A Top-Floor Idyl

by George Van Schaick

  CHAPTER XXII

  GORDON RETURNS

  And then, after a very short time, the parting came. I was the first toadvise it. She could no longer remain in the little, decrepit boardinghouse. People would come to see her; she had to have a decent home, aplace in which she could receive some of the members of this new worldshe had taken by storm. We had looked together over the accounts in thepapers; it was nothing less than a triumph. Richetti was making allsorts of arrangements for her.

  After a long dispute she consented to take my piano with her.

  "I'm afraid she won't do it," Frieda had told me, when I broached thesubject to her.

  "I--I should be so glad to think it had belonged to--to the only twowomen I have--have ever----"

  "Poor darling David," said the sweet old painter, wiping her glasses,"Why--why don't you speak?"

  "Because--just because," I answered.

  "I know, she is moving into another world now. I am glad she is takingEulalie with her. But she can never forget you, Dave. You will always bethe best and dearest of friends to her. You must go and see her often."

  "I'm afraid it will never be quite the same, Frieda. She will have alittle parlor now, and it won't be like the room she trusted me toenter, the place where Baby Paul first saw the light, the dingy quartersin which her new voice was born. Oh! Frieda! Have we ever fully realizedhow patient she was, how resigned? We surely never did because we couldnot know how great her loss had been. We merely had an idea that she hadbeen deprived of a few golden notes, and all the time she knew that shehad lost a treasure beyond compare. And yet how brave she was through itall! With what courage she went to work in that poor little shop to gainthe pittance that might keep her and Baby Paul farther from want! Wehave never once heard her whimper, nor has she ever seemed reallydiscouraged. Sometimes she showed great sadness, of course, but it wasborn of her misfortune and of her fears for the little one, because ofthe love for him that surged in her heart. God! Frieda, but you womenare brave and strong!"

  "Yes, David dear, especially when we find a good man to lean upon," sheanswered.

  And so, as I have said, Frances went away to a very decent littleapartment Frieda found for her, and Eulalie was installed in a kitchenof her own, and the latchstring was always out for us. I enjoyed somepleasant days of tacking a few photos on the walls and hangingportieres. Some of the time I had to work alone, for she was much takenup. Three weeks after the concert she went away on a tour, having joinedforces with Tsheretshewski, the great cellist, an obese and long hairedartist with a wife and seven children, who became a thing of poetry andbeauty when he played. I heard them in Carnegie Hall, and then they wentoff on a tour that took them as far as Chicago and St. Louis, and myagency for newspaper cuttings kept on sending me articles by real oralleged critics. Eulalie traveled with her, and the baby also went fromtown to town. Frances sent me many postals and, often, letters. Thelatter always began with "Dearest Dave."

  Then came the spring again and a meeting that was positively dreadful,during which Frances pulled out little rags of paper full of herscribbling and covered over with numbers which represented herindebtedness to me. We fought like cats and dogs over the items, till,finally, she proudly pulled out a checkbook from a little desk and wroteout the amount, signing the thing boldly and declaring that she wouldnever speak to me again unless I took it.

  "You see, David dear," she explained, "everything is all right now and Iam making lots of money, and you can't refuse, because you know I onlyaccepted in the hope that I would be able to pay it all back some day,and it will leave me a debtor to you for a million things, and Baby Paultoo!"

  During the summer she went to Newport, where Richetti gave anotherconcert and where he made her a flattering offer to help in his teachingof the infinitely rich and sometimes voiceless. Thank goodness that apress of work came to me, for Ceballo, the great manager, actuallysought me out and insisted on collaborating with me in a dramatizationof "Land o' Love," which had passed its second hundred thousand. Henearly drove me to insanity, while we toiled at it, and I would havecried mercy before the end, but for the furious energy with which hekept me a prisoner of his wiles.

  Then I spent a few weeks in the Adirondacks, having found a small hotelwhere people never put on war-paint for dinner and no one was ashamed towear flannel shirts, and I rowed and pretended to fish and lost myselfin the woods to my heart's content, finally returning to my oldtypewriter with a mass of notes for a further novel. I took up once moremy lonely vigils, when I could, because I began to feel the grasp ofmany cogwheels that were the penalty of success. Some magazines actuallyrequested stories of me.

  About the first of October I received a cablegram from Gordon, whichappalled me with its suddenness.

  "Home by _Rochambeau_. Get old girl to clean up. Can't drive ambulance any more.

  "GORDON."

  It was simply maddening. Why couldn't he drive? Of course he had beenhurt. Why didn't he tell me what was the matter? Poor old chap, in spiteof some of his ways there is no man on earth I have ever been so fondof, because, at bottom, there is something very manly and genuine inhim. When things got too hot for him he didn't go off somewhere andmope; no, he naturally went and gave the best that was in him to aservice of noble charity and virile endeavor.

  I ascertained over the phone the date of the _Rochambeau's_ probablearrival and walked up the Avenue to a meeting with Ceballo, who wasworrying me to death over the ending of the fourth act. He's a mostobstinate man. At a busy corner I stopped to allow the passage of aflood of autos. The crowd behind me pressed me forward, nearly against apowerful gray roadster.

  "Jump in quick, Mr. Cole," came a woman's voice.

  I looked up. It was Miss Sophia Van Rossum who had spoken. The chauffeurwas in a little seat behind her and I swiftly obeyed, glad indeed to seeher again.

  "Are you in a hurry to go anywhere, Mr. Cole, because I'll be glad totake you wherever you want to go?"

  "No," I replied, "I was killing time for about an hour. After that Ihave an appointment."

  "Then we can take a little turn in the Park," she said, approvingly.

  The carriages and motors were so numerous that for some time we saidvery little. I watched her self-reliant, skilful driving, and took anoccasional glance at her profile. It was beautiful as ever, perhaps moreso than ever, colored with health and a fair coat of tan. Once in thePark, however, we found more room and she drove with less preoccupation.

  "I--I've heard from you but twice this summer, Mr. Cole. Thank you forletting me know that Gordon was still well. Have you any further news ofhim?"

  "Yes, I have just heard," I replied. "He is on his way back and I wroteyou this morning at Southampton."

  I watched her closely. For a moment she drove on, looking neither to theright or left, but I saw that her lower lip was being pressed on by herteeth.

  "He--he never let me know," she finally said. "I--I hope he will returnwell and happy."

  "Pardon me. I am afraid that something has happened to him," I said,again. "Gordon is the sort of fellow who would see the thing through. Hewould go on to the end, you know, and--and he didn't write, this time. Ihave the cable here. You might stop a moment under these trees."

  She brought the machine to a standstill, gently, with no undue pressureof brake, losing none of her expertness, and put her hand out for thepaper I held.

  "I see," she said, very simply and quietly, though the paper shook alittle in her grasp. "He has been very badly hurt, Mr. Cole. Otherwisehe would have remained, until he was well again, to take up the workonce more. I--I would give anything on earth to meet that steamer!"

  "The easiest thing in the world, Miss Van Rossum."

  "No, the hardest, the most impossible," she retorted, quickly. "He--hemight not be glad to see me, else he would have cabled me also, I think.You will be there, of course! Be very sure you meet him, Mr. Cole, andthen, please--please let me know what has happened, and find out for mewhether there is an
ything I can do. You promise, don't you?"

  I put out my hand and she crushed it, nervously, with wonderfulstrength, and let it go at once.

  "We will go on now, I think," she said, and pressed the selfstarter.Soon we were in the main driveway again, among a flooding and ebbingtide of carriages and motors. Some women bowed to her and she returnedthe salutations with a graceful move of her head. She drove as easily asusual, and the turn was completed. Finally, she dropped me off at theclub and went on, after brief but very genuine thanks.

  "Good Lord! David," said Ceballo, a moment later. "Just caught sight ofyou with Diana at the wheel. Splendid young lady, isn't she? I know herfather quite well."

  "Yes," I answered, "she is a very fine young woman."

  "Doesn't much care for literature, does she?"

  "I don't know, but she has a heart of gold, and that's what counts."

  So we retired to a small private table and disputed and argued for acouple of hours, at the end of which my brains were addled and I toldhim to do as he pleased, whereat he beamed and I parted from him.

  Then I began counting the days till the _Rochambeau_ should arrive, andFrances came back to town and sent me word at once. She received mejoyfully and told me how much good the sea-air on the Newport cliffs haddone Baby Paul, who was beginning to talk like a little man and to say"God bless David" in the prayer he babbled after her each evening.

  "I'm only back for a short time," she said, "because I'm to sing at aconcert in Boston next week, and then we are going to Buffalo for a day,after which I shall return. And what do you think, David? I am to signan engagement for the Metropolitan! Tsheretshewski is going abroad thiswinter to play in Spain and England, and so I shall be, for the wholewinter, here in New York, and--and I hope you won't neglect me."

  I assured her that I would call every day, and left her, after I hadinspected Baby Paul, who deigned to let me kiss him and favored mymoustache with a powerful tug. He is a stunning infant. She was standingat the outer door of her apartment, her dear sweet smile speaking of herfriendship and regard. The temptation came on me again, the awfullonging for a touch of those lips, but I held myself within bounds, asbravely as I could, and touched the elevator signal. She waited untilthe cage had shot up and waved her hand at me. Her "Good-by, Dave" heldall the charm of her song and the tenderness of her heart, I thought,and I answered it with a catch in my throat.

  "You will never be anything but a big over-grown kid, David," Frieda hadtold me, a few days before. Ay! I realized it! I would never ceasecrying for that radiant moon. Sometimes, in silly dreams, I have seenmyself standing before her, with her two hands in mine, with her lipsnear, with her heart ready to come into my keeping. But, when I waken, Iremember the words she said last year, when Gordon made her so unhappy.How could love be left in her heart? she had asked. Was there ever anight when she didn't kneel and pray for the poor soul of the man buriedsomewhere in France, in those dreadful fields, with, perhaps, never across over him nor a flower to bear to him a little of the love she hadgiven? Let well enough alone, David, my boy! You can have her songwhenever you care to beg for it, and her friendship and her smiles.Would you forfeit these things because you must come forth and beg formore, ay, for more than she can give you? Would you force her dear eyesto shed tears of sorrow for you, and hear her soft voice breaking withthe pain it would give her to refuse?

  A few days later she met me at her door, excitedly, and told me thatBaby Paul had a slight cold and that Dr. Porter had advised her not totake him away with her.

  "And, Dave, I just have to go! It would be too hard on some of theothers, if I broke faith and didn't appear. I must leave to-night, andit just breaks my heart to be compelled to start when my Baby Paul isn'twell. Dr. Porter has promised to call every day and see him during myabsence. Dave dear, you are ever so fond of Baby too. Won't you come inevery day, and you must telegraph, if you don't find him getting alongas well as he should, or use the long distance telephone."

  She was much agitated, and I saw how hard it was on her to leave thedear little man behind. But Frances is the sort of woman who keeps herpromises. She has given her word and will go!

  So we dined together, that evening, with Frieda, and we saw Frances awayto the train and put her on board the sleeper and returned home, andFrieda spoke a great deal and told me about the sale of her latestpicture and all that she expected from the one she was going to exhibitat the winter Salon. It was only after I had left her that I realizedthe dear soul had been trying to divert my thoughts.

  In the morning came the telegram from the marine department of the cablecompany. The _Rochambeau_ would dock at eleven. I was at the watersidean hour earlier, devoured with impatience and anxiety, thinking of athousand alarming possibilities. Finally, the big ship appeared, fardown the stream, and slowly came up. I scanned the decks as soon aspeople could be distinguished, but could see no sign of my friend.

  At last, the steamer was warped into the dock after three puffing tugshad pushed and shoved her for the longest time, and the passengers beganto come off, and still he did not show up and the gang plank was nearlybare of people. I seized upon a steward bearing ashore a load ofsuitcases and bags and asked him whether there was not a Mr. McGrath onboard.

  "_Certainement, Monsieur_, there he is coming now," replied the man,hurrying away.

  I might not have recognized him, so pale and thin did he look, but itwas Gordon all right, at the head of the trussed gangway, and he waved ahand at me. A man preceded him, carrying some baggage.

  "Hello, Gordon!" I shouted joyfully, in spite of the shock his sharp,worn features had given me.

  "Hello, Dave!" he cried back.

  A moment later he was down on the dock, stepping lightly, and I pushedmy hand out towards him, eager for the strong grasp of former days.

  "You'll have to take the left, old boy. The right one's behind,somewhere in Belgium. Wait a moment and I'll give you my keys, Dave. Ihave to keep everything in my lefthand pockets, so they're crowded. Yes,I have them. I suppose that my trunk is already ashore. Do try and geta customs' officer for me and hurry the thing through."

  He was talking as calmly and coolly as if he had been gone but a fewdays and had suffered only from a cut finger. We were fortunate in beingable to get through the formalities very soon, and, shortly after, wedrove away in a taxi.

  "Well, Dave, how've you been and how's everybody?" he asked, afterlighting a cigarette from mine.

  "Every one is all right," I answered impatiently. "Oh! Gordon, old man!How did it ever happen?"

  "Just a piece of shell while I was picking some fellows up," heanswered. "You have no idea of how surprising it is when you suddenlyrealize that something's missing. But what's a hand more or less afterall that I've seen? How's Frieda?"

  "Stouter than ever," I replied, "and her appetite's improving. Porterrecommended a diet, but she won't follow it. Says her fat doesn'tinterfere with her sitting at the easel."

  "Good old Frieda! I've heard about your book, Dave, it made a big stir,didn't it? And so--so Madame Dupont has become a great singer again;heard all about it from a fellow on board and, of course, your lettersspoke of it; but you're such a crazy old duffer I supposed you weregetting carried away with your enthusiasm. Never could take thingsquietly, could you? Any other news?"

  "Nothing very special," I told him. "The Van Rossums came to town early,this year. I--I've seen Miss Sophia."

  "Have you? Give me another cigarette. Yes, light a match for me. I'mclumsy as the devil with that left hand!"

  He sat back, puffing at the thing and looking out of the window.

  "Peanuts," he said. "Haven't seen a peanut cart for over a year. Coloredwomen, too. Plenty of fighting niggers in France, but no darky ladies.Look at the big cop! Policemen are the only leisure class in thiscountry, aren't they? Lord! What a big, ghastly brick monstrosity thatis! We can lick the world when it comes to fetid commercialarchitecture, can't we? Are you going all the way up to the studio withme?"


  "Of course I am," I asserted indignantly. "What did you suppose I'd do?"

  "Thought you might laugh at the uselessness of a studio in my presentcondition," he replied negligently. "I've told you I'm clumsy as thedeuce with that left hand. Tried to draw a face with it the other day,in pencil. Looked like a small boy's effort on a fence. So, of course,I'm through with painting. I've been rather saving, you know. Investedmy money quite safely and haven't spent much on this jaunt. Of course afew thousands went where I thought they'd do most good. A fellow who'dkeep his hands in his pockets when help is so badly needed would be aqueer animal. But I've enough to live on and smoke decent tobacco. Ithink I'll take a small bachelor apartment in New York, to come to whenI get the horrors. I'll spend the rest of the time in the country, agood way off. I'll read books, yes, even yours, and, perhaps, learn tosit around with a crowd, near a grocery stove, and discuss potatoes andtruck. Hang it all! There's always something a fellow can do!"

  "My dear Gordon," I began, "I don't see----"

  "Oh, shut up, Dave, I know all the things one can say to a cripple.What's the use? Some fellows on board asked me to dine with them thisevening at Delmonico's, and I damned them up and down. Sat for eightmortal days at the dining-table on the ship, with an infernal female oneach side of me; they'd quarrel as to which of them would cut my meatfor me. It's enough for a fellow to go dotty. Sometimes I wouldn't goand had things served in my cabin so the steward would do the cutting.Understand, I'm not kicking. Hang it all, man, I'm not even sorry Iwent! The chaps I helped out were probably worth it. Great oldexperience trying to make fifty miles an hour with a fellow insidebleeding to death, I can tell you. I've seen enough of it to havelearned that a man's life doesn't amount to much. Any old thing will dofor me now."

  I was appalled. All this had but one meaning. He was eating his heartout, try as he might to conceal it. To him, his art had been chiefly ameans to an end; he had made it the servant of his desires. And now itwas getting back at him, it was revenging itself, appearing infinitelydesirable for its own sake. He would miss it as a man misses the deadwoman, who has held his heart in the hollow of her hand; he was ragingat the helplessness that had come upon him. And all this he translatedinto his usual cynicism. I would have given anything to have seen himbreak down and weep, so that I might have put my arm around hisshoulders and sought to comfort him with love and affection.

  We got out at the big building, and he nodded to the colored boy whostood at the door of the elevator, as if he had been gone but a day. Onthe landing he sought again to pull out his keys, but I touched theelectric button and the old woman's steps hurried to the door.

  "How are you?" he said, and brushed past her, paying no heed to hersalutations. "Glad everything's open. I was afraid it would be allclosed up like a beastly morgue. Hello!"

  He stopped before the easel. Upon it I had placed a rough study he hadmade for Miss Van Rossum's picture. It was a thing of a few effectiveand masterly strokes.

  "Good Lord, Dave, but I was a painter for fair, once upon a time! Howdid I ever do it?"

  He sat there, very still, for a long time, while I watched him. I thinkhe had forgotten all about me, for, after a time, he rose and pulled outof a closet some unframed canvasses, which he scattered against the legsof furniture and contemplated.

  "Think I'll make a bonfire of them," he suddenly said. "Won't be such anidiot as to keep on staring at those things and looking at my stump,I'll warrant," and he pushed the handless wrist towards me, tied up in abit of black silk.

  Then the telephone rang.

  "Wonder who's the infernal idiot calling up now?" he said. "Go andanswer, Dave. No, I'll go myself and tell him to go to the devil!"

  Then came one of those fragmentary conversations. I could not helphearing it, of course. It surprised me that he spoke quietly, with acivility of tone and accent I had not expected.

  "Yes, came back a few minutes ago----No, Dave ran up here with me, DaveCole, you know----Oh! Nothing much----Well, I've lost my hand, the one Ipainted with----Yes, I shall be glad to have you do so----Right away?Yes, if you want to, I mean if you will be so kind. Thank you ever somuch!"

  He hung up the receiver and turned to me, his eyes looking ratherhaggard.

  "It's--it's Sophia Van Rossum. How did she know I was coming?"

  "I let her know, of course," I answered rather shortly.

  "You think I've treated her pretty badly, don't you?"

  "Rottenly, Gordon!"

  "I daresay I did. It was a sort of madness that came over me, but--butthere's no excuse. She'll be here in a few minutes. I don't know what Ican say to her. Stay here, Dave, and help me out. I used to tell youthat she was just a society doll, and that sort of thing. Well, she'spretty strong on society, but she was brought up in it, belonged to it.But she's a great deal more of a woman than I gave her credit for being;I've realized it a thousand times since I've been gone. I call it mightydecent of her to ring me up and offer to come around and see me, afterthe way I've behaved to her."

  "So do I, Gordon," I approved. "She's got a great big heart, the sortit's a sorry thing for a man to play with."

  He made no answer, looking out from his window into the Park and itsyellowing foliage. Then he lifted his maimed arm and stared at it.