Works of Robert W Chambers

by Robert W. Chambers

  “I think you had better leave the key with the janitor,” she said; then, thinking further along the same line: “or perhaps you had better hide it.”

  She stepped back into the hallway and looked all around; but no plausible hiding place presented itself. Then she gazed at him.

  “I might leave it with my neighbor, Mrs. Clancy,” he said with rare intelligence.

  “No,” she said with her pretty, fearless smile, “I will knock at your door and ask for it.”

  She was gone before he could rise again.

  When he had finished he washed the dishes and did it thoroughly, restoring each to its shelf. His remaining groceries and his own tinware he carried into his own habitation, came back and locked her door, and then, lighting his pipe, began to prowl about the corridors.

  Presently he fished out a pad and pencil, and, squatting down on the stairway, made some notes concerning the use of steel for doorsills and frames, and tiles or tassellated floors to replace the already worn and dirty planks of Southern pine.

  “First of all, plenty of ventilation,” he murmured. “Next, cleanliness; next, light.... I — I’ve a mind to complete the entire block — put up a big, square tower on that vacant lot — a big, clean, airy tower, ten stories — sixteen — twenty, by jingo!”

  He seized his pad with enthusiasm and drew a plan of the block which he owned with the present model tenements on it and showing the vacant lot:

  There were no windows giving on the vacant lot — nothing but blank brick walls.

  “That’s what I’ll do,” he thought. “I’ll have my own way for once. I’ll plan and design and build an absolutely beautiful and sanitary tower with a hundred rooms and two elevators in it, and Kerns can laugh if he wants to. What these people need is light and air — cheap light and cheap air. I’ll just go down and take a look at that lot.”

  He pocketed pad and pencil, seized his hat, and, locking his door on the outside, ran down the stairs.

  “You can’t go into that lot,” said the janitor. “No tenants ain’t allowed in there by orders of Mr. Kerns.”

  “Well, can’t I just look at it?”

  “No,” said the janitor. “An’ lemme tell you something else. If you an’ me is goin’ to gee you’d better do less buttin’ in an’ less runnin’ up an’ downstairs. You butt in an’ you run around like you was the Dutch Emp’ror. Say, what are you lookin’ for, anyhow? If you’re a spotter, say so; I ain’t worryin’. If you’re just loony you’re in the wrong hotel.”

  “But, my good fellow—”

  “Forget it!” retorted the janitor wrathfully. “Your good fellow! Look here, Percy, I ain’t your good fellow, nor I ain’t your dear old college chum, an’ no buttin’ in goes. See?”

  “I’m not attempting to offend you!” exclaimed Smith desperately.

  “That’s all right, too,” said the janitor unconvinced. “You seen me talkin’ to Miss Stevens an’ you make a play like you owned the buildin’. ‘Here, me good man,’ sez you, ‘fix this an’ fix that, an’ be d — d quick about it, too,’ sez you—”

  “I didn’t,” retorted Smith indignantly; “at least I didn’t mean to say—”

  “What you are,” interrupted the janitor deliberately, “God knows an’ I don’t. You may be makin’ phony stuff up there fur all I know.”

  “What’s phony stuff?” demanded Smith, getting hotter.

  “Look into the dictionary, Clarence,” retorted the janitor, and slammed the door of his office in Smith’s face.

  “That man,” thought Smith to himself, as he started up the stairs, “is a singularly impudent man, but he’s probably faithful enough. I shall not do anything about it. But I wish I could get into my vacant lot.”

  The remainder of the afternoon he spent drawing magnificently unbuildable plans for his tower.

  Then he pulled his chair out into the fire escape and sat there through the sunset hour and into the smoky June twilight.

  Suddenly, as he sat there, dreaming, a faint sound at his door brought him to his feet and into the room.

  “I beg your pardon,” he said. “I was out on the fire escape. Did you knock more than once?”

  “It doesn’t matter,” she said, smiling under the shadow of her big straw hat and taking her key from him.

  “I’m terribly sorry,” he repeated, “and I really am very grateful for letting me cook on your range—”

  “Is yours fixed yet?” she asked diffidently.

  “By George!” he said. “I’d forgotten that! But it doesn’t matter,” he added, determined to dine on the remainder of his rolls and milk, for he simply would not begin by running to a restaurant at the first mishap.

  She hesitated, not knowing whether again to offer her salt and fire; then, finding it too difficult, she said “Good night” in a low voice, and crossed the hallway to her own abode. And there she sat down, fair face tense, gaze concentrated on space, her big straw hat still on her head, her portfolio and papers in her lap.

  Minutes ticked away on the little nickel alarm clock. She pondered on, and, sometimes, her straight, delicate brows contracted, and, sometimes, her teeth worried the edge of her lower lip; and once she smiled and lifted her eyes as though she could see through her closed door into his room across the hall.

  After that she rose, made her toilet, cooked her own supper; and when, at length, the dishes had been laid away and her pretty hands rinsed, carefully examined, and soothed with glycerine and cream of almonds — luxuries she preferred to a varied menu — she laid a pile of yellow manuscript paper on her table, and, dipping her pen into the ink, began to scribble like mad. For, at last, her chance in life had come.

  Meanwhile, Smith, doggedly munching his buttered rolls, drank his milk and considered plans for doing good to his tenants without either injuring their self-respect or bankrupting himself.

  “Buy up block after block, cover ’em with handsome sanitary tenements, with a big, grassy court and a fountain in the middle — that’s the decent and self-respecting way to invest one’s surplus! That’s the only way a rich man can keep his own respect and administer his stewardship. I’d be ashamed to make any more money! I won’t! I’d be ashamed to keep what I have if I didn’t use the income to help somebody. Clean, airy, sunny homes — within the means of the poorest working people! It can be done without making it a charity. It’s got to be done. I’m going to build that tower — if my janitor ever lets me into the lot—”

  After he had completed his ablutions and was ready for bed he stood a moment at the open window looking out over the city.

  “That girl — she was very nice to me.... I’ve the oddest notion that I’ve seen her before... somewhere. Wonderfully — ah — decorative — her eyes — a graceful way of — er — moving.”

  He lay down on his bed and pulled up the sheet. A few minutes later he murmured drowsily: “Build handsome tower — spite of Kerns.... Nobody pay rent....’Strordinary eyes that girl... pretty blue — very blue for — a — a girl...’Strordinary rot I’m talking.... G’night, Smith;... night!”

  The next morning a pessimistic gasfitter repaired Smith’s range. That night it blew up again. Two days later it was again in commission, then remained quiescent for a week. After that the range worked fitfully, intimidating Smith until it had him so thoroughly cowed that he never attempted to light it except with the match inserted in the end of a broom handle. Between the range and the cookery he was almost famished.

  However, it was a matter of too little importance to disturb him in his purpose; the days were full days indeed, no matter how empty he went. Hour after hour he sat cramped over the table, drawing impossible plans and elevations for the completion of his model tenements. Hour after hour he tramped the hot streets in search of likely sites for further philanthropic operations.

  Almost every morning and evening he was sure to encounter his blue-eyed neighbor on the landing or stairs; and, after a while, he began to spend a few minutes of the day in lookin
g forward to these brief meetings.

  Matters were not going very well with his blue-eyed neighbor; but he didn’t know it. Her work, always precarious and dependent on the whims of several underpaid people, was not sufficient to keep her very well nourished during the hot months of midsummer. She defaulted on the July payment for her small piano, and they took it away. The little desk went later; an armchair followed.

  Alone in her room, palely considering the why and wherefore of the disagreeable, she invariably almost fell a prey to temptation; but, so far, the victory had remained with her. Temptation came when somebody refused her work or when somebody removed an article of furniture for nonpayment of the installment due, and the temptation confronted her in the shape of a packet of yellow manuscript.

  She was the author of the manuscript; it lay in a drawer of her table.

  Sometimes, when they frightened her by giving her no work or by lugging off a chair, she would sit down, white and desperate, and take out her manuscript and read it through.

  She knew where she could place it in an hour. She had been promised a permanent position on the strength of just such work. It was well done, of its sort. It fairly bristled with double-leaded headlines; it was yellow enough for the yellowest — a

  “beat,” a “scoop,” a story that would be copied in every newspaper of the country. The title of it was “A Millionaire in Disguise.” The subject, Smith. She had only to show it to the city editor who had promised to take her on the first time she displayed any ability. All she had to do was to tuck the yellow sheets under her arm and start downtown, and that would end all this removing of furniture and scarcity of foodstuffs — all this sleeplessness, this perplexed dismay — all these heavy-hearted journeys to the offices of the fashion papers where sometimes she was paid for her articles on domestic affairs and sometimes not.

  After these experiences she usually returned to the temptation of her yellow manuscript, read it through, wept a little, cast it from her into the table drawer once more, and buried her face in her slim hands. Later, she usually dried her eyes, hurriedly gathered up her papers and portfolio, and, locking the door on the outside, descended to the cellar.

  In this profound crypt a small iron door and a few stone steps ascending permitted her access to the vacant lot which the janitor had forbidden Smith to enter. And here she was accustomed to sit in the long, rank grass under a big ailantus tree, writing for the fashion papers, to which she contributed such predigested pabulum as the weak-minded might assimilate. In this manner she paid for lodging, board, and almond cream.

  Meanwhile, she was growing shyer and more formal with Smith when they chanced to meet on stairs or landing. Beginning with the politely pleasant exchange of a few words concerning the initial episode which had excused their acquaintance, they had ventured on a little laughter at his expense — a shade less of the impersonal. But, little by little, the pretty, fearless gaze which he found so attractive changed to something more reserved and far less expressive. Her laughter, always edging lips and eyes, her untroubled voice, with its winningly careless sweetness, changed, too. He noticed this. Sometimes he wondered whether she was quite well. He had been aware from the first that she did not belong in her surroundings any more than did he, and at times he speculated on the subject, wondering what crumbling of her social and financial fabric had landed her here on her own resources, stranded along the outer edges of things.

  One scorching day he had been drawing an elevation for his tower, which partook impartially of the worst in both Manhattan, Gothic, and Chinese architecture — a new crinkle in his theory being that the poor had a right to the best in art, and that they should have it in spite of Kerns. For an hour he had been trying to estimate the cost of such a masterpiece, and had grown cross and discouraged in the effort.

  July was fast going. August already had been discounted by the monthly magazines; he had purchased one which contained an article on concrete construction, and, tired of his sweltering room, he put on his hat, pocketed the magazine, and went out to seek a bit of shade in Central Park.

  As he passed his neighbor’s door he glanced at it a trifle wistfully. He had not seen her now for nearly a week. He actually missed her, even though now she seldom seemed to have the leisure or inclination to chat with him.

  The last time, he reflected, that they had exchanged a dozen words, he had, lured by her receptively intelligent attitude, drifted into an almost enthusiastic dissertation upon model lodgings for the poor. He had kept her standing before her door for almost half an hour while he, forgetting everything except the subject and the acquiescence of his audience, had aired his theories with a warmth and brilliancy which, later, it slightly astonished him to remember.

  Since that they had exchanged scarcely a word. And now, as he passed her door, he looked wistfully at it, thinking of his slender neighbor.

  And, thinking of her, he descended the stairs, and, still immersed in this agreeable reverie, he did not notice that he had passed the ground floor and was descending the cellar stairs, until he came to in front of an iron door. This seemed unfamiliar. He took out his handkerchief to rub his glasses, looked around at the furnaces and coal bins, passed his hand over his eyes, replaced the glasses, gazed at the iron door which was partly ajar, and caught a glimpse of green grass outside.

  “I’ll bet that’s my vacant lot,” he said aloud, and, opening the door, he ascended the stone steps into his own property.

  There was green grass everywhere; south and west a high board fence; north and east the brick, windowless, rearward cliffs of the tenements; in the middle of the lot an ailantus tree in full foliage.

  And, under it, a young girl lying in the grass, her wide straw hat hanging from a leafy branch above. Even before he stirred in his tracks she sat up, instinctively looking across the grass at him. It was his duty to make his excuses and go. But, for almost the first time in his life, he deliberately neglected duty.

  “So this is where you come every day to work out of doors!” he exclaimed, smiling, as he halted beside her where she remained, seated in the grass, looking up at him.

  There was color in her face and in his, too. He had had absolutely no idea how pleasant it could be to meet his neighbor again after so many days — seven in number — but a great many all the same.

  Then he told her, laughingly, how he came to discover the cellar door that led to Paradise. “Paradise,” he repeated; “for, you see, the Tree of Ten Thousand Dreams is here. Did you know that the ailantus tree is the Chinese Tree of Paradise — the fabled Tree of Dreams? Have you never heard of the Feng-Shui? Dragons live deep in the earth among the tree roots. You didn’t know that, did you?”

  “No,” he said, smiling, “I didn’t know that.”

  He looked at her. Her manner was not very cordial, and he decided not to ask permission to seat himself just yet. But he had nothing in particular to say to her and he was very anxious to say it.

  “The Fung-Hwang also perches in the branches of the Dream Tree,” he continued, for lack of a better topic; “it’s an imperial as well as a celestial tree. Are you interested in Chinese mythology? If you are not, it’s all right, because I am interested in anything you like.”

  She looked up at the foliage above her. “It is a curious tree,” she said. “In early June these branches were full of great olive and rose-colored moths, enormous ones, flopping about at sunset like big, soft bats. In the daytime they hang to the leaves and bark, wings wide — such beautiful, such miraculous wings — set with silvery quarter-moons!”

  She raised both hands to the nape of her neck to smooth and secure her hair — a most fascinating gesture, he thought, watching her seated there in the grass, slim and graceful as the lovely lotus-bearing goddess, Kwan-Yin.

  “Silvery quarter-moons,” she repeated, “and now, look! The silver has changed into metal pendants!” She pointed upward where, among the foliage, shining, white cocoons swung from silk-wound stems, each wrapped in its single gr
een leaf.

  “Wonderful fairy fruit your Tree of Dreams bears!” he said. “And how thickly it hangs! I don’t know much about such things. I was inclined to be fond of all that until I read some modern nature books. So I fell back on real myths again.”

  She began to laugh and, meeting in her eyes all the old-time friendliness, he ventured to ask if he might seat himself.

  “Yes,” she said gravely, “but I must be going.”

  “Then I don’t care to stay here,” he said, unprepared to hear himself utter any such sentiment. His astonishment at himself overcame even the reaction which turned his face red. She, too, surprised, looked at him unconvinced.

  “What have I to do with it?” she inquired.

  “The fact is,” he said impressively, as though the intelligence were well worth sharing with her, “I have been rather lonely.”

  “Have you?” she asked, wide-eyed. “So have I. But I usually am.”

  “I wish you had said so!”

  “How could I? And to whom?”

  They said nothing more for a while. The sunlight, filtering through the Tree of Dreams, glimmered on her hair. Her eyes, darker in the shadow, dwelt tranquilly upon the waste of thick, tall grass which the languid breezes furrowed now and then.

  “Do you mind my offering you my friendship?” he asked at length; “for that’s what I’m doing.”

  “No, I don’t mind,” she replied listlessly. “Other men have done that.”

  “Will you accept — this time?”

  “Shall I?” she asked, raising her clear eyes. “Shall I? I have been here two years — and I have made no friends.”

  She folded her unringed hands on her knees, examined them with calm inattention, and said: “After a while, I suppose, a girl becomes partly stupefied under the strain of it all — the tension of self-respecting silence. Two years of self-suppression! Even pickpockets receive a sentence more humane. Shall I try your remedy?”

  “It would be very jolly to see each other, now and then,” he said, so pleasantly that she smiled at his simplicity.