A Top-Floor Idyl

by George Van Schaick

  CHAPTER XI

  GORDON VACILLATES

  It behooved me to waste no time and, as soon as I was ready, I brieflyconferred with Frances, telling her that Gordon would probably be veryglad to employ her for a short time that would tide over the intervalbefore Felicie would be ready to resume business at the old stand. Shelooked at me, rather uncertainly, as if the suggestion were notaltogether a pleasing one. At any rate a tiny wrinkle or two showed foran instant between her brows.

  "Don't you think it is a good idea?" I asked her.

  "I--I suppose it is," she answered slowly, and then, impulsively, puther hand on my arm.

  "Of course it is, you dear good friend," she declared. "I am ready to gothere as soon as he may want me. He--he has been so friendly, of late,bringing us candies and flowers, and chatting with us, that--that itwill seem a little bit harder, but, of course, it will be just the sameas before, and he will think of nothing but his painting."

  "I will go and see him at once," I told her, "I may find that he is busywith a portrait and has no time for other work, but I might as well goand ascertain."

  I was being shot up the elevator towards Gordon's studio when I suddenlyremembered that letter at the consul's. I must confess that it hadaltogether escaped my memory. I consoled myself with the idea that myinterview with Gordon would be brief, and that I should immediatelyreturn and tell Frances about it. Perhaps she would allow me to godowntown with her to obtain it. She must not go alone, of course, sinceshe would open the thing there and then. I could imagine her in thatoffice, among indifferent people, weeping and without a friend to takeher arm and lead her out, with not a word of consolation andencouragement. Yes, I would go with her!

  "Hey, Mister! Didn't you say the tenth floor?"

  Thus did the elevator boy interrupt my cogitations; but for him I mighthave kept on going up and down a dozen times, so busily was I engagedin picturing to myself the emotions of Frances when she should receivethat letter. I got out of the cage, hurriedly, and rang Gordon's bell,the Jap opening with a polite grin of recognition.

  "Can I go into the studio?" I asked. "Is Mr. McGrath engaged?"

  "No, sir, but I tell him."

  The man went in, after taking my hat and coat, and Gordon rushed out tomeet me.

  "Hello, Dave!" he greeted me. "When you rang the bell, I thought it wasLorimer--the Lorimer. He told me last night at the Van Rossums that hewould drop in and see me."

  "You are certainly making good headway among the millionaires," I toldhim.

  "They're the fellows I'm gunning for," he answered quietly.

  "Look here, Gordon," I began at once. "Frances Dupont is out of a job.Fire in the shanty next door, and her employer has been flooded out. Youwere saying something about wishing to--"

  "Yes, I know I was," he replied, staring vaguely at the floor. "I--I'llhave to think about it."

  "I suppose you have some other pressing work on hand."

  He made no answer, going up to the humidor on the mantel and selecting acigar, which he lighted very deliberately.

  "Have one?" he asked me.

  "No, thanks," I declined. "I'll help myself to a cigarette. One of thoseperfectos so early in the morning would set my head whirling."

  He looked at me, twirling his fine moustache, without appearing to seeme, and began pacing up and down the wonderful silk rug on the floor,his cigar in his mouth and his hands deep in his trousers pockets.

  "I'll tell you, Dave," he began, but was interrupted by another ring atthe bell. A moment later Mr. Lorimer was admitted, a big man with aleonine head, strong and rather coarse features and eyes like Toledoblades, who spoke slowly, weighing his words.

  "Good morning, Mr. McGrath," he said. "I shall be obliged, if you willshow me some of your work."

  "I want to introduce my friend, David Cole," said Gordon; "he's a writerof charming novels."

  "Always glad to meet any one who can do things, Mr. Cole," said the bigman, putting out his hand. "What have you written?"

  Gordon at once came to my rescue, mentioning two or three titles of mybooks.

  "'The First Million'! You wrote that, did you? Read it on my way toEurope, three years ago. You're a clever man, Mr. Cole, but it was amistake on your part to make a millionaire sympathetic and refined.Didn't make much out of the book, did you?"

  "It only sold about four thousand," I acknowledged.

  "Thought so. That fellow Lorgan was neither fish, flesh, fowl or goodred herring. In a novel, a very rich man should be made bearable byfoolishly giving away huge sums of money, or else unbearable in order toshow the contrast offered by the poor, but honest, hero. That's what thepublic wants, I should judge. As a simple human being a magnate isimpossible in modern fiction."

  "My friend Gordon works from the model and sticks to it," I ventured. "Ihave been silly enough to depend altogether on my imagination, Mr.Lorimer, but I'm getting cured of that failing. In future I will clingto the people I have an opportunity of studying."

  "You'll turn out something pretty good, one of these days," he said."And now for the paintings, Mr. McGrath. I have only a few minutes tospare."

  He looked at a few portraits and a still-life or two, resting his squarejaw in the palm of his hand.

  "I've been a bit of a doubting Thomas," he suddenly said. "Had an ideathat a chap who goes in so much for society couldn't do very seriouswork, but this is first rate. Good, honest stuff, I call it, but I doubtif you will keep it up. Let's have a look at something else."

  He paid not the slightest attention to Gordon, who looked as mad as ahornet. The Japanese servant lifted up a picture that was turned withthe face against the wall.

  "Not that one," directed Gordon, but Lorimer had caught a glimpse of thecanvas as the Japanese turned.

  "Oh, yes! Put that on the easel," he said. "That seems to be in a ratherdifferent style. Now, my dear sir, if you keep on all your life workinglike that, I'll take back what I said. A man capable of doing that cantake Sargent's place, some day, but he'll have to stick to his last tokeep it up. How much do you want for it?"

  "It--it isn't for sale," said Gordon, hesitating.

  Lorimer stood before the picture, with his hands clasped behind hisback, for several minutes. Then he turned again to Gordon.

  "Already sold, is it?"

  "No, Mr. Lorimer, it is not. But it's about the best thing I ever did,and yet I think I can improve on it. I shall keep it for comparison, asI intend to try another from the same model, in a somewhat differentmanner. After it is finished, I shall be glad to have you look at itagain, and perhaps----"

  "I'm afraid that what I said rather sticks in your crop, Mr. McGrath,but don't be offended. When I began life my knowledge of men was aboutthe only asset I had. It didn't come by study and I take no credit forit. I was born with it, as a colt may be born with speed in him. SomeFrenchman has said that the moneymaking instinct is like the talent ofcertain pigs for smelling truffles. In Perigord they pay a high pricefor a shoat with that kind of a nose. I have learned something aboutpainting because I love it, and I know how to make money. But if Istopped for a year, I'd get so rusty I'd be afraid to buy a hundredshares. Same way with you. If you stop painting and putting in the bestthat's in you, then you'll go back. That's the reason I wanted thispicture, but I'm willing to wait and see the other. Let me know whenit's finished. Glad to have met you, Mr. Cole. Thank you for showing methe pictures, Mr. McGrath. Must run downtown now. Hope to see you againsoon."

  He walked off, sturdily, Gordon accompanying him to the door while I satdown in front of the picture.

  Ay, Lorimer was a mighty good judge; of that there could be no doubt. Hehad at once appreciated the powerful rendering, the subtle treatment,the beauty that radiated from the canvas, grippingly.

  But I could only see Frances, the woman beautiful, who, unlike mostothers, has a soul to illumine her comeliness. I filled my eyes withher perfection of form, tall, straight and slender, with all the gracethat is hers and which Gordon's pictu
re has taught me to see moreclearly. I felt as if a whiff of scented breeze came to me, waftedthrough the glinting masses of her hair. The eyes bent upon theslumbering child, I felt, might at any moment be lifted to her friendDave, the scribbler, who, for the first time in his life, was beginningto learn that a woman's loveliness may be beyond the power of a poet'simagining or even the wondrous gift of a painter. The scales had indeedfallen from my eyes! At first I had thought that Gordon had idealizedher, mingling his fancy with the truth and succeeding in gilding thelily. But now, I knew that all his art had but limned some of the tintsof her sunshot hair and traced a few points of her beauty.

  I did not wonder that he was eager to try again. Wonderful though hispainting was, the man's ambition was surging in him to excel his ownwork and attain still greater heights. Could he possibly succeed?

  "Well, what do you think of millionaires now that you have met one inthe flesh?" asked Gordon, returning.

  "This one is pretty human, it seems to me, and pretty shrewd."

  "You're not such a fool as you look, Dave," said my friend quietly, butwith the twinkle in his eyes that mitigates his words. "One moment Icould have clubbed him over the head, if I'd had at hand anythingheavier than a mahlstick, but I daresay he knew what he was talkingabout. I'll have to work harder."

  "You already toil as hard as a man can, and are doing some great stuff,"I replied. "The trouble is that you keep altogether too busy. It mightbe worth your while to remember that a man who accomplishes so much isat least entitled to eight hours' sleep a day."

  "You're a fine one to preach, you old night owl."

  "In the first place, I am only David Cole. Besides, I put in a fullallowance of time in bed. Mrs. Milliken daren't come in before eleven.Then, I don't smoke strong perfectos, especially in the morning, and Ihave a drink of claret perhaps once a week."

  "Yes, I'll paint you with a halo around your old bald head, some day,"he retorted.

  "And now, what shall I say to Frances?" I asked, deeming it urgent torevert to my errand.

  "I don't want her! Busy with other things!"

  I looked at him, in surprise and disappointment, and walked off towardsthe hall where hung my hat and coat.

  "Very well," I said, "I shall try and find something else for her to do.Good-by, Gordon."

  "Good-by, Dave. Come in again soon, won't you?"

  I made some noncommittal reply and rushed over to the elevator, ringingseveral times. When I reached the street I hurried to the cars, thinkingthat _la donna_ may be _mobile_, but that as a weathercock Gordon wasthe limit. I got out at the Fourteenth Street station and soon reachedhome, at the very same time as a big scarlet runabout which I hadnoticed in the street, in front of the studio building. It halted with agrinding of brakes.

  "I say, Dave! Tell her to come to-morrow morning. I am off to lunch atArdsley. By-by."

  It was Gordon, bearing in his pocket a summons for overspeeding, whichhe proudly exhibited.

  "I got the car this week," he informed me. "It's a bird to go. So long!"

  He was off again, skidding around the next corner in such fashion as tomake me sympathize with his life insurance company, and I started up thestairs to see Frances. I must say that I was rather nervous. The task oftelling her about that letter seemed, now that it was so nearlyimpending, a rather tough one to carry out. As usual in such cases, myfootsteps became slow on the last of the stairs.

  I knocked at the door, which was opened by Frieda.

  "Come in, Dave," she said. "I thought I'd drop in to see that Baby Paulwas none the worse for his experience. I might as well have saved mybreath, as far as I can see. Frances needs a little bracing up; I thinkshe's rather discouraged this morning."

  "One moment," I excused myself. "I forgot a paper I wanted to show her."

  My room appeared to have been ransacked, but I saw that Mrs. Milliken,in spite of my stern commands, had indulged her passionate longing forputting things in order. A quarter of an hour's arduous searching,however, revealed the journal I sought. The door had been left open, andI walked right in.

  "Good morning," I said. "I have seen Gordon this morning and he will bepleased to employ you again, Frances, and--and I have a paper here. Itis yesterday's, and I found something that may perhaps interest you,and--and----"

  But she had risen quickly and took the paper from me, her voicetrembling a little.

  "Where--what is it?" she asked eagerly.

  It took me a minute to find that column again. When I pointed out thenotice, she took the sheet from me, staring at it as if doubting hereyes.

  "Yes--it is for Madame Paul Dupont. I--I must go there at once! Oh!Frieda dear, will you mind little Paul for me while I am gone? I will goand return just as quick as I can and won't keep you very long."

  "I will do anything you want me to, Frances, but you are not veryfamiliar with downtown streets. I had better accompany you there. We cantake little Paul with us."

  "I had intended to offer my services as a guide," I put in.

  Frances had sunk in her chair and was still looking at the paper, as if,between the lines, she might have been able to find more than the meremention of her name.

  "You must let me go, Dave," whispered Frieda to me. "She--she mightfaint, poor thing, or feel very badly, and--and a woman is better atsuch times. I will try to make her wait until we get back, before sheopens the thing, and you can be here when we return."

  Man, that is born of woman, is commonly her humble slave. I could donothing but bow to my stout friend's will and retired to my room toleave their preparations unhampered by my presence. When I propose adinner or the moving pictures, they always hurry as fast as they can andare usually ready in fifteen or twenty minutes. On this occasion, aboutninety seconds seemed to suffice.

  "Good-by, Dave," they called out to me, waving their hands anddisappearing down the stairs.

  I had any number of important things to do. A fine disorder, saidBoileau, is an effect of art. It behooved me to disturb the beautifullyorderly and thoroughly deplorable piling up of my books indulged in byMrs. Milliken. Also, there were separate loose sheets of virginal paperto be separated from those bearing my written vagaries, for she hadplayed havoc with them. Moreover, I had been told that my hair ought tobe cut. Then, I ought to have sat down and continued a short story I hadmade a fine beginning of, about a poverty-stricken young lady finding anemerald necklace. The plot was most exciting and the ending possessedwhat the editors call a good punch. I had a plethora of things to do,wherefore I lighted my pipe and pondered upon what to begin with, seatedthe while in front of my window and observing the houses opposite.

  It took me but a moment to decide that quietude would be wisdom. Howcould I accomplish anything requiring judgment and calmness of mind,while I was so obsessed with problems of many kinds! What would be theeffect of that letter on Frances? Would it make her feel so badly, thatshe would be unable to go to Gordon's on the next day? Why had my friendfirst manifested eagerness to make another picture of Frances, thenrefused to employ her, and, finally, risked breaking his neck in hishaste to have me make an appointment with her?

  I have always been a poor hand at riddles and actually resent beingasked why a chicken crosses the road. Such foolish queries constitute aform of amusement quite unable to appeal to me. I dislike problems andcomplicated things that have to be solved. Once, I tried to write adetective story, but was wise enough to tear up the thing as soon as itwas finished. In the first place, it looked like an effort to encouragecrime, which I abhor, and my detective was so transparent and ingenuousthat an infant would have penetrated his wiles. He was positivelysheeplike in his mansuetude, whereas I had intended to make him a sternavenger of virtue.

  An hour went by, and then another, during which I rushed to thebalustrade on the landing every time I heard the front door opening.Disappointment came so often that I determined to move no more, until Icould hear their voices. Since the stairs make Frieda quite breathless,she insists on talking all the time wh
ile she climbs them, and herpuffing carries up at least two flights.

  Finally, I heard them. For a wonder Frieda was silent, but there was nomistaking her ponderous step. Frances came behind, carrying Baby Paul.They came to my room, hurrying across the landing. The young motherlooked at me, one corner of her lips twitching nervously.

  "David!" she cried. "Oh, David! There--there are two women called MadamePaul Dupont and--and the other one got my letter! She came to theConsulate early this morning."

  "But how do you know that it was your letter, then?" I asked.

  "Well! Of course, I don't really know, but--but it should have been forme, of course. They gave me the other woman's address. She lives inLittle Ferry in New Jersey, and I'm going there at once."