A Top-Floor Idyl Read online

  CHAPTER V

  GORDON HELPS

  The passing of the next week or two can only be referred to in a fewwords, for how can a man gauge the distress of a soul, measure theintensity of its pangs, weight the heavy burden of sorrow? That goodlittle Dr. Porter came in very often. Most tactfully he pretended thathis visits were chiefly to me, and would merely drop into the other roomon his way out of mine; at any rate the smallness of the bill herendered long afterwards made me surmise that this was the case.

  In the meanwhile, the weather remained very warm and the doors wereoften left open. I went into the room quite frequently. Eulalie is thesalt of the earth, but she still has a little of the roughness of theunground crystal so that, for conversational purposes, Frances Dupontperhaps found my presence more congenial. Her faithful, but temporary,retainer was always there, exuding an atmosphere of robust health andlending propriety to my visits. She was generally darning socks.

  The hungry one snatches at any morsel presented to him, while those whoare dying of thirst pay little heed to the turbidity of pools they maychance upon. The poor Murillo-girl, perforce, had to be content withsuch friendship and care as her two new friends could give her. Friedaalways came in once a day, but she was tremendously busy with her Orion.Indeed, her visits were eagerly awaited; she brought little doses ofcomfort, tiny portions of cheer that vied with Porter's remedies inefficacy and, possibly, were much pleasanter to take.

  From my friend Hawkins I borrowed baby-scales, fallen into desuetude,and triumphantly jotted down the ounces gained each week by Baby Paul. Ibelieve that the humorous peculiarities of my countenance excited theinfant's risibilities; at any rate, the young mother assured me that hesmiled when he looked at me. Presently, after the violence of the blowhad been slightly assuaged and the hours of silent weeping began to growshorter, she managed, at times, to look at me as if I also brought alittle consolation.

  I remember so well the morning when I found the bed empty and neatlymade up and the young woman sitting in an uncomfortable rocker. Iinsisted on returning at once to my room for my old Morris chair,knowing that she would be much easier in it. At first, to myconsternation, she refused to accept it, under some plea that she didnot want me to be deprived of it. When she finally consented, her eyeswere a little moist and I was delighted when she acknowledged that itgave her excellent comfort. A little later came the chapter ofconfidences, memories of brief happy days with her husband, the warp andwoof of an existence that had already suffered from broken threads andheart-strings sorely strained.

  She had an Aunt Lucinda, it appeared, and when the teacher of singing inProvidence had declared that the girl's voice was an uncut jewel ofgreat price that must be smoothed over to perfection by study abroad,the aunt had consented to extend some help and Frances had gone over.

  There had been nearly two years of hard study, with some disappointmentsand rebuffs, and, finally, great improvement. The crabbed teacher hadbegun to smile at her and pat her on the back, so that other youngwomen had been envious. This, I presume, was tantamount to a badge ofmerit. Then, she had sung in one or two concerts and, suddenly, PaulDupont, the marvelous, had come into her life. He was a first prize ofthe _Conservatoire_, for the violin, and, people said, the coming man.There had been another concert and, among other things, Frances had sungGounod's "Ave Maria" while Paul had played the obligato. It was thenthat, for the first time, her own voice thrilled her. Joined to thevibrant notes the man could cause to weep and cry out in hope, her songhad sounded like a solemn paean of victorious achievement. Critics hadwritten of her power and brilliancy, of her splendid ease of execution.

  And then had come the making of love. He had played again for her, andshe had put her soul in the songs, for him to revel in, for her to cryout the beating of her heart. It seemed to have come with the swiftnessof a summer storm, and they had married, with just a few friends presentto witness the ceremony and rejoice in their happiness.

  Aunt Lucinda had written that a woman, who would go abroad and espousea Papist and a fiddler, was utterly beyond the pale. Let her never showher face in Providence again!

  But what did it matter! Happiness lay in the hollow of their hands, rosyand bright, full of wondrous promise. Yet she had written to AuntLucinda, dutifully, expressing hope that at some later time she might belooked upon with greater indulgence. And there had been more beautifulsongs, and Paul had played, and their souls had vibrated together.Finally, a man from New York had engaged them to come over to Americaand give a series of concerts. When they started away, she thought shewas getting a bad cold, for her voice was beginning to get a littlehusky. Paul asserted that the trip at sea and the long rest wouldcertainly make everything all right. But in New York she had beencompelled to call on a doctor, who was an exceedingly busy man, withhosts of patients, who sprayed her throat and gave her medicine to takeand charged very high fees, and--and the voice had kept on growinghuskier and--and it was no use trying to sing, and--and the engagementhad been broken. And Paul had been so good and swore she would be betterby and by, and he had played in concerts, without her, and everythingwent on very well, except her voice. Then, one day, she had told a mostmarvelous secret to Paul, and they had rejoiced together and been veryhappy. Then the war had come like a bolt from the blue, and Paul hadtaken the very first boat with hundreds of other reservists. She wouldfollow him to France after the baby was born, and there she would waitfor him in the dear old house of his parents, who were country people,cultivating a farm and oh! so proud of their wonderful son. They hadbeen ever so good and kind to her. She had written to them severaltimes, but no answer had ever come and then some one told her that thesmall village in which they lived had been razed to the ground. It wasover there on the other side of the Marne. And now it was ever so longsince she had received any word from Paul, and they had saved verylittle, because money came so easily, and--and now Paul was dead and shecouldn't sing!

  Frieda was in the room with me when the tale was told. She rushed out,and I found her, a few minutes later, in my room, her nose swollen andher eyes devastated by weeping. But she used my wash-basin and towelsfor plentiful ablutions and returned to the room where I left her alonewith Frances Dupont, realizing the futility of a man in suchcircumstances.

  At the end of another week our stout angel burst again into my room.Eulalie had been discharged, with mutual regrets, and little Paul wasgrowing apace. Three and a half ounces in seven days!

  "Dave! We've got to find something for Frances to do! In a very shorttime she will not have a penny left. Go to work at once and, in themeanwhile, I'll do my best also. Yes, I know perfectly well that the twoof us will see that she doesn't suffer, but she doesn't want charity;she wants work!"

  She was off again, and I knew that she would at once inquire of thebutcher, the baker and the candlestick-maker in regard to positionssuited to a young woman with a Murillo-face and a baby. I put on my hatand went at once to Gordon's studio, facing Central Park. I was luckyenough to find him in.

  "Sit down and don't bother me," he said pleasantly. "I must use up thelast of this light."

  Before him stood an easel with a wonderful portrait of a young womanendowed with splendid neck and arms. He was working at some detail ofthe gown, which the lady had evidently sent over for him, since thegarment was disposed about a large mannikin with a vacuous face. Iwatched delightedly the sure touches with which he reproduced the sheenof the silk. Gordon doesn't want to talk while he paints, pretendingthat in order to do his best work a man must bend all his energies toit, whether he is sawing wood or writing elegies.

  "People wouldn't begin chatting to a fellow while he played Chopin," hetold me one day. "What right have they to disturb the harmonies in aman's mind when he's creating melodies in color? Hang theirimpertinence!"

  I presume, however, that painting a silk dress was somewhat mechanicalwork to him, for, after some minutes of silent toil, during which heonly stepped back once to survey his work, he began to speak. Like manyother peo
ple, he has not the slightest objection to the infringing ofhis own rules. It only behooves others to obey them.

  "That's Miss Sophia Van Rossum," he told me, taking his short pipe outof his mouth and putting it down on his stool. "She's been coming infrom Southampton three times a week, to pose. Drives her own car, youknow, and has been arrested a dozen times for speeding. So I finishedthe face and hands first, and now I'm sticking in the dress. Don't needher for that."

  "Very rich people, are they not?" I asked.

  "You bet. Zinc and lead, I believe; the old man made it in. Fine buxomcreature, isn't she? And mighty good hearted in her way. She hasn't muchmore brains than a linnet, I think, and she swims and rows and shoots.Golf and tennis, too. Found her rather hard to paint, because it'sdifficult for her to keep still. Keeps on asking indignantly why I putblue on her nose, and reaching out for the box of chocolates. I told herlast time I couldn't paint her with one cheek all bulged out with_pralines_. It made her laugh, and I lost fifteen minutes before I couldquiet her down."

  He worked hard for another ten minutes, during which I considered thathe was rather severe on the young lady, or else had idealized her, whichis not a habit of his. To me she looks kindly and not a bitunintelligent, a rather fine specimen of the robustious modern youngwoman. Gordon picked up his brushes.

  "That'll do," he said. "The light is changing. Now what the devil do youwant? Awfully glad to see you."

  My friend is a good listener. I told him about Frances Dupont, givinghim a brief account of her story and explaining that Frieda and I wantedto find something for her to do.

  "Of course," I finally said, "I suppose that you are going away verysoon to spend the rest of this hot summer in the country. Otherwise, Iwould have asked if you couldn't make use of her for a model, at leasttill we can find something else."

  "I'm not going away yet," he answered, "and I emphatically cannot employher, or, at any rate, I won't, which comes to the same thing. Hitherto Ihave kept my serenity of mind unimpaired by the simple process offighting shy of females in distress. There are lots of models who can bedepended on to keep their mouths shut and not bother a fellow. Myinterest is in my picture and nothing else, and I refuse to have itdiverted by the economical problems of ladies on their uppers. If youwant a check, I'll give it to you for her, not on her account, butbecause you're the best, old, weak-minded idiot in this burg and I'mglad to help you out, however silly your quixotic ideas may be. Wait aminute, I'll write one out for you."

  "No," I answered, "I've just sold two stories and got some advanceroyalty on my novel. I'd come and ask you for money, if I needed it,urgently. I might have to, some day. But this poor thing's worryingherself to death and that's what I want to remedy at once, if possible.A little occupation would give her something else to think about. If Itell her that she will have to pose in silence, that it's a part of thework she's engaged for, she won't say a word. She's an intelligentwoman."

  "Why doesn't Frieda employ her?" he asked.

  "Because she's no slender, ethereal sprite. Doesn't have anything of thewoodland nymph about her, that's why. Besides, Frieda's doing an Orionwith a covey of Pleiades scattering before him, at present."

  "I have nothing for the Winter Academy, just now," said Gordon,appearing to relent a little. "Strangely enough, Miss Van Rossum doesn'tcare to have her portrait exhibited. If I really found a remarkabletype, I'd like to do a mother and child. If you really think this Mrs.Dupont will keep still and is willing to earn a few weeks of bread andcheese by the silence of her tongue and some ability to sit quietly in achair without getting the fidgets, I shouldn't mind trying her. But, ofcourse, she'd have to come up to specifications. I'll have to look ather first. Have you spoken to her about it?"

  "Not a word," I answered, "I didn't want to see her disappointed."

  "Of course, it's a foolish thing to do," he said, "but you're so anxiousabout it that I'll see whether it can be managed. She's just heard ofher husband's death, has she? Well, she won't be thinking of other menfor a while and won't expect to be made love to. Take up your hat, andwe'll go over to that nursery of yours. I'll look her over."

  If I hadn't known him so well, I should have been provoked at hisspeaking as if the woman had been some second-hand terrier I wanted todispose of. We took the elevator and were shot down to the groundfloor.

  "Mind you," he warned me, "it's ten to one that I'll discover somethingthat will make this errand useless. The mere fact of a woman's having abroken-down voice and a baby doesn't necessarily qualify her to pose asa mother. The woods are full of them. You've probably endowed her withgood looks that exist only in your imagination."

  To this I made no answer. The mere fact of his having consented toinvestigate was already a distinct triumph for me. Twenty minutes laterwe were climbing up the stairs of what he called my zoologicalboarding-house.

  On the second landing, he stopped abruptly and listened. Then he turnedto me with a corner of his mouth twisted in the beginning of one of hissarcastic grins.

  "Who's that playing your piano?" he asked.

  "I--I fancy it must be Mrs. Dupont," I answered. "You see, she's verymuch alone, and my door was open, and I suppose she saw the thing andwalked in, not knowing that I should return so soon."

  "Oh! You needn't look so sheepish," he told me. "You look as if apoliceman had caught you with a jimmy in your hip-pocket. My dear oldboy, I hope she isn't the straw that's going to break your back, you oldBactrian camel! The little wagons they use for the carrying of dynamitein New York, wherewith to soften its tough old heart and permit thelaying of foundations, are painted red and marked _explosives_. Were Ithe world's czar, I should have every woman labelled the same way.They're dangerous things."

  Gordon is somewhat apt to mix his metaphors, a thing rather natural toone who seeks to wed his wit with a pose of scepticism. Really simplelanguage, clothing ordinary common sense, is inadequate for a scoffer;also, I am afraid, for a man who writes about mules and virtuous dogs.

  I think we both instinctively stepped more lightly in ascending theremaining stairs. She was playing very softly. It was a dreamy thingwith recurring little sobs of notes. For a moment we stopped again; Ithink it had appealed to us. Then I went in, accompanied by Gordon, andshe ceased at once, startled and coloring a little.

  "I am so glad you were diverting yourself with the old piano," I toldher. "I hope you will always use it when I am out, and--and perhapsonce in a while when I am in. My mother used to play such things; shewasn't always happy. I beg to present my friend Gordon McGrath, who is agreat painter. He's awfully fond of Frieda."

  This, I think, was a canny and effective introduction. Any friend ofFrieda's must be very welcome to her.

  "Madame," said Gordon, after she had proffered her hand, "won't youoblige us by sitting down. You have been caught in the act and deservethe penalty of being humbly begged to play that over again."

  She looked at me, uncertainly.

  "It would give me ever so much pleasure," I assured her.

  At once she sat again and touched the keys. I know so little of musicthat my opinions in regard to it are utterly worthless, but I knew atonce that she was no marvelous pianist. No, she was only a woman with asoul for harmony, which found soft and tender expression on my mother'sold Steinway. Gordon, I noted, sat down in my worst chair, with an elbowon his knee, his chin resting on the closed knuckles. It was evidentthat he was watching her, studying her every motion, the faint swayingof her shapely head, the wandering of her hands over the keyboard. Once,she stopped very suddenly and listened.

  No, she was only a woman, with a soul for harmony.]

  "I beg your pardon," she said, "I thought it was Baby."

  She went on, reassured, to an ending that came very soon. It left in mea desire for more, but I could not ask her to continue. She had broughta tiny bit of herself into the room, but she belonged body and soul tothe mite in the other.

  "I am ever so much obliged to you," I said, as she rose.


  "Madame," said Gordon, "it was indeed a treat."

  "I am very glad you liked it," she said very simply, "and--and now Imust go back."

  She smiled, faintly, and inclined her head. We had both risen andthanked her again. She passed out of the room and, once she had regainedher own, I heard her faint, husky voice.

  "It's mother's own wee lamb!" it said.

  Gordon picked up one of my cigarettes, looked at it, put it down, andtook one of his own from his case. Then, he went and stood in front ofmy open window, looking out, with his hands stuffed deeply in histrousers pockets. I maintained a discreet silence.

  "Come over here," he ordered, brusquely, as is often his way, and Icomplied, holding on to my calabash and filling it from my pouch.

  "Dave," he said, very low, that his voice might not carry through theopen doors into the next room. "Those powder-wagons aren't in it. Whenthe dynamite happens to blow up some Dago, it's a mere accident; thestuff itself is intended for permissible purposes. A woman like that isbound to play havoc with some one, and I'm afraid you're the poor oldidiot marked by fate. You're as weak as a decrepit cat. I can see thewhole programme; sympathy at first and the desire to console, all mixedup with the imagination that has permitted you to write that 'Land o'Love.' My dear man, you might just as well go and commit suicide in somedecent way. If you don't look out, you're done for!"

  "Don't be an ass, Gordon," I told him, lighting my pipe.

  "All right, it's your own funeral. But don't come to me, afterwards, andweep on my shirtfront, that's all. Women get over the loss of ahusband, they even become reconciled to the death of a baby, sometimes.And this one has music in her soul, and for ever and a day she is goingto deplore the song that fled from her lips. She'll always be unhappyand you'll have to keep on consoling, and the freedom of your thoughtswill vanish, and, when you try to write, you will have her and hermiseries always before you. Then you will shed tears on your typewriterinstead of producing anything. Better give Frieda some money for her andgo fishing. Don't come back until the Milliken woman sends a postaltelling you that the coast is clear."

  "I know nothing about fishing," I answered.

  "Then go and learn."

  "You're talking arrant nonsense," I informed him.

  "I am giving you the quintessence of solid wisdom," he retorted. "Butnow I'll tell you about her posing for me. I'm not doing this for yoursake or hers, but because she has a really interesting head, and I knowmyself. I can get a good picture out of her, and I'll employ her forabout three weeks. That'll be plenty. After that, I expect to go awayand stay with the Van Rossums in the country. While Mrs. Dupont is busyposing for me, you and Frieda can look up another job for her. Let mesee; I might possibly be able to pass her on to some other studio, ifshe takes to posing, properly."

  I put my pipe down, intending to strike while the iron was hot.

  "Come in with me," I told him.

  "Of course you understand that in some ways she's going to be a gooddeal of a nuisance," he said hurriedly. "The baby squalling when I'vejust happened to get into my stride and the mother having to retire tofeed the thing. But never mind, she's got quite a stunning face."

  I knocked at her door, although I could see her sitting at the windowwith the baby in her arms.

  "Please don't trouble to get up," I said. "My friend Gordon happens toneed a model; he's thinking of a picture of a mother and child and hastold me that, if you could pose for him, he would be glad to employ you.It wouldn't last very long, but you would have the baby with you. By theway, painters have to think very hard when they're at work and so theycan't talk much at the same time, so that models have to keep verystill. I know you won't mind that, because it's part of the work."

  The top button of her waist was open. Instinctively her hand went up toit and covered the very small expanse of white neck that had beenrevealed.

  "A model!" she exclaimed huskily. "I--I don't know----"

  Gordon's face looked as if it was graven in stone.

  "It is just for the face and hands," he said coldly. "It will be apicture of a woman sitting at an open window; just as you were when wecame in. Of course, if you don't care to----"

  "Oh! Indeed, I shall be very glad and--and grateful," she answered, verylow. "I will do my best to please you."

  "Thanks! I shall be obliged, if you will come on Monday morning at ten."

  "Certainly. I shall be there without fail," she answered.

  "Very well. I am glad to have met you, Mrs. Dupont. David, I wish Icould dine with you at Camus, this evening, but I have an appointment tomeet some people at Claremont. Good-by."

  He bowed civilly to Frances Dupont, waved a hand at me, and was gone.

  "Gordon is a tip-top painter," I told her. "His ways are sometimesrather gruff, but you mustn't mind them. He means all right."

  "Oh! That makes no difference. Some of my teachers were pretty gruff,but I paid no attention. I only thought of the work to be done."

  "Of course, that's the only thing to keep in mind," I answered.

  "Yes, and I am ever so much obliged to you," she said gratefully."You're the best and kindest of friends."

  With this I left her and returned to my room, hoping that Gordonwouldn't be too exacting with her, and thinking with much amusement ofall his warnings and his fears for my safety. That's the trouble withbeing so tremendously wise and cynical; it doesn't make for optimism.