A Top-Floor Idyl

by George Van Schaick

  CHAPTER XXIII

  THE REPAIR OF A BROKEN STRAND

  We sat there for some long minutes, in silence. Gordon was thinkingdeeply. His expression, the abandonment shown in the looseness of hislimbs and the falling forward of his head, were instinct with somethingthat represented to me a forgetting of pose and calculated conduct.

  "I've seen so much suffering," he suddenly said. "That sort of thingeither hardens a man into stone or softens his heart till he can cry outin hatred of the idea of inflicting pain that can be spared."

  I made no answer. It was best to chance no interruption of his mood. Mythoughts were of the meeting that would take place in a few minutes.Indeed, I felt that I ought not to be there, that my presence mighthinder some cry of the heart, words a woman's soul might dictate. But Iwas compelled to remain, since Gordon wished me to. He was now like achild needing the comfort of a friendly hand before entering a place ofdarkness. But I would seize the first opportunity of leaving them alone.At any rate, I could cross the long studio and go into the next room, ifneeded.

  Then the bell rang. I think it startled Gordon. The old woman went tothe door, and we heard the girl asking for Mr. McGrath, in her pleasantand assured voice. I rose to meet her, lifting one of the portieres toone side.

  She looked at me, slightly surprised, but put out her hand, smilingrather vaguely, her eyes belying the calmness of her voice, hermovements showing slight nervousness. Gordon was standing. I expectedhim to come forward, but he remained where he was, rather helplessly,and she stepped forward toward him, swiftly.

  "Hello, Gordon!" she exclaimed. "I'm so glad to see you again. What abad boy you've been not to write to me! That--that only letter of yoursimplied that you gave me back my freedom, and so I suppose I am atliberty to consider myself as a little sister--or a pretty big one, andgreet you as one."

  With a swift motion of her hand she pushed up the tiny transparent veilshe wore, put her hands on his shoulders and kissed him, quickly, as ifhe really had been a brother she was delighted to see again. Then shesat down on the stool he had used to put his palette and tubes on andturned to me.

  "It isn't very conventional, Mr. Cole," she said, with a little laughthat sounded forced. "Gordon and I have already kissed one another a fewtimes. Once more will make no difference. I have done nothing to preventhim from at least continuing to consider me as a good friend, perhaps asthe sister I've been playing at. Of course we'll have to give it up,now, because--because people can't keep on playing all the time and--andothers wouldn't understand. I don't mind you, because you wrote thatwonderful book and--and you seem to know so many things."

  Then she turned to him again.

  "Now tell me about yourself, Gordon," she said pleasantly, folding herhands upon her lap.

  He had remained standing. An instinct of shyness, something like thehumiliation of the man imperfectly clad or conscious of an ugly blemish,made him keep his right arm behind him.

  "There--there's not much to tell," he began, rather haltingly, though hesoon regained control. "I've come back because I could no longer be anygood over there and--and because I became hungry for a sight of oldthings--and of old friends, I suppose. You--you're awfully kind,you--you've always been a splendid woman--a proud one, too, but now youcome here and put out your hand in friendship to--to a fellow who hasbehaved rottenly to you. No, don't say anything! Dave used that word. Hesometimes speaks to the point. I'll tell you everything. It will hurtyou, I'm afraid, as it hurts me, but I've got to do it and I will begyour pardon afterwards. It was all a plan on my part, at first. You werea wonderful, gorgeous creature, one to whom any man would be attracted,and I thought you would make a grand wife and a great stepping-stone tothe ambitions that filled my stupid head. And then, somehow, these allwent by the board, and a passion came to me--yes, a passion like theweek's or the month's insanity that comes to some, for another woman.She is a good woman and a very beautiful one also, the sort of womanwho, like yourself, deserves the best and noblest in the man whose loveshe may return. And she refused me, quickly, sharply, with just a wordor two. I think she also thought I was insane; I remember that shelooked frightened. And then I wrote to you, a beastly letter. I tore upa score of them and sent the worst, I'm afraid. Then I took the steamerand went off to drive up and down those roads. It--it has, perhaps, beengood for me, for I've seen how little a man himself amounts to, and howgreat and noble his heart and soul may be. And that passion passed away,so that I no longer thought of her, but always I grew hot and angry atmyself, when I remembered you. I've seen you before me a good manytimes, yes, even in that hospital they took me to, a few weeks ago,during the nights when I couldn't sleep. It was a great vision of a finewoman, big-hearted and strong, too good for such a cad as I. No, don'tinterrupt! I felt that it was fortunate for you, the best thing thatever happened, that I had shown myself to you under my true colors andsaved you--saved you from marrying me. That madness has gone long ago,and there's no trace of it left in me, I swear, but I'm the sameimpossible Gordon, I daresay, except for that missing hand."

  He slowly brought the maimed limb forward, but she never looked at it.Her eyes were upon his, very shiny with unshed tears.

  "Yes, the same old Gordon, with perhaps a little of his silly pose gone,with a realization of his uselessness and worthlessness. And now Ihumbly beg your pardon, Sophia--I mean Miss Van Rossum, for I haveforfeited every title to your forbearance--I no longer deserve it.And--and now I stand before you with my soul naked and ashamed, and--andDave will see you to the door, for--for he's a good man, fit to touchany woman's hand!"

  His legs seemed to weaken under him. His left hand sought thewindow-ledge behind him, and he sank on the seat beneath. She rose fromthe stool and went to him, sitting down at his side, and put her hand onhis right arm.

  "You have been very unhappy, Gordon," she said gently. "I am not surethat you have the right perspective as yet, and I don't see in all thisanything to prevent our remaining good friends. We've had so many of thegood things of life, you and I, and, perhaps, it is good for one to payfor them with a little sorrow. It may prevent one from getting tooconceited. And you're so much better off than if this--this hurt hadcome just in wrecking a motor, or in being stepped on by a polo pony,because you will always realize that it happened while you were givingthe best of yourself towards helping others, towards doing big things.And perhaps, some day, you might be able to paint again. They--they makesuch wonderful artificial things, I have heard, with aluminum and--andstuff that's ever so light. It might take you a whole year of practicebefore you could do anything; but what is a year when one's heart isn'ttoo sad and weary. Even if you can't draw as well as you used to, youcould take to landscapes, done broadly and strongly. There is no one whocan mass colors and produce such effects as you are able to find. Whenyou get confidence, I know you will be able to draw also, ever so well,and, perhaps, for your first trial, you will let me come and sit hereand we'll chat together as we used to, and you'll paint again."

  "Never!" he exclaimed.

  "Oh, yes, sometime, I'm sure, when you feel better, Gordon, because youwill forgive yourself after a time. That's so much harder for a man todo than to obtain the pardon of a woman! If you really think you wantmine, it is yours, with all my heart, and----"

  But she stopped, looking at him wistfully, her long lashes wet, hervoice faintly tremulous. I knew that she would have granted him not onlythe pardon he had sued for, but also her strong and noble self, if hehad begged for it.

  He probably forgot his missing hand, for he swept the silk-wrapped thingacross his eyes.

  "You must think again, Sophia," he said very slowly. "You can't reallymean it. Do you indeed feel that you can forgive me? Is it true that inyour heart there is such charity?"

  "It--I don't think it's charity, Gordon. I--I'm afraid it's somethingmore than that. Perhaps you don't know as much as you think aboutwomen's hearts. Ask our friend David, here, he has looked into them verywisely, or he couldn't have written 'Land o' Love
.' And now I think Imust be going away. You mustn't use that word charity again, it is onethat hurts just the least little bit. It's so dreadfully inexpressive,you know! And--and you'll write to me when you want me, won't you?"

  "I want you now!" he cried. "I'd give the last drop of my blood for ashred of hope, for the knowledge that things might again, some day----"

  "One moment, Gordon dear," she said, smiling through her tears, andlooked into a tiny gold-meshed bag from which she pulled out a ring witha glistening stone. "I have always kept it. Do you mean that you wouldlike me to put it on again?"

  "Do, for the love of God!" he cried.

  "Yes, and of dear old Gordon," she consented gently.

  So I rose, quickly, with something very big and uncomfortable in mythroat, and looked at my watch.

  "I must run," I said. "I am ever so late. I'll come in again to-morrow,Gordon! God bless you both!"

  I only heard, confusedly, the word or two with which they sought todetain me, but I ran away.

  She had said that I knew women's hearts. God forgive her! What man onearth can penetrate such things, can ever gauge the depths of them, seeall the wondrous beauty that may hide in them and blossom forth, full ofawe and wonder. Every one must worship something, if it be but an idea,and my reverence goes out to the woman who exalts, to the mother of men,to the consoler, for, when she is at her highest and best, she becomesan object of veneration among such earthly things as we may bend a kneeto.

  The man had remained strong in his abasement, and the woman had seen it.She had been unembarrassed by my presence. Hers was the strength thatspurns all pettiness. She knew that I loved Gordon and was assured of myregard for herself. If in her words there had been renunciation and thecasting away of wounded pride, if in them there had been the surging ofthe great love that had long filled her heart, the whole world waswelcome to hear them and to behold her while she gave her troth againinto the man's keeping. She had risen above the smallness ofrecrimination, and, with a gesture, had swept away the past since in itthere was nothing really shameful, nothing that could soil her erminecoat of fair and clean womanhood. Her faith in the man had returned,and, with it, the confidence born of her instinctive knowledge of a purewoman's mastery over men. She knew that Gordon had beheld those visionsof hell that strengthen a man's dire need of heaven, and so, in allsimplicity and with the wondrous openhandedness of a Ceres sowing abroada world's supply of germinating seed, she had cast the treasure ofherself before him.

  I jumped into a taxi and drove over to the little apartment where BabyPaul was to lie motherless for a few days. I rang the bell and heardEulalie's heavy steps, hurrying to the door.

  "Oh!" she exclaimed. "I am so glad you have come, but I was hoping itwas Monsieur the doctor!"

  Whereat I rushed in, filled with alarm.

  CHAPTER XXIV

  "THE MOTHER AND CHILD"

  Little Paul, as I immediately saw as soon as I looked at him, was veryill. He had, of late, always shown pleasure at my coming; he had babbledof simple things and of mysteries; his little arms spontaneously came tome and I would take him in my arms and get moist kisses from his tinylips and dandle him and share in his ecstasies over woolly lambs.

  Porter came in a few minutes later and declared the trouble to be abeginning of measles. Eulalie acknowledged that, a week or ten daysbefore, Baby Paul had come in contact with a blotchy infant in the Park.She had snatched him up and carried him away, after which she hadthought no more about it. We sent at once for a trained nurse, whomEulalie at first considered as an intruder with evil intentions, butwhose gentle ministrations soon won her heart.

  "Am I to send immediately for Mrs. Dupont?" I asked the doctor.

  "It doesn't look like a very severe case," he answered, "but it might bebetter to communicate with her."

  A few minutes later I had Frances on the long-distance telephone,greatest of marvels. I stood in her little hallway in New York, and overin Buffalo, a half a thousand miles away or so, I heard her dear voicebecoming excited and tremulous.

  "I simply must sing to-night," she was saying, "but from theconcert-hall I will rush to the station and take the train. No, don'ttake the trouble to meet me, David dear, for I'll jump in a taxi andcome ever so quick, but you can be at the apartment, if you like. No, Ican't tell you the exact time, but it will be the first train aftereleven o'clock. You can look in the time table and find out when itreaches New York. Thank you a thousand times, David dear!"

  When I announced my intention of remaining all night at the flat,Eulalie gave a clamorous sigh of relief. She proposed to make a bed forme on the sofa. She regretted that she had but a much worn pair of herslippers she could offer me, vast pedic recipients she brought meapologetically and which I felt compelled to decline. She insisted Ishould use a rug to wrap around my legs, because that woman in the cappersisted in leaving the window open. She wanted to know what she couldprepare for my supper?

  At last, she left me in peace and the long night began. Sleep! It wasimpossible to think of such a thing. The room was kept very dark becauseMiss Follansbee explained that children's eyes were very sensitiveduring the measles, and easily inflamed. For many hours, from the sofaon which I sat, I watched this stranger, gradually realizing how capableand attentive she was. Porter came in again at twelve and remained for along time with me, uttering words of encouragement. Yes, he informed me,children sometimes died of the measles, generally when it becamecomplicated with pneumonia, but, with good care, the great majorityrecovered. There was nothing alarming, so far. The fever would probablyfall a little as soon as the eruption had come out in full force.

  He drives a little car now and, I am glad to say, is prospering. I thinkhe cast his bread upon the waters when he was so kind to Frances. Ather words of advice, a number of singers have consulted him, and he isdoing well. Of course she paid the very moderate fees he asked and toldhim, as she has told me, that she would ever be his debtor.

  So he went away again, after putting a comforting hand on my shoulder,and the hours went slowly by in the dimly lighted room, my thoughtsgoing constantly to the mother who was now speeding towards us. Iremember hoping that she would be able to sleep a little on the train.To me the hours were long, but, at least, I was near and fairlyreassured; to her, in deep anxiety, they must be agonizing.

  It is possible that in the wee small hours I dozed a little, though Inever reclined on the sofa. At any rate Miss Follansbee assured me thatI had a few catnaps. At last the light began to return; carts and autosbegan to pass through the busy street; men and women were going by,hurriedly, seeking the day's work. Eulalie gave me some breakfast, withmuch strong and delicious coffee, and Miss Follansbee awaited the comingof Dr. Porter before retiring for a few hours of rest. He told me thathe was quite satisfied, but I looked at him incredulously, for thebaby's face was of an appalling hue. He insisted that it was all in thegame and would last but for a few days. He promised to return early inthe afternoon and, after he left, Miss Follansbee gave me manydirections and strict injunctions, after which she went to the room thathad been prepared for her, enjoining me to call her if there was theslightest need.

  The shades were lowered and the room kept dark. I sat by the littlecrib, thinking and watching, and the baby's harsh little coughdistressed me badly, for I dearly loved him.

  So the morning wore on and I rose often and looked out of the window, asif, by some miracle, the train could have come in ahead of scheduletime. Baby Paul began to moan, and I hastened back to him. He stretchedhis little arms out to me, being, perhaps, weary of the hot bed. At anyrate he cried to have me take him up, so that I wrapped him in thelittle blanket and lifted him out. In my arms he rested quietly againand fell asleep, so that I dared not move.

  Then I heard the key in the latch, in the hallway outside, and sherushed in, casting her hat upon the bed. A second later she waskneeling at my side, weeping and yet glad, glad that he was living, gladto be again near him. And I dared only whisper a word of welcome to her,lest
he might awaken. But soon he opened his eyes, that were very red,and blinked in the faint light, and wanted her.

  So he was taken from my arms into hers, and she sat with him in arocking chair. For some minutes I stood up before her, in my clumsy way,looking at her. I could do so to my heart's content, for her eyes wereonly for Baby Paul. She rocked him, gently, and her wonderful voicecame, sweet and low like the murmur of brooks, the distant song ofbirds, the sighing of aspens in a summer night's scented breeze. And sothe baby slept again, secure and comforted in her dear arms.

  Then she looked at me, and a smile came to her face. It is possible thather quick glance detected some slight rumpling of collar and tie, orsome disorder of hair I had last brushed the day before.

  "David dear, have you been up all night with him?" she asked.

  "Yes, but Miss Follansbee took care of him. I knew I would be perfectlyuseless, but then, Baby Paul is Baby Paul, you see, and--and any one hasthe right to love a baby. You don't object to that, I'm sure, you--youlike to have me love him, don't you?"

  "I just love to see you so fond of him, Dave," she answered.

  "Yes, I felt that you did. And that's why I stayed, because I knew youwouldn't mind. And now I'll go away and--and come back early thisevening to find out how you both are and--and I won't bother you. You'lltell me if I do, won't you?"

  "Of course, Dave, as soon as you grow troublesome, I'll let you know. Iwill tell you, when I become tired of you. Oh, Dave dear! You're thekindest and most lovable creature in the world, and--and it's a joy anda blessing to have you near!"

  "I'm awfully glad," I told her, "because when I can't see you and BabyPaul, life isn't--it isn't much of a pleasure, you know. And so I'll gooff now and have a bath and fix up a little and then----"

  "Then you ought to lie down and have a good nap, because you need arest, and don't come back too soon or I'll know you have beendisobedient, Dave."

  She was smiling at me, and yet there was a tear hanging on her longlashes. Surely, the emotion of that summoning and of the hurried anxiousjourney had been hard upon her.

  So I went out, just as Frieda came bustling in, monstrously alarmed andimmediately made happy by the knowledge that there was, as yet, nodanger, and I went home where I met Mrs. Milliken on the doorstep.

  "How d'ye do, Mr. Cole," she said. "You look a bit played out and yourbed ain't been slept in. At your time o' life you want to take more careof your health. I wanted to say something as I ain't told any one yet.I'm goin' to give up the house soon. My uncle Ambrose he died and hasleft me a little money, so I'm going to be a lady of leisure now andlive with my daughter."

  "I wish you joy, Mrs. Milliken. You deserve a rest from your hardtoiling."

  I left her and climbed up to my room. It seems that I shall have to giveit up soon. Yet it is the only little corner of the earth I am attachedto. Where shall I go?

  The room opposite is vacant still. I have been paying rent for it sinceFrances left, being unable to bear the idea of its being occupied by--byany one else. Besides, I can go in there when I want to and sit in thearmchair and indulge in memories of the days when I saw her so often. Ididn't know I was so happy then, but I realize it now, with no feelingsof regret, because I know her life is so much fuller and happier nowthat she is in a world no longer of sadness and anxious care.

  And so I saw Frances and Baby Paul every day for another week, and hegot along so well that it was a joy to watch his constant improvement.Mrs. Gobbins, over by the little lake, answered a letter of mine, sayingthat she would be delighted to have Mrs. Dupont there, and the baby, foras long a time as she cared to stay. Porter had recommended a littlecountry air.

  It was heartbreaking to say good-by. I had meant to go with them, atleast for a day, but at the last minute Ceballo insisted I must attendthe first rehearsal of the "Land o' Love," a play in four acts. So Iwent to the theatre, but for the life of me could take little interestin what went on. I returned home with a dreadful headache, and the nextmorning my throat was sore and my limbs ached. When Mrs. Milliken cameup to attend to the room, she found me still in bed and insisted onsending for Dr. Porter at once.

  "Hello! I'm afraid you'll have to go to the babies' ward," he told me,after a glance.

  "What the deuce do you mean?" I said. "I'm as sick as a dog."

  "I know you are and I beg your pardon, old man."

  "What is it?" I asked him.

  "Baby Paul has given you the measles," he answered.

  "Nonsense, grown people don't get that."

  "They sometimes do," he assured me, after which he prescribed somemedicine and spent several hours with me, that day, while Ianathematized my luck and felt properly ashamed of my infantilecomplaint. After this a bad cough came, followed by a pain in my chest,and the medicine put me asleep, I think, for I woke up to find Frieda onone side of me and a nurse on the other. It was Miss Follansbee, who hadlooked after Baby Paul, and Frieda had gone off and haled her back,bodily. It was only afterwards that I knew my measles were complicatedwith pneumonia.

  There was a week that was a sort of nightmare, I think, because for daysI didn't know very much, and tossed about, and felt that pain in my sidemost of the time, and struggled unavailingly for a decent long breaththat wouldn't hurt. One day a strange doctor came in with Dr. Porter.

  Later, arrived a morning when I felt ever so well and Miss Follansbeewas dozing a little in her chair, looking very weary, and the breathingwas no longer painful and Porter came in and capered about the room andFrieda smeared her cheeks with the rubbing in of tears of joy. I supposeI must have been rather badly off during some of those days.

  Then came the evening and with it a queer notion that visions andstrange dreams were coming back to me, for through the open door theresounded a footfall I had been hearing vaguely and longing for. Suddenly,Frances rushed in and was kneeling by my bed.

  "Oh, Dave dearest!" she cried, "You wicked, wicked man! They tell methat you forbade them to let me know for fear I would bring Baby backbefore he was all well! I'll never forgive you!"

  As a proof of her anger, I suppose, she had taken up my thin bony handand was kissing it.

  "Please, please don't," I whispered hoarsely. "You--you'll get it too,first thing you know, and it's bad when it gets on one's lungs. Youmight lose that beautiful dear voice of yours again."

  But she rose, shaking her head at me like a mother who feels that herboy is incorrigible, and dragged a chair by the bed and put her fingerto her lips when I would have spoken again, and laid her soft hand onmine, whereupon sleep came, dreamless and beautiful.

  During the night a hand gave me water, once or twice, and milk, I think,and I slept again and, when I awoke in the morning, I turned my head.

  "Miss Follansbee," I said, "I rather think----"

  "I told her that she must have a good night's sleep, Dave," came thebeloved voice, "and I've been playing nurse, ever so poorly, I'm afraid.But Dr. Porter said that you would be all right now. And--and I've beenso happy to be in the dear old room, and to see the old typewriter, andthe calabash, and to know you are getting well again."

  "I--I am thrice blessed," I said, "but it is too bad you took so muchtrouble. You must be dreadfully tired."

  "I've been tired so long, Dave," she said, with tears coming to hereyes. "It--it has been such weary waiting."

  "The nights are awfully long," I told her.

  "The nights and the days, David dearest. I've been waiting such a long,long time."

  She threw herself on her knees by the bed, and took up my hand, strokingit, and suddenly an amazing light seemed to flood the room, laden withknowledge, sweeping away fears, bringing a tremulous bliss to my heart.

  "Dearest love!" I cried. "Is this true, or is it another dream? Howcould I speak of my love to you? How could old Dave cry out to thebeautiful star that was so high up in the wonderful sky? I feared itwould vanish and leave me in utter darkness. Do--do you mean that I maytell you of my heart's desire?"

  "Yes, David deare
st! Tell me of it. Tell it forever, for years and yearsto come. I've been so hungry for those words you dared not tell."

  "I--I am all unshaven and unshorn," I said, "and----"

  "But in spite of that, you're my own dearest Dave, with the strength ofa man and the heart of a child."

  So she bent over and her dear lips touched mine, and the days of sorrowwere ended.

  * * * * *

  Some days later she took my arm. It was my first walk. I was to go asfar as the room that had been hers and back again. For this tremendousexcursion I was clad in a gorgeous dressing-gown Frieda had bought forme, and my cheeks were shaven clean and, somehow, I felt young again, asif the dear hand in mine had brushed away a score of years.

  So I went with her, leaning upon her. She opened the door and led me in.Frieda was there, and Gordon and Sophia. Near the window there was aneasel, and upon it I saw Gordon's masterpiece, which they had sent withtheir love. And the painted "Mother and Child" was mine, as the livingones also were.