VI
A LETTER PROM DOROTHEA
For a moment he hesitated whether to go down or up the street. Theair was biting, but the snow, fairly well cleaned from the sidewalks,no longer bothered; and, crossing into Madison Avenue, he turned downand began to walk rapidly toward that part of the city where therewould be few people and little glare, and as he walked unconsciouslyhe repeated over and over to himself: "Dorothea has just told me. Iam so sorry."
"Mister, please, sir, buy a paper?" He stopped abruptly. The boy infront of him stamped first one foot and then the other, and the handhe held out was rough and red. Drawing it back he blew on it for alittle warmth.
"What are you doing out this time of night?" Laine asked the questionhardly knowing why. "You ought to be home in bed."
"Ain't got no home." The boy laughed cheerfully, and again put hisfist to his mouth and blew upon it. "I'm sleepin' with another boythis week, but I have to pay him. Please buy a paper, Mister!"
Under his breath Laine caught himself saying something, then handedthe boy a piece of money and passed on. Where was he, anyhow?Surely he was in no mood for the life of this neighborhood. It wasone he had seldom been in, and as he looked at its houses dull wonderfilled him as to their occupants. To keep breath in their bodiesmeant sordid struggle and bitter strife, but possibly they werehappy. Certainly he had long since learned the possession of merematerial things did not mean happiness. He had long since learned agreat many things it was unfortunate to know.
A clock in the church near by struck ten, and turning he went overinto the Avenue and began his walk up-town. As he reached MadisonSquare he looked at the empty benches and wondered as to the fate ofthe derelicts who daily filled them in warm weather, and wondered ifthey, too, wondered what it was all for--this thing called life.
In contrast to the traffic of the day the stillness of the Avenue waspuzzling. Only the whir of an automobile or the occasional hoofbeatsof a cab-horse broke the silence, and hardly less dark than thetenements just passed were its handsome houses, with their closedshutters and drawn curtains, and the restless occupants therein. Ashe reached the Park he stopped, hesitated, and lighted a fresh cigar.Three squares away was his sister's house, and in it was the girlwith the fresh, clear voice. He took the note she had sent him outof his pocket, and in the light hanging just above him looked againat the firm, clear writing, then put it back. Did she, too, wonderat life, at its emptiness and aimlessness? Her voice did not soundas if she were tired of it or found it wearisome. It sounded like avery happy voice.
At his door he turned the latch-key, and for a moment--a baremoment--drew back; then, with a shiver, he opened the door and wentinside.
Moses was waiting. "Miss Dorothea she called me up, sir, and told meto be sure and give you this letter to-night. She slip out of bed totelephone when that French white lady was out the room, she say. Shehad her Ma send it by messenger, and she was so 'fraid you wouldn'tget it to-night she couldn't sleep. She sent a peck of love."
Laine took the letter and went to his room. Dorothea was given toletters, and if his absence was unduly long a communication to thateffect was promptly received. He had seen her last night, however.What was she wanting now? Breaking the seal, he read the sprawlywriting with narrowed eyes, then read again, that he might miss noword.
DEAR UNCLE WINTHROP,--Moses telefoned us and Channing and I have justcried and cried and cried. But I won't even call his name if youwill only come and let me kiss you so you will know. We wanted tosend you some flowers but Claudia said our love was best. She is sosorry too. She had one and it died last spring. I had a headaketo-day. It came from my heart because of you and she made it goaway. I think she could make most any kind of pain go away. And herhands are not red and her hair is brown and her lashes are brown too,and long and lovely. I don't know the color of her eyes. I thinkthey are glad color. I love her! I knew I would.
Your devoted niece, DOROTHEA.
P. S.--I told her you didn't like young ladies and she said shedidn't like old gentlemen, except a few. Please, P-L-E-A-S-E comeand see me--and you can come in the nursery if you don't want to seeher. She knows.
Your loving niece, DOROTHEA.
P. S. Again.--You ought to hear her laugh. Its delishus.
He put the letter back in the envelope, and the envelope in hispocket. "She knows," he repeated. What under heaven had Dorotheabeen telling her? He must see Dorothea and have it stopped. Did shethink him a feeble and infirm person who leaned on a stick, or acrabbed and cross one who had no manners? He would have to call, ifonly to thank her for her note. No. He would do that in writing.Next week, perhaps, he might drop in and see Dorothea. But Hope andChanning should take the girl about, show her the city. CertainlyHope could not be so idiotic as to let clothes matter. In hissister's world clothes were the insignia of its order, and of lateHope had shown signs that needed nipping. He must see Hope. Nextweek would be time enough, but Hope and Dorothea must both be seen.
The Man in Lonely Land Page 6
