

"You are quoting the only recorded exception," he laughed, "but the hit
was a good one. Yet Dave is nothing but an incurable optimist and a
chronic wearer of pink glasses."

"That, I think, is what makes him so loveable," put in Frieda, whereat
Frances smiled at her, and I might have blushed had I not long ago lost
the habit.

Gordon rose, with the suddenness which characterizes his movements, and
declared he must run away at once. He shook hands all around, hastily,
and declined my offer to see him down to the door.

"In Italy," said Frieda, "I have eaten a sauce made with vinegar and
sweet things. They call it _agrodolce_, I believe, and the Germans make
a soup with beer. Neither of them appeal to me at all. Gordon is a
wonderful painter, but he's always trying to mix up art with iconoclasm.
It can't spoil his pictures, I'm sure, but it may--what was the
expression Kid Sullivan was fond of using? Oh yes, some day it may hand
out a jolt to him. He has a perfectly artistic temperament and the
greatest talent, but he stirs up with them a dreadful mess of cynicism
and cold-blooded calculation. My dear Dave, let you and I stick to our
soft colors and minor tones. If either of us ever abandoned them, we
should be able to see nothing but dull grays."

"We understand our limitations, Frieda," I told her, "and there is
nothing that fits one better to enjoy life. Gordon says that it is all
foolishness, and can't understand that a fellow should walk along a mile
of commonplace hedge and stop because he has found a wild rose. The
latter, with due respect to him, is as big a truth as the privet, and a
pleasanter one."

Presently, Frieda, after consuming a third cup of tea and finishing the
crackers, said that she must be going home. I insisted on accompanying
her down the stairs and naturally followed her to her domicile, where
she informed me that she was going to wash her hair and forbade my
entering.

On the other side of the street, on my return, I saw Frances going into
Dr. Porter's office. He has prevailed upon her to let him do something
to her throat, and she goes in once or twice a week. He has begged her
to come as a special and particular favor to him. I'm sure I don't know
what he expects to accomplish, for he is somewhat reticent in the
matter. Perhaps he may have thought it well to arouse a little hope in
her. I am afraid that in her life she sees a good deal of the dull
grays Frieda was speaking of.

       *       *       *       *       *

And now a few more weeks have gone by and the middle of winter has come.
On Sunday afternoons we always have tea in my room, except when we go
through the same function at Frieda's. To my surprise, Gordon's visits
have been repeated a number of times. Frieda and he abuse one another
most unmercifully, like the very best of friends, and he persistently
keeps on observing Frances. It looks as if she exerted some strange
fascination upon him, of which she is perfectly ignorant. He never goes
beyond the bounds of the most simple friendliness, but, sometimes, she
sharply resents some cynical remark of his, without seeming to disturb
him in the least.

Meanwhile, my friend Willoughby Jones has told me that Gordon is doing
Mrs. Van Rossum's portrait, while the younger lady roams about the
studio and eats chocolates, talking about carburetors and tarpon-tackle.
The family will leave soon in search of the balmy zephyrs of Florida. My
friend's chatter also included the information that Gordon might soon
take a run down there.

"They say he's becoming a captive of her bow and spear," he told me. "It
looks as if he were trying to join the ranks of the Four Hundred. It has
been said that the Van Rossums, or at least Miss Sophia, show some
willingness to adopt him. Wouldn't it be funny?"

Funny! It would be tragic! I can't for an instant reconcile myself to
such an idea, for I hardly think that Miss Van Rossum is the sort of
young woman who would inspire Gordon with a consuming love. Come to
think of it, I have never known him to be in love with any one, so how
can I know the kind of fair charmer that will produce in him what the
French call the lightning stroke? And then, Willoughby Jones is known as
an inveterate and notorious gossip. The whole matter, if not an utter
invention, is simply based on Gordon's policy to cultivate the people
who can afford to pay five thousand for a full-length portrait. I wonder
whether it would not be well for me to give him a word of warning? No!
If I did such a thing, he would certainly tell me not to be a donkey,
and I should deserve the rebuke.




CHAPTER X

THE WORK LOST


However platitudinous it may sound, I am compelled to remark how the
time flies. From the calendar's standpoint there are but three weeks to
come before the advent of Spring, and I trust the sprite will be better
clad than she is in one of Frieda's pictures. In this particular
latitude March is not very apt to temper the wind to such a shorn lamb
as smiles out of that painting, clad with Cupid-like garments of
infinite grace, but questionable warmth. She should have worn a heavy
sweater.

Day by day I have watched the growth of Baby Paul, but it is only on
Sundays that I have been able to see much of his mother, who comes home
rather weary, as a rule, and always has ever so much sewing to do after
her return. I have heard her discuss ways and means with Frieda, till I
felt my small allowance of brains positively addling. Together they have
been planning tiny garments for the babe and larger ones for
themselves, while I sat there conscious of my inferiority and looking at
them admiringly, but with something of the understanding of an average
lap-dog. I find them very indulgent, however.


Dear me! What a time we had of it at Christmas. My midday meal took
place at my sister's, in Weehawken, but the dinner was at Frieda's,
where I was permitted to contribute the turkey. It could not be made to
penetrate the exiguous oven of the little gas-stove, but we bribed the
janitress to cook it for us. I had been in grave consultation with my
dear old friend in regard to the toys I might purchase for Baby Paul,
being anxious that his first experience of the great day should be a
happy one, but Frieda frowned upon woolly lambs, teddy bears and Noah's
Arks.

"If you will insist, Dave," she told me, "you can go and buy him a
rubber elephant or some such thing, but he is altogether too young to
play games. I know you have a sneaking desire to teach him checkers. If
you will persist in wasting your money on presents, give me a
five-dollar bill and I'll go around and buy him things he really needs.
I'll put them in a box and send them with your best love."

"What about Frances?" I asked.

"A good pair of stout boots would be wisest," she informed me, "but
perhaps you had better make it flowers, after all. More useful things
might remind her too much of present hardship and poverty. A few
American Beauties will give her, with their blessed fragrance, some
temporary illusion of not being among the disinherited ones of the
earth. I--I can give her the boots."

And so we had that dinner, just the three of us together, with Baby Paul
just as good as gold and resting on Frieda's sofa. There was a box of
candy sent by Kid Sullivan to his benefactress, and, although the
contents looked positively poisonous, they came from a grateful heart,
and she appreciated them hugely. I had brought a little present of
flowers in a tiny silver vase, and they graced the table. I wore a
terrible necktie Frieda had presented me with. It was a splendid
refection.

The little dining-room was a thing of delight. From the walls hung many
pictures, mostly unframed. They were sketches and impressions that had
met favor from their gifted maker and been deemed worthy of the place.
The table was covered with a lovely white cloth, all filmy with lace,
and there was no lack of pretty silver things holding bonbons and buds.
It all gave me a feeling of womanly refinement, of taste mingled with
the freedom of an artistic temperament unrestrained by common metes and
bounds.

Frances had one of my roses pinned to her waist, and often bent down to
inhale its fragrance. When will some profound writer give us an essay on
the Indispensability of the Superfluous?

Again we had a feast on New Year's eve, in my room. Gordon, who was
going to a house-party at Lakewood, lent me his chafing-dish. I'll say
little about the viands we concocted; at least they were flavored with
affection and mutual good wishes, with the heartiest hopes for good
things to come. It was not very cold, that night, and on the stroke of
twelve I threw my window wide open. We listened to the orgy of sound
from steam-whistles and tin horns. There floated to us, through the din,
a pealing of faraway chiming bells. When I closed the window again,
Frieda took the chafing-dish for a housewifely cleaning. Baby Paul had
been sleeping on my bed and Frances was kneeling beside him, looking at
the sleeping tot. For a moment she had forgotten us and the trivialities
of the entertainment, and was breathing a prayer for her man-child.

Thus passed the New Year's eve, and on the next morning Frances was up
early, as usual, and went off to work. I pottered idly about my room
till Mrs. Milliken chased me out. On the afternoon of the first Sunday
of the year Gordon came in again.

Until last Autumn he had invaded my premises perhaps once in a couple of
months, but, now, he is beginning to come as regularly as Frieda
herself. He gives me the impression of being rather tired, and I explain
this by the fact that he leads too active a life and takes too much out
of himself. I am sure few men ever painted harder than he does. When I
watch him at his work, it looks very easy, of course, but I know better.
His is powerful, creative work, such as no man can accomplish without
putting all his energy into his toil. I am often exhausted after a few
hours of writing, and I am sure that Gordon also feels the drag and the
travail of giving birth to the children of his soul. Then, after a day
of this sort of thing, he goes out to the theatres or the Opera and
prolongs the night at the club and delves into books, for he is a great
reader, especially of what he terms modern thought and philosophy. The
first rays of good working light find him again at his canvas, sometimes
pleased and sometimes frowning, giving me often the impression of a
latter-day Sisyphus.

"I'm getting there," he said to me, one morning, in his studio. "Last
year I made thirty-five thousand and this year I'll do better than that.
The time is coming soon when I won't have to go around as a sort of
drummer for myself. They'll be coming to me and begging me to paint
them. I'll do it for six or seven months a year, and, during the
remainder of the time, I'll take life easily. My plans are all cut and
dried."

"I am glad to hear it, Gordon. You deserve your success. But----"

"Go on," he snapped at me, "I know that everything must be paid for."

"I'm not so sure of that. I was merely about to say that I don't know
whether you can be so very sure of being able to take life in such a
leisurely way as you hope to."

"Don't you worry, old man," he answered. "I know what's best for me and
how to go to work to obtain it."

"I trust you do," I replied. "Well, I'll be going now. See you next
Sunday."

"Why next Sunday?" he asked sharply.

"Simply because you've lately acquired the excellent habit of calling on
that day."

"I'll not be there," he declared. "I have other fish to fry."

I took my leave, somewhat surprised. But three days later, as we were
taking our habitual Sabbatical refection of tea and biscuits, he
appeared again, bearing a box of what he calls the only chocolates in
New York fit to eat. But he came in a taxi, for he wouldn't be seen
carrying anything but his cane and gloves. For a second, as I looked at
him, he seemed slightly embarrassed, although I may have erred in so
thinking.

Frieda seized upon the chocolates, greedily. She is one of those dear
stout people, who assure you that they hardly ever eat anything and whom
one always finds endowed with a fine appetite.

"It's too bad about Baby Paul," she said. "He is yet too young to be
stuffed with sweets or amused with toys."

"I presume that a nursling is the only really normal human being,"
remarked Gordon. "He possesses but the most natural desires, has no
ambitions unconnected with feeding and sleeping, and expresses his
emotions without concealment. Affectation is foreign to him, and his
virtues and vices are still in abeyance."

"Paul," declared Frances, indignantly, "is extremely intelligent and has
no vices at all."

"I stand corrected, Mrs. Dupont. He is the exception, of course, and I
only spoke in general. Frieda, my dear, won't you be so obliging as to
open the piano and play something for us? I don't suppose it will awaken
the baby, will it?"

"He just loves music," asserted his mother. "When I play, he often opens
his eyes and listens quietly, ever so long. I know that it pleases him,
ever so much. His--oh! He must have music in his soul! How--how could it
be otherwise?"

Frieda hurried to the piano and opened it, after giving the stool a
couple of turns. She began with some Mendelssohn. Frances was holding
her baby in her arms, her wonderful head bent towards the little one,
with a curve of her neck so graceful that it fascinated me. Gordon was
also looking at her with a queer, eager look upon his features. He knew
as well as I that she had heard again some vibrant music of former days,
had felt the sound-waves that trembled in her own soul, and that, to
her, the child represented something issued from wondrous melodies, a
swan's song uplifted to the heavens and bearing with it the plaint of a
lost happiness.

"Oh! Frieda, some--something else," she cried. "I--I--Just play some
Chopin."


At once Frieda complied. Where on earth does the woman find the ability
to play as she does? She tells me that she hardly ever practises, and,
in my many visits to her, I have never chanced to find her at the piano,
though she possesses a very fair instrument. But I think I understand;
what I mistake for technique must chiefly be her wonderful sentiment and
the appreciation of beauty that overshadows some faults of execution.
Frieda's real dwelling place is in a heaven of her own making, that is
all beauty and color and harmony. From there come her painting and her
music, which evidently enter her being and flow out at the finger-tips.
I have always thought that if her color-tubes had not possessed such an
overwhelming attraction for her, she might have become one of the most
wonderful musicians of the world.

Gradually, Frances raised her head again, until it finally rested on the
back of the armchair, with the eyes half-closed under the spell of
Frieda's playing. By this time she had perhaps forgotten the memories
evoked by the "Songs Without Words," that had for a moment brought back
to her the masterful bow that had made her heart vibrate, for the first
time, with the tremulousness of a love being born. Chopin did not affect
her in the same way, and she was calm again. Frieda came to the end of
the "_Valse Brillante_" and took up the "_Berceuse_." Then the young
mother closed her eyes altogether. The melody brought rest to her, and
sweetness with a blessed peace of soul.

When I looked at Gordon, he was still staring, and by this time I
thought I knew the reason of his visits. Beyond a peradventure Frances
was the lodestone that attracted him. Did her wonderful features suggest
to him a new and greater picture? Was he ruminating over the plan of
some masterpiece and seeking inspiration from her? It seemed probable
indeed. When the idea comes to me for a novel, I am apt to moon about,
searching the recesses of my mind, digging in the depths of my
experience, staring into a vacancy peopled only by faint shadows that
begin to gather form and strength and, finally, I hope, some attributes
of humanity. At such times I often fail to recognize friends on the
street or, even, I may attempt to read books upside down. Is it possible
that Gordon suffers from similar limitations and needs to muse and toil
and delve before he can bring out the art that is in him?

Only yesterday I saw in the paper that he led a cotillon at the Van
Rossums. Moreover, at the Winter Exhibition I had the shock of my life.
I hurried there to see again the "Mother and Child," instead of which I
found his signature on the portrait of a railroad president. The papers
spoke of it as a wonderful painting, and one of them reproduced it. I
freely acknowledge that it deserves all the encomiums lavished upon it,
for it is a bold and earnest piece of work. But he has never done
anything like the picture of Frances.

I met him there and looked at him, questioningly. He understood me at
once.

"I'll get half the financial big guns now," he told me coolly, and left
me to greet a millionaire's bride.

I am not so foolish as to think he can be in love with Frances, and I
doubt very much whether he is in love with any one else, in spite of the
gossip that has reached me. No, he must simply be thinking of some great
composition with which he expects, in his own good time, to take the
world by storm. And yet, what if I should be mistaken? The mere idea
makes me feel very cold and uncomfortable, for no reason that I know of.

When he finally took his leave, he thanked Frieda for playing to us, and
said good-by to Frances as perfunctorily as he does everything else. We
began to clean up the teacups, and Frieda folded the frivolous little
tablecloth she has contributed to my outfit and put it away, while
Frances and I quarreled.

"I am not going," she said firmly.

"You are utterly mistaken," I insisted, "and you're a bold, mad,
rebellious creature. You will go at once and put on your best hat, and
your cloak, and dab powder on your nose, if it will make you happy, and
come along like a good child."

"But what is the use of my paying board to Mrs. Milliken and then having
you spend money for dinners at restaurants?" she objected.

"The use is obvious. It affords us the joy of permitting ourselves, once
in a blue moon, to behave like spendthrifts; it allows us to indulge in
the company of the young and ambitious, as well as of the old and
foolish. Moreover, an occasional change of diet was recommended by
Hippocrates. Who are you to rebel against the most ancient and
respectable medical authority, pray?"

"It is utterly wrong," she persisted. "I am always accepting your
kindnesses, and Frieda's, and there is nothing I can do in return,
and--and----"

She seemed to choke a little. Her voice came hoarse and muffled as ever,
and I fear that Dr. Porter's ministrations are doing her little, if any,
good.

"My dear Frances," said Frieda, "we both understand you, perfectly. It
is the most splendid thing for a woman to keep her self-respect and
refuse to be a drag upon her friends. But when she can give them
genuine pleasure by accepting a trifling thing like this, now and then,
she ought to be loath to deprive them. David says that the company
downstairs rather stifles his imagination, and he further alleges that
dining alone at Camus is a funereal pleasure. Now go and get ready.
There is plenty of time, and I'll come in and hook up your waist, if you
want me to."

So Frances ran away to her room, with Baby Paul on her arm. She often
rebels like this, yet generally succumbs to our wiles. The pair of us,
fortunately, is more than she can successfully contend against.

Frieda followed her to her room, and I rummaged among the Sunday papers,
finding the French daily. Frances likes to look at it and I h

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