by Edna Ferber
“You have saved my life,” I called back. “It has been a beast of a day. You may talk as much and as importantly as you like, so long as I am kept cool.”
“That was Von Gerhard,” said I to Blackie, and tried not to look uncomfortable.
“Mm,” grunted Blackie, pulling at his pipe. “Thoughtful, ain’t he?”
I turned at the door. “He— he’s going away day after to-morrow, Blackie,” I explained, although no explanation had been asked for, “to Vienna. He expects to stay a year—or two—or three—”
Blackie looked up quickly. “Goin’ away, is he? Well, maybe it’s best, all around, girl. I see his name’s been mentioned in all the medical papers, and the big magazines, and all that, lately. Gettin’ t’ be a big bug, Von Gerhard is. Sorry he’s goin’, though. I was plannin’ t’ consult him just before I go on my—vacation. But some other guy’ll do. He don’t approve of me, Von Gerhard don’t.”
For some reason which I could never explain I went back into the room and held out both my hands to Blackie. His nervous brown fingers closed over them. “That doesn’t make one bit of difference to us, does it, Blackie?” I said, gravely. “We’re—we’re not caring so long as we approve of one another, are we?”
“Not a bit, girl,” smiled Blackie, “not a bit.”
When the green car stopped before the Old Folks’ Home I was in seraphic mood. I had bathed, donned clean linen and a Dutch-necked gown. The result was most soul-satisfying. My spirits rose unaccountably. Even the sight of Von Gerhard, looking troubled and distrait, did not quiet them. We darted away, out along the lake front, past the toll gate, to the bay road stretching its flawless length along the water’s side. It was alive with swift-moving motor cars swarming like twentieth-century pilgrims toward the mecca of cool breezes and comfort. There were proud limousines; comfortable family cars; trim little roadsters; noisy runabouts. Not a hoof-beat was to be heard. It was as though the horseless age had indeed descended upon the world. There was only a hum, a rush, a roar, as car after car swept on.
Summer homes nestled among the trees near the lake. Through the branches one caught occasional gleams of silvery water. The rush of cool air fanned my hot forehead, tousled my hair, slid down between my collar and the back of my neck, and I was grandly content.
“Even though you are going to sail away, and even though you have the grumps, and refuse to talk, and scowl like a jabberwock, this is an extremely nice world. You can’t spoil it.”
“Behute!” Von Gerhard’s tone was solemn.
“Would you be faintly interested in knowing that the book is finished?”
“So? That is well. You were wearing yourself thin over it. It was then quickly perfected.”
“Perfected!” I groaned. “I turn cold when I think of it. The last chapters got away from me completely. They lacked the punch.”
Von Gerhard considered that a moment, as I wickedly had intended that he should. Then—“The punch? What is that then—the punch?”
Obligingly I elucidated. “A book may be written in flawless style, with a plot, and a climax, and a lot of little side surprises. But if it lacks that peculiar and convincing quality poetically known as the punch, it might as well never have been written. It can never be a six-best-seller, neither will it live as a classic. You will never see it advertised on the book review page of the Saturday papers, nor will the man across the aisle in the street car be so absorbed in its contents that he will be taken past his corner.”
Von Gerhard looked troubled. “But the literary value? Does that not enter—”
“I don’t aim to contribute to the literary uplift,” I assured him. “All my life I have cherished two ambitions. One of them is to write a successful book, and the other to learn to whistle through my teeth—this way, you know, as the gallery gods do it. I am almost despairing of the whistle, but I still have hopes of the book.”
Whereupon Von Gerhard, after a moment’s stiff surprise, gave vent to one of his heartwarming roars.
“Thanks,” said I. “Now tell me the important news.”
His face grew serious in an instant. “Not yet, Dawn. Later. Let us hear more about the book. Not so flippant, however, small one. The time is past when you can deceive me with your nonsense.”
“Surely you would not have me take myself seriously! That’s another debt I owe my Irish forefathers. They could laugh—bless ‘em!—in the very teeth of a potato crop failure. And let me tell you, that takes some sense of humor. The book is my potato crop. If it fails it will mean that I must keep on drudging, with a knot or two taken in my belt. But I’ll squeeze a smile out of the corner of my mouth, somehow. And if it succeeds! Oh, Ernst, if it succeeds!”
“Then, Kindchen?”
“Then it means that I may have a little thin layer of jam on my bread and butter. It won’t mean money—at least, I don’t think it will. A first book never does. But it will mean a future. It will mean that I will have something solid to stand on. It will be a real beginning—a breathing spell—time in which to accomplish something really worth while—independence—freedom from this tread-mill—”
“Stop!” cried Von Gerhard, sharply. Then, as I stared in surprise—“I do ask your pardon. I was again rude, nicht wahr? But in me there is a queer vein of German superstition that disapproves of air castles. Sich einbilden, we call it.”
The lights of the bay pavilion twinkled just ahead. The green car poked its nose up the path between rows of empty machines. At last it drew up, panting, before a vacant space between an imposing, scarlet touring car and a smart, cream-colored runabout. We left it there and walked up the light-flooded path.
Inside the great, barn-like structure that did duty as pavilion glasses clinked, chairs scraped on the wooden floor; a burst of music followed a sharp fusillade of applause. Through the open doorway could be seen a company of Tyrolese singers in picturesque costumes of scarlet and green and black. The scene was very noisy, and very bright, and very German.
“Not in there, eh?” said Von Gerhard, as though divining my wish. “It is too brightly lighted, and too noisy. We will find a table out here under the trees, where the music is softened by the distance, and our eyes are not offended by the ugliness of the singers. But inexcusably ugly they are, these Tyrolese women.”
We found a table within the glow of the pavilion’s lights, but still so near the lake that we could hear the water lapping the shore. A cadaverous, sandy-haired waiter brought things to eat, and we made brave efforts to appear hungry and hearty, but my high spirits were ebbing fast, and Von Gerhard was frankly distraught. One of the women singers appeared suddenly in the doorway of the pavilion, then stole down the steps, and disappeared in the shadow of the trees beyond our table. The voices of the singers ceased abruptly. There was a moment’s hushed silence. Then, from the shadow of the trees came a woman’s voice, clear, strong, flexible, flooding the night with the bird-like trill of the mountain yodel. The sound rose and fell, and swelled and soared. A silence. Then, in a great burst of melody the chorus of voices within the pavilion answered the call. Again a silence. Again the wonder of the woman’s voice flooded the stillness, ending in a note higher, clearer, sweeter than any that had gone before. Then the little Tyrolese, her moment of glory ended, sped into the light of the noisy pavilion again.
When I turned to Von Gerhard my eyes were wet. “I shall have that to remember, when you are gone.”
Von Gerhard beckoned the hovering waiter. “Take these things away. And you need not return.” He placed something in the man’s palm—something that caused a sudden whisking away of empty dishes, and many obsequious bows.
Von Gerhard’s face was turned away from me, toward the beauty of the lake and sky. Now, as the last flirt of the waiter’s apron vanished around the corner he turned his head slowly, and I saw that in his eyes which made me catch my breath with apprehension.
“What is it?” I cried. “Norah? Max? The children?”
He shook his head. “Th
ey are well, so far, as I know. I—perhaps first I should tell you—although this is not the thing which I have to say to you—”
“Yes?” I urged him on, impatiently. I had never seen him like this.
“I do not sail this week. I shall not be with Gluck in Vienna this year. I shall stay here.”
“Here! Why? Surely—”
“Because I shall be needed here, Dawn. Because I cannot leave you now. You will need—some one—a friend—”
I stared at him with eyes that were wide with terror, waiting for I knew not what.
“Need—some one—for—what? I stammered. “Why should you—”
In the kindly shadow of the trees Von Gerhard’s hands took my icy ones, and held them in a close clasp of encouragement.
“Norah is coming to be with you—”
“Norah! Why? Tell me at once! At once!”
“Because Peter Orme has been sent home—cured,” said he.
The lights of the pavilion fell away, and advanced, and swung about in a great sickening circle. I shut my eyes. The lights still swung before my eyes. Von Gerhard leaned toward me with a word of alarm. I clung to his hands with all my strength.
“No!” I said, and the savage voice was not my own. “No! No! No! It isn’t true! It isn’t—Oh, it’s some joke, isn’t it? Tell me, it’s—it’s something funny, isn’t it? And after a bit we’ll laugh—we’ll laugh—of course—see! I am smiling already—”
“Dawn—dear one—it is true. God knows I wish that I could be happy to know it. The hospital authorities pronounce him cured. He has been quite sane for weeks.”
“You knew it—how long?”
“You know that Max has attended to all communications from the doctors there. A few weeks ago they wrote that Orme had shown evidences of recovery. He spoke of you, of the people he had known in New York, of his work on the paper, all quite rationally and calmly. But they must first be sure. Max went to New York a week ago. Peter was gone. The hospital authorities were frightened and apologetic. Peter had walked away quite coolly one day. He had gone into the city, borrowed money of some old newspaper cronies, and vanished. He may be there still. He may be—”
“Here! Ernst! Take me home! O God; I can’t do it! I can’t! I ought to be happy, but I’m not. I ought to be thankful, but I’m not, I’m not! The horror of having him there was great enough, but it was nothing compared to the horror of having him here. I used to dream that he was well again, and that he was searching for me, and the dreadful realness of it used to waken me, and I would find myself shivering with terror. Once I dreamed that I looked up from my desk to find him standing in the doorway, smiling that mirthless smile of his, and I heard him say, in his mocking way: `Hello, Dawn my love; looking wonderfully well. Grass widowhood agrees with you, eh?’”
“Dawn, you must not laugh like that. Come, we will go. You are shivering! Don’t, dear, don’t. See, you have Norah, and Max,and me to help you. We will put him on his feet. Physically he is not what he should be. I can do much for him.”
“You!” I cried, and the humor of it was too exquisite for laughter.
“For that I gave up Vienna,” said Von Gerhard, simply. “You, too, must do your share.”
“My share! I have done my share. He was in the gutter, and he was dragging me with him. When his insanity came upon him I thanked God for it, and struggled up again. Even Norah never knew what that struggle was. Whatever I am, I am in spite of him. I tell you I could hug my widow’s weeds. Ten years ago he showed me how horrible and unclean a thing can be made of this beautiful life. I was a despairing, cowering girl of twenty then—I am a woman now, happy in her work, her friends; growing broader and saner in thought, quicker to appreciate the finer things in life. And now—what?”
They were dashing off a rollicking folk-song indoors. When it was finished there came a burst of laughter and the sharp spat of applauding hands, and shouts of approbation. The sounds seemed seared upon my brain. I rose and ran down the path toward the waiting machine. There in the darkness I buried my shamed face in my hands and prayed for the tears that would not come.
It seemed hours before I heard Von Gerhard’s firm, quick tread upon the gravel path. He moved about the machine, adjusting this and that, then took his place at the wheel without a word. We glided out upon the smooth white road. All the loveliness of the night seemed to have vanished. Only the ugly, distorted shadows remained. The terror of uncertainty gripped me. I could not endure the sight of Von Gerhard’s stern, set face. I grasped his arm suddenly so that the machine veered and darted across the road. With a mighty wrench Von Gerhard righted it. He stopped the machine at the roadside.
“Careful, Kindchen,” he said, gravely.
“Ernst,” I said, and my breath came quickly, chokingly, as though I had been running fast, “Ernst, I can’t do it. I’m not big enough. I can’t. I hate him, I tell you, I hate him! My life is my own. I’ve made it what it is, in the face of a hundred temptations; in spite of a hundred pitfalls. I can’t lay it down again for Peter Orme to trample. Ernst, if you love me, take me away now. To Vienna—anywhere—only don’t ask me to take up my life with him again. I can’t—I can’t—”
“Love you?” repeated Ernst, slowly, “yes. Too well—”
“Too well—”
“Yes, too well for that, Gott sei dank, small one. Too well for that.”
CHAPTER XVIII
PETER ORME
A man’s figure rose from the shadows of the porch and came forward to meet us as we swung up to the curbing. I stifled a scream in my throat. As I shrank back into the seat I heard the quick intake of Von Gerhard’s breath as he leaned forward to peer into the darkness. A sick dread came upon me.
“Sa-a-ay, girl,” drawled the man’s voice, with a familiar little cackling laugh in it, “sa-a-ay, girl, the policeman on th’ beat’s got me spotted for a suspicious character. I been hoofin’ it up an’ down this block like a distracted mamma waitin’ for her daughter t’ come home from a boat ride.”
“Blackie! It’s only you!”
“Thanks, flatterer,” simpered Blackie, coming to the edge of the walk as I stepped from the automobile. “Was you expectin’ the landlady?”
“I don’t know just whom I expected. I—I’m nervous, I think, and you startled me. Dr.Von Gerhard was taken back for a moment, weren’t you, Doctor?”
Von Gerhard laughed ruefully. “Frankly, yes. It is not early. And visitors at this hour—”
“What in the world is it, Blackie?” I put in. “Don’t tell me that Norberg has been seized with one of his fiendish inspirations at this time of night.”
Blackie struck a match and held it for an instant so that the flare of it illuminated his face as he lighted his cigarette. There was no laughter in the deep-set black eyes.
“What is it Blackie?” I asked again. The horror of what Von Gerhard had told me made the prospect of any lesser trial a welcome relief.
“I got t’ talk to you for a minute. P’raps Von Gerhard ‘d better hear it, too. I telephoned you an hour ago. Tried to get you out to the bay. Waited here ever since. Got a parlor, or somethin’, where a guy can talk?”
I led the way indoors. The first floor seemed deserted. The bare, unfriendly boarding-house parlor was unoccupied, and one dim gas jet did duty as illumination.
“Bring in the set pieces,” muttered Blackie, as he turned two more gas jets flaring high. “This parlor just yells for a funeral.”
Von Gerhard was frowning. “Mrs. Orme is not well,” he began. “She has had a shock—some startling news concerning—”
“Her husband?” inquired Blackie, coolly. I started up with a cry. “How could you know?”
A look of relief came into Blackie’s face. “That helps a little. Now listen, kid. An’ w’en I get through, remember I’m there with the little helpin’ mitt. Have a cigarette, Doc?”
“No,” said Von Gerhard, shortly.
Blackie’s strange black eyes were fastened on my face
, and I saw an expression of pity in their depths as he began to talk.
“I was up at the Press Club tonight. Dropped in for a minute or two, like I always do on the rounds. The place sounded kind of still when I come up the steps, and I wondered where all the boys was. Looked into the billiard room—nothin’ doin’. Poked my head in at the writin’ room—same. Ambled into the readin’ room—empty. Well, I steered for the dining room, an’ there was the bunch. An’ just as I come in they give a roar, and I started to investigate. Up against the fireplace, with one hand in his pocket, and the other hanging careless like on the mantel, stood a man—stranger t’ me. He was talkin’ kind of low, and quick, bitin’ off his words like a Englishman. An’ the boys, they was starin’ with their eyes, an’ their mouths, and forgettin’ t’ smoke, an’ lettin’ their pipes an’ cigars go dead in their hands, while he talked. Talk! Sa-a-ay, girl, that guy, he could talk the leads right out of a ruled, locked form. I didn’t catch his name. Tall, thin, unearthly lookin’ chap, with the whitest teeth you ever saw, an’ eyes—well, his eyes was somethin’ like a lighted pipe with a little fine ash over the red, just waitin’ for a sudden pull t’ make it glow.”
“Peter!” I moaned, and buried my face in my hands. Von Gerhard put a quick hand on my arm. But I shook it off. “I’m not going to faint,” I said, through set teeth. “I’m not going to do anything silly. I want to think. I want to … Go on, Blackie.”
“Just a minute,” interrupted Von Gerhard. “Does he know where Mrs. Orme is living?”
“I’m coming t’ that,” returned Blackie, tranquilly. “Though for Dawn’s sake I’ll say right here he don’t know. I told him later, that she was takin’ a vacation up at her folks’ in Michigan.”
“Thank God!” I breathed.
“Wore a New York Press Club button, this guy did. I asked one of the boys standin’ on the outer edge of the circle what the fellow’s name was, but he only says: `Shut up Black! An’ listen. He’s seen every darn thing in the world.’ Well, I listened. He wasn’t braggin’. He wasn’t talkin’ big. He was just talkin’. Seems like he’d been war correspondent in the Boer war, and the Spanish-American, an’ Gawd knows where. He spoke low, not usin’ any big words, either, an’ I thought his eyes looked somethin’ like those of the Black Cat up on the mantel just over his head—you know what I mean, when the electric lights is turned on in-inside{sic} the ugly thing. Well, every time he showed signs of stoppin’, one of the boys would up with a question, and start him goin’ again. He knew everybody, an’ everything, an’ everywhere. All of a sudden one of the boys points to the Roosevelt signature on the wall—the one he scrawled up there along with all the other celebrities first time he was entertained by the Press Club boys. Well this guy, he looked at the name for a minute. `Roosevelt?’ he says, slow. `Oh, yes. Seems t’ me I’ve heard of him.’ Well, at that the boys yelled. Thought it was a good joke, seein’ that Ted had been smeared all over the first page of everything for years. But kid, I seen th’ look in that man’s eyes when he said it, and he wasn’t jokin’, girl. An’ it came t’ me, all of a sudden, that all the things he’d been talkin’ about had happened almost ten years back. After he’d made that break about Roosevelt he kind of shut up, and strolled over to the piano and began t’ play. You know that bum old piano, with half a dozen dead keys, and no tune?
