CHAPTER XII
GORDON BECOMES ENGAGED
Frances and I started away on the trip, immediately, for there was not amoment to lose. That letter must at once be retrieved. The dreadfulwoman had evidently seized upon one never meant for her, and must bebearded in her den. From her the missive must be rescued, by force ofarms if necessary; it must be snatched from the burning, seized andbrought back, even at the cost of bloodshed.
This, it may be, is but the vague impression I gathered from the profuseand simultaneous conversation of my two dear friends. When I humblysuggested again that the Jersey person might perhaps have a perfectequity in the document, they looked at me with the pitying condescensionaccorded the feebleminded and the very young by the gentler sex. Also, Iproposed to hie me to Little Ferry alone, interview the termagant inquestion and make her disgorge, in case she was illegally detainingwords meant for another.
This was once more met by a look from Frieda to Frances, and vice-versa,which was then turned upon me and made me feel like an insignificantand, I hope, a harmless microbe.
"My dear Dave," said Frieda, tolerantly, "you are not Madame PaulDupont. Why should that abominable woman give up the letter to you?"
"When she sees me and Baby," declared Frances, "she will not have theheart to refuse."
The upshot of it was that we departed, leaving Frieda behind. For thefirst time in his life little Paul was shot through a tunnel, emerged inJersey, none the worse for his experience, and was taken aboard a train.Soon afterwards we were observing the great meadows and the HackensackRiver, a vacillating, sluggish stream, running either up or down, at thebehest of a tide that always possesses plenty of leisure, through bankswinding in a great valley of cat-tails and reeds among which, in thesummertime, legions of grackles and redwings appear to find a plenteousliving. But at this time the stream was more than usually turbid, filledwith aimlessly floating cakes of ice, and the green of fairer weatherhad given place to a drab hue of discouraged weeds awaiting betterdays. While waiting at the station, I had found that the TelephoneDirectory contained at least a dozen Duponts, that the City Directoryheld a small regiment of them, and considered that New Jersey had aright to its share of citizens of that name.
The train stopped, and we got out in a place that was mostly constitutedby a bridge, small houses lining a muddy pike and a vista of many housespartly concealed among trees. After consultation with a local butcher,followed by the invasion of a grocer's shop, we were directed to a neatframe cottage within a garden. I opened the gate and walked in, first,deeming it my duty to face the dangers and protect the convoy in myrear.
There was no need to ring a bell. The front door opened and awhite-haired woman appeared, her locks partly hidden under a white capthat was the counterpart of many I had seen in the Latin Quarter, amongjanitresses or ladies vending vegetables from barrows. Her form wasconcealed in a wide, shapeless garment, of the kind adopted by Frenchwomen whom age has caused to abandon the pomps and vanities. I believethey call it a _caraco_. The cotton skirt was unadorned and theslippers ample for tender feet. Also, the smile on her face waswelcoming in its sweetness. Near her a fat blind dog wheezed some sortof greeting.
"Madame Paul Dupont?" I asked.
"_Pour vous servir_," she answered politely.
So this was the Gorgon in question, the purloiner of correspondence, tobe placated if possible and defeated _vi et armis_ in case of rebellion!
Frances hastily pushed me to one side, though with all gentleness. Shespoke French very fluently. I easily understood her to say that she wasalso Madame Paul Dupont, that her husband had been to the war, that shehad heard of his being killed, that--that----
She was interrupted. The white-bonneted old woman took her to her bosom,planting a resounding kiss on her cheek, and clamored in admiration ofthe baby.
"Come in the house," she said. "I am delighted to see you. I shall haveto ask Paul if he ever had any cousins or nephews who came to thiscountry. But no; he would have told me. I am sorry that Paul is not hereto see you. He is the pastry-cook at the Netherlands; you should tastehis puff-paste and his _Baba au Rhum_. He did not go to the war becausehe is fifty-nine and has a bad leg. But I have a son over there. He haskilled many Boches. I have thirty-seven postal cards from him."
"But, Madame," I put in, "we came on account of a letter written in careof the Consulate, and we were informed----"
"That was a letter from my niece Petronille, whose husband keeps a_cafe_ in Madagascar. She wanted to let me know of the birth of herfourth daughter. Have you ever seen a letter from there? It is a countryvery far away, somewhere in China or Africa. I will show you."
She sought her spectacles, looked over a large and orderly pile ofpapers, and brought us the document.
"Please read it," she said, "it is very interesting."
Frances glanced over it, looking badly disappointed, and passed it tome. It contained vast information as to Petronille's growing family andthe price of chickens and Vermouth in Antanarivo, also certain detailsas to native fashions, apparently based on the principle of least worn,soonest mended.
Before we left, we were compelled to accept a thimbleful of _cassis_,most delectable, and to promise to return very soon. Her husband wouldmake us a _vol-au-vent_, for which he had no equal. He would be sorry tohave been absent. She wished her son had been married to such a nicewoman as Frances and had possessed a son like Baby Paul. Alas! She mightnever see the boy again, and then there would be nothing left of him, nolittle child to be cherished by the old people. It was such a pity!
She insisted on seeing us all the way back to the station and oncarrying Paul, whom she parted with after many embraces. Peace be on hergood old soul, and may the son come back safely and give her the littleone her heart longs for!
"She is a darling," said Frances sorrowfully, "and, oh! I'm so terriblydisappointed."
The poor child had so hoped for news, for some details as to the mannerin which her own Paul had been sacrificed to his motherland, and thisvisit made her very sad. For many days afterwards her thoughts, whichhad perhaps begun to accept the inevitable with resignation, turnedagain to the loved one buried somewhere in France.
Neither Frieda, who came in after suppertime, nor I, was able to giveher much consolation. Again, I wished I had never seen that announcementand deplored my well-intended folly in calling her attention to it. Sheseemed very weary, as if the short trip had been a most fatiguing one,and retired very soon, alleging the need to rise early to do somemending of Baby's clothes, and acknowledging the fact that she feltheadachy and miserable.
Frieda looked at me indulgently, but I suspect that she blamed mestrongly for the whole occurrence. Doubtless, I ought not to have lookedat that paper, I should not have spoken of it, and my permitting Francesto go to Jersey had been a sinful act of mine.
But, after all, Frieda is the best old girl in the world, I believe anddeclare. She patted my shoulder as if I had promised her never to bewicked again, and permitted me to see her home, as some snow had fallenand she was dreadfully afraid of slipping. I prevailed on her to acceptpair of old rubbers of mine and, once in the street, she grasped my armwith a determination that left a blue mark next day.
"So she is going again to the studio," she said, after I had piloted herto her flat, which she invited me to invade. "Do you really think thatGordon has the slightest idea that he can improve on that firstpicture?"
"I suppose that he just hopes to," I replied. "Whenever I begin a newstory, I haven't the slightest idea whether it will be good or not.Sometimes, I don't even know after it is finished. Take the 'Land o'Love,' for instance; I really thought it a good piece of work, butJamieson looks positively gloomy about it."
"He must be a very silly man," said Frieda, unswerving in her loyalty tome, but swiftly changing the subject. "Baby Paul is becoming very heavy.He'll be seven months old, come next Friday, and Frances looksdreadfully tired. It is hard for her to take him every day to thatstudio and back."
"I could get up early in the morning and help her," I suggestedrecklessly.
"And then you could wait outside for two or three hours and help herback," she laughed. "No, Dave, it isn't so bad as all that. But I'mafraid she's badly discouraged. That little Dr. Porter is still fiddlingaway at her throat, training it, he calls it, but she's not a bitbetter. In fact, she thinks it's getting worse. And she says she cannever pay him for all he's done and she might as well stop going. OnSunday morning he says he's going to do something to it, that may hurt alittle, and she's afraid. She asked me to go with her."
"I'll go with you, if she will let me and Porter doesn't chase me out,"I proposed. "I have great confidence in that boy."
"So have I, but he hasn't assured her that it will bring her voiceback."
I told her that this showed the man was not a cocksure humbug, andexpressed fervent hopes as to the result, after which Frieda made adisreputable bundle of my rubbers and I left with them, in a hard flurryof snow. My room, after I reached it, seemed unusually cold. Thelandlady's ancient relative sometimes juggles rather unsuccessfully withthe furnace, and she bemoaned before me, yesterday, the dreadful priceof coal. Hence, I went to work and warmed myself by writing the outlineof a tale with a plot unfolding itself during a hot wave of August. Sokindly is my imagination that, by midnight, I was wiping my brow andsitting in my shirt-sleeves, till a sudden chill sent me to bed. This, Iam glad to say, had no serious consequence. I remember wondering aboutthe new picture Gordon would begin and, before I fell asleep, some trickof my mind presented the thing to me. It was a queer composite of theMurillo in the Louvre, of Raphael's Madonna of the Chair and of Francesherself. From the canvas she was looking at me, with lids endowed withmotion and smiling eyes. There came to me, then, a dim recollection ofsome strange Oriental belief, to the effect that on the Day of Judgmentsculptured and painted figures will crowd around their makers, beggingin vain for the souls that have been denied them. But I felt thatGordon's "Mother and Child" will never thus clutch despairingly at theirpainter's garment. The very soul of them is in that picture, alreadyendowed with a life that must endure till the canvas fritters itselfaway into dust.
When I awoke, I found, with shamed dismay, that it was nearly teno'clock. On leaving my room I saw that the door opposite was wide open,with Mrs. Milliken wrestling with a mattress. Frances was gone, bearingher little Paul, through the still falling snow, to that studio whereGordon would again spread some of her beauty and soul on the magiccloth.
A few hours after, she returned in a taxicab.
"He insisted that I must take it," she explained. "He came downstairswith me and told the man to charge it to him, at the club. The light wasvery poor and he could do no painting. Spent the time just drawing andrubbing the charcoal out again. I think he must be working very hard,for he looks nervous and worried. No, I'm not hungry. He made me takelunch at the studio, while he went out to the club. He--he seems veryimpatient when I hesitate or don't wish to--to accept his kindnesses,and becomes very gruff. He hardly said a word from the time when hereturned, till he bade me go home in the taxi. And--and now I must dosome sewing."
I left her, having an appointment with my literary agent, who has askedme for a story for a new magazine. I reached his office and was askedto wait for a few minutes, as he was busy with an author whose words areworth much gold.
On the oaken table in the waiting-room, among other publications, therewas a weekly of society and fashion. I took it up for a desultory glanceat the pages. The first paragraph my eyes fell upon stated that the mostdistinguished of our younger painters, it was whispered, was about toannounce his engagement to a fair Diana whose triumphs over hurdles, onthe links and on the tennis courts were no less spoken of than herwealth and beauty.
I supposed that Gordon had seen those lines, for he takes that paper.According to Frances, he is worried and nervous. How can this be? Shemust surely be mistaken. He has captured and safely holds the bubble ofreputation, his work commands a reward that seems fabulous to such as I,and now he is to marry beauty and wealth. Can there be any hitch in hisplans?
After I had finished my business with my agent, I strolled out with acommission to write a five thousand word story. My way then led me upFifth Avenue, to the place where I get the tea Frieda and Frances sogreatly appreciate. At the Forty-Second Street crossing my arm wasseized from behind.
"Hold on, old boy. Those motors are splashing dreadfully," said Gordon,rescuing me from a spattering of liquid mud. "Come with me to the club."
I followed him with the sheeplike acquiescence that is part of mynature, feeling rather glad of the opportunity to talk with him andperhaps congratulate him. As usual, he was most spick and span. His furcoat had a collar of Alaska seal and the black pearl in his necktie wasprobably worth a couple of square feet of his painting, though thegeneral effect was quiet and unobtrusive.
We sat down in the most deserted corner he could find and looked at oneanother in silence, for a few moments. It is to be presumed that mypatience outlasted his.
"You're the dullest old curmudgeon ever permitted to come into politesociety," he declared, looking aggrieved.
"I was serenely waiting for your announcement," I replied.
"Oh! So you've seen that thing also!" he retorted, with evidentannoyance.
"Well, my dear fellow, I wanted to know whether to congratulate you orwhether the information was somewhat premature. Come, Gordon, I used tothink that we were a replica of Damon and Pythias! Won't it do you a bitof good to talk it over? Do you never feel the need of confiding in afriend, nowadays?"
For a moment he looked down at his boots, after which he deliberatelyplaced both elbows on the little table that separated us and stared atme.
"The announcement is all right. Bought a solitaire for her last week. Isuppose that she is wearing it. There is to be a reception soon, andyou'll get a card to it."
I pushed my hand over to him and he took it, rather lukewarmly.
"Oh! That's all right! I know you wish me happiness. Well, I'm gettingit, am I not? I'm just as merry as a grig. Here, boy!"
The lad in buttons took his order for whiskies and soda, after whichGordon glared at the portrait of the club's distinguished firstpresident.
"Rotten piece of work, I call it. Chap who did it used a lot of beastlybitumen too, and it's cracking all over. Awful rubbishy stuff."
"I suppose so," I assented, on faith.
"Ben Franklin was a shrewd old fellow," he continued, with one of hishabitual lightning changes. "Tells us that a man without a woman is likehalf a pair of scissors. I'm to be the complete thing, now. Stunninggirl, Miss Van Rossum, isn't she? She talks of having a studio built atSouthampton, for effect, I presume. How the deuce could a fellow expectto paint with a parcel of chattering women around him?"
"Oh! I daresay you might get used to it," I told him, soothingly.
"I won't! She is going to read books about painting. Told me she wantedto be able to talk intelligently about it, and I advised against it.People don't talk intelligently about painting, they only pretend to.They must insist on airing their views about futurists, or the influenceof Botticelli or such truck. They make me yawn, and I try to turn theconversation, but it's a tough job. Why the deuce are you looking at melike that?"
He snapped the question out so quickly that I was somewhat taken aback,and he began again, without waiting for an answer.
"Oh! It's no use trying to make a practical man of the world out of asentimental writer of impossible love stories. You're staring at mebecause I don't answer to your preconceived ideas of a fellowcontemplating the joys of matrimony. Why the deuce should I?"
"I don't know, old fellow," I confessed. "I acknowledge that I havealways regarded wedded life in the abstract, but I must say that my----"
"I know. Your ideal is a freckled youth with a left shoulder upholdingthe head of a pug-nosed girl, who weeps tears of joy in his bosom, thewhile he gazes up at the heavens in thankfulness. I'm all right, Dave!I'
ve accomplished all that I was aiming at, and there are no problemsleft to solve. Where's that devilish boy with those drinks?"
I could not help looking at him again, for I was becoming more and moreconvinced that he was far from representing the happy man I had beeneager to congratulate. Our beverages came, and he tossed his down,hurriedly, as if it furnished a welcome diversion to his thoughts. Fiveminutes later, I was walking alone to the shop where I buy my tea.
"I wonder what's wrong?" I asked myself, pushing the door open.
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