A Top-Floor Idyl Page 9

  CHAPTER IX

  I HEAR RUMORS ABOUT GORDON

  When we reached the top floor, Frances took the baby from me, while Ilit her gas-jet. She kissed Baby Paul effusively, and placed him on thebed, after which she turned to me.

  "It has done him ever so much good," she declared. "See how splendidlyhe looks now. Tell me, why are you so kind to me?"

  Women have been in the habit of propounding riddles ever since the worldbegan. This was a hard one, indeed, to answer, because I didn't knowmyself. I could hardly tell her that it was because, at leasttheoretically, every beautiful woman is loved by every man, nor could Isay that it was because she had inspired me with pity for her.

  "We have had a few pleasant moments together," I replied, "and I am everso glad that Baby Paul has derived so much benefit. The kindness youspeak of is mere egotism. I have given myself the great pleasure ofyour company. I do not suppose you realize how much that means to a chapwhose usual confidant is his writing machine, and whose society, exceptat rare intervals, is made up of old books. My dear child, in thistransaction I am the favored one."

  I was surprised to see a little shiver pass over her frame.

  "Oh! Mr. Cole, sometimes I can't help feeling such wonder, suchamazement, when I think of how differently all these things might havecome to pass. I--I was going off to the hospital on the next day. Ishould surely have met kindness and good enough care, but no one canunderstand what it was to me to have Frieda come in, with her sweetsympathetic face. It was as if some loving sister had dropped down to mefrom Heaven, and--and she told me about you. I--I remember her verywords; she said that you were a man to be trusted, clean of soul as achild, the only one she had ever met into whose keeping she wouldentrust all that she holds most dear."

  "Frieda is much given to exaggeration," I remarked, uneasily.

  "She is not. Think of what my feelings would have been on the day whenthey would have sent me out of the hospital, with not a friend in theworld, not a kindly heart to turn to!"

  "My dear child," I said, "I believe that, if you have not beenaltogether forgotten by the gods and goddesses, it was because you wereworthy of their kindest regard. I am confident that our little trip onthe water will make you sleep soundly, and I trust that you will havepleasant dreams."

  Yes! I occasionally call her my dear child, now. Neither my forty yearsnor the thinness of my thatch really entitles me to consider myselfsufficiently venerable to have been her parent. But I am the leastformal of men and find it difficult to call her Madame or Mrs. Dupont.If I did so now, I think that she would wonder if I was aggrievedagainst her, for some such foolish reason as women are always keen oninventing and annoying themselves with. Once in a while I even call herFrances, but it is a habit I ought not to permit to grow upon me. Thereare altogether too many O'Flaherty's in the world, masculine, feminineand neuter.

  She closed her door, after a friendly pressure of our hands, and I wentto my room to write. The ideas, however, came but slowly and, uponarrival, were of the poorest. I, therefore, soon took my pipe, put myfeet on the window ledge and listened to a distant phonograph. At last,came silence, a gradual extinguishing of lights in windows opposite, andyawns from myself. I must repeat these trips, they make for soundslumber.

  On the next day I took it upon myself to go to the small house inBrooklyn where Frances had formerly boarded. She was anxious to know ifany letters might have come for her that had not been forwarded. She hadwondered why her husband's parents had never written to announce thedreadful news which, however, had been briefly confirmed on inquiry atthe Consulate. In the eastern section of our Greater City, which isabout as familiar to me as the wilds of Kamchatka, I promptly lostmyself. But kindly souls directed me, and I reached a dwelling that wasall boarded up and bore a sign indicating that the premises were to belet. Thence, I went to a distant real estate office where the peoplewere unable to give me any indication or trace of the former tenants,who had rented out rooms.

  On my return I found Eulalie rummaging among my bureau drawers. She heldup two undergarments and bade me observe the perfection of her darning,whereupon I assured her that she was a large, fat pearl without price.

  "_Oui, Monsieur_," she assented, without understanding me in the least."Madame Dupont has gone to my cousin, Madame Smith. Her name wasCarpaux, like mine, but she married an American painter."

  "An artist?" I inquired.

  "_Oui, Monsieur._ He used to paint and decorate and put on wallpaper.Then, he went away to Alaska after gold and never sent his address. SoFelicie has opened a cleaning and dyeing shop and is doing very well.She has not heard from Smith for sixteen years, so that she thinks heis, perhaps, lost. She has told me that she wanted an American person,who could speak French, to wait on customers and keep the books and sendthe bills and write names and addresses on the packages. She lives inthe back of the store. There is a big bed that would be very commodiousfor putting the baby on. Madame Dupont has gone to see. Next week I goto work there also and I will keep an eye on the baby when Madame is atthe counter."

  I know the shop; it is on Sixth Avenue, not far away. In the windowalways hang garments intended to show the perfection of dyeing andcleaning reached by the establishment. There is a taxidermist on oneside of it and a cheap restaurant on the other. When weary of the odorof benzine and soap suds, Frances will be able to stand on the door-sillfor a moment and inhale the effluvia of fried oysters or defunctcanaries.

  Eulalie left my room, and I remained there, appalled. I wish I couldhave found some better or more pleasant occupation for Frances.

  When the latter returned, she looked cheerfully at me and announced thatshe had accepted the position tendered to her.

  "I shall be able to have Baby with me," she explained, "and it will keepour bodies and souls together. I hope I shall suit Madame Smith. Do youknow anything about how to keep books?"

  At once I took paper and pencil and launched into a long explanation,undoubtedly bewildering her by the extent of my ignorance. Then I wentout and got her a little book on the subject, over which she toiledfiercely for two days, after which she went to work, bearing little Paulin her arms, and returned at suppertime, looking very tired.

  "It is all right," she announced. "Felicie is a very nice, hard-workingwoman, and tells me that Baby is a very fine child. I'll get along verywell."

  When a woman is really brave and strong, she makes a man feel likerather small potatoes. Her courage and determination were fine indeed,and I must say my admiration for her grew apace. After the hopes she hadentertained; after the years spent in study, the fall must have seemed aterrible one to her. Yet she accepted the pittance offered to her,gratefully and with splendid pluck.

  A week after this Gordon ran up to town in somebody's car, to make aselection of cravats at the only shop in New York where, according tohim, a man could buy a decent necktie.

  "Your limitations are frightful," I told him. "I know of a thousand."

  "I know you do," he replied, "and most of your ties would make a doglaugh. The rest of them would make him weep. Come along with me for abite of lunch at the Biltmore."

  Over the Little Neck clam cocktails he announced some great triumphs hehad achieved at golf.

  "And I can nearly hold my own with Miss Van Rossum at tennis," he said."She's a wonder at it. We got arrested last Friday on the Jerichoturnpike for going fifty miles an hour, but she jollied the policeman sothat he only swore to thirty, and we were let off with a reprimand. Goodthing she was at the wheel. If I'd been driving, I'd have been fined thelimit."

  "You would have deserved it," I told him.

  "I think the old judge knew her father; pretty big gun on the island,you know. By the way, what's become of--of the Murillo young woman?"

  I explained to him how she was occupied.

  "The deuce! You could certainly have found something easier for her todo, if you'd tried hard enough," he reproached me.

  "I did all I could, and so did Frieda, but our hunt was in vai
n, onaccount of the baby."

  "Yes, there's that plagued infant," he said, reflectively.

  "I'll be glad, if you can shed the light of your genius on thesituation, old man," I told him. "Among your enormous circle offriends----"

  "You go to the devil! I'm not going to have people saying that GordonMcGrath is so interested in his model that he's trying to get rid of herby placing her somewhere or other. No, old boy, if I should hear ofanything, I will let you know, but I'm not going to hunt for it. Do youknow, that woman's got a wonderful face. Did you ever see such a noseand mouth? When she opens those big eyes of hers and looks at you andspeaks in that hoarse voice, it's quite pathetic. I--I think I'll takeher on again, for a short time."

  "I'm afraid you won't," I replied. "I wouldn't advise her to lose steadyemployment for the purpose of posing a couple of weeks for you."

  "I suppose not. How do you like that Spanish omelette?"

  Thus he cut short all reference to Frances, and, soon afterwards, weparted on the Avenue.

  * * * * *

  During the next two months there was little worthy of being chronicled.Frances, I think, grew a little thinner, but always asserted that shewas in the best of health. Baby Paul was rapidly accumulating weight,and Frieda and I offered him a small baby carriage, which folded up mostcleverly and took little room in the shop or at home. It was on theoccasion of the completion of his fourth month that the presentation wasmade by my dear old friend.

  "There, my dear, is a gimcrack thing David insisted on buying. The manat the store swore it couldn't possibly fold up suddenly with the babyin it. And now what do you think of my having that old blue dress ofmine dyed black?"

  The reply of Frances was a heartfelt one as to the perambulator, butdiscouraging in regard to the garment.

  "Oh, never mind," said Frieda. "I'll make paint rags out of it, then. Ionly thought I'd help out the shop. Now let us get David to give us acup of tea."

  We were talking cheerfully together, when Gordon dropped in from theskies, most unexpectedly. We were glad to see him and, since four peoplein my room crowded it considerably, my friend took a seat on the bed. Ihad first met him in the Bohemia of the Latin Quarter, when his necktieout-floated all others and any one prophesying that he would become theportrayer in ordinary to the unsubmerged would have been met withincredulous stares. At that time, for him, Beranger was the only poetand Murger the only writer. And now his clothes are built, while hisshoes are designed. Yet, in my top floor, he showed some of the oldAdam, joining gladly in our orgy of tea and wafers and utterlyforgetting all pose. I noticed that he looked a great deal at Frances,but it was no impertinent stare. She was quite unconscious of hisscrutiny or, if at all aware of it, probably deemed it a continuation ofhis method of artistic study. She had become accustomed to it in hisstudio.

  "David tells me that you are lost to me as a model," he said, suddenly,with a sort of eagerness that showed a trace of disappointment.

  "I must now plod along without interruption," she answered.

  "I had thought of making another study. The finished thing is all right,but one doesn't come across a face like yours very often."

  "No," put in Frieda, "and it's a good thing for you that you've had theexclusive painting of it. If she had continued as a model and been doneby every Tom, Dick and Harry----"

  "True. Since I can't paint her again, I'm glad no one else will. No,thank you, I won't have any more tea. How's the new picture, Frieda?"

  For a few minutes the two monopolized the conversation. To some extentthey spoke a jargon of their own, to which Frances and I listened withlittle understanding.

  "And what do you think of it, Dave?" he asked, turning abruptly to me.

  "It is a beautiful thing," I answered. "If I had Frieda's imaginationand her sense of beauty, I should be the great, undiscovered Americannovelist. She makes one believe that the world is all roses and violetsand heliotropes, touched by sunshine and kissed by soft breezes. It istenanted only by sprites and godlings, according to her magic brush."

  "The world is no such thing," he retorted, sharply.

  "The world is what one's imagination, one's sentiment and one'sconscience makes it," I asserted, "at least during some precious momentsof every lifetime."

  "Oh! I know. You can sit at that old machine of yours and throw yourhead back and see more upon your ceiling than the cracked plaster, andFrieda does the same thing. Now my way is to take real flesh and blood,yes, and dead lobsters and codfish and dowagers and paint them in thebest light I can get on them, but it's the light I really see."

  "It is nothing of the kind," I emphatically disclaimed. "It is the lightyour temperament sees, and your rendering of it is not much closer totruth than Caruso's 'Celeste Aida' can be to an ordinary lover's appeal.There is no such thing as realism in painting, while, in literature, ithas chiefly produced monsters."

  "Isn't he a dear old donkey?" Gordon appealed to the two women.

  "One of those animals once spoke the truth to a minor prophet," remarkedFrances, quietly.

  "You are quoting the only recorded exception," he laughed, "but the hitwas a good one. Yet Dave is nothing but an incurable optimist and achronic wearer of pink glasses."

  "That, I think, is what makes him so loveable," put in Frieda, whereatFrances smiled at her, and I might have blushed had I not long ago lostthe habit.

  Gordon rose, with the suddenness which characterizes his movements, anddeclared he must run away at once. He shook hands all around, hastily,and declined my offer to see him down to the door.

  "In Italy," said Frieda, "I have eaten a sauce made with vinegar andsweet things. They call it _agrodolce_, I believe, and the Germans makea soup with beer. Neither of them appeal to me at all. Gordon is awonderful painter, but he's always trying to mix up art with iconoclasm.It can't spoil his pictures, I'm sure, but it may--what was theexpression Kid Sullivan was fond of using? Oh yes, some day it may handout a jolt to him. He has a perfectly artistic temperament and thegreatest talent, but he stirs up with them a dreadful mess of cynicismand cold-blooded calculation. My dear Dave, let you and I stick to oursoft colors and minor tones. If either of us ever abandoned them, weshould be able to see nothing but dull grays."

  "We understand our limitations, Frieda," I told her, "and there isnothing that fits one better to enjoy life. Gordon says that it is allfoolishness, and can't understand that a fellow should walk along a mileof commonplace hedge and stop because he has found a wild rose. Thelatter, with due respect to him, is as big a truth as the privet, and apleasanter one."

  Presently, Frieda, after consuming a third cup of tea and finishing thecrackers, said that she must be going home. I insisted on accompanyingher down the stairs and naturally followed her to her domicile, whereshe informed me that she was going to wash her hair and forbade myentering.

  On the other side of the street, on my return, I saw Frances going intoDr. Porter's office. He has prevailed upon her to let him do somethingto her throat, and she goes in once or twice a week. He has begged herto come as a special and particular favor to him. I'm sure I don't knowwhat he expects to accomplish, for he is somewhat reticent in thematter. Perhaps he may have thought it well to arouse a little hope inher. I am afraid that in her life she sees a good deal of the dullgrays Frieda was speaking of.

  * * * * *

  And now a few more weeks have gone by and the middle of winter has come.On Sunday afternoons we always have tea in my room, except when we gothrough the same function at Frieda's. To my surprise, Gordon's visitshave been repeated a number of times. Frieda and he abuse one anothermost unmercifully, like the very best of friends, and he persistentlykeeps on observing Frances. It looks as if she exerted some strangefascination upon him, of which she is perfectly ignorant. He never goesbeyond the bounds of the most simple friendliness, but, sometimes, shesharply resents some cynical remark of his, without seeming to disturbhim in the least.

  Meanwhile,
my friend Willoughby Jones has told me that Gordon is doingMrs. Van Rossum's portrait, while the younger lady roams about thestudio and eats chocolates, talking about carburetors and tarpon-tackle.The family will leave soon in search of the balmy zephyrs of Florida. Myfriend's chatter also included the information that Gordon might soontake a run down there.

  "They say he's becoming a captive of her bow and spear," he told me. "Itlooks as if he were trying to join the ranks of the Four Hundred. It hasbeen said that the Van Rossums, or at least Miss Sophia, show somewillingness to adopt him. Wouldn't it be funny?"

  Funny! It would be tragic! I can't for an instant reconcile myself tosuch an idea, for I hardly think that Miss Van Rossum is the sort ofyoung woman who would inspire Gordon with a consuming love. Come tothink of it, I have never known him to be in love with any one, so howcan I know the kind of fair charmer that will produce in him what theFrench call the lightning stroke? And then, Willoughby Jones is known asan inveterate and notorious gossip. The whole matter, if not an utterinvention, is simply based on Gordon's policy to cultivate the peoplewho can afford to pay five thousand for a full-length portrait. I wonderwhether it would not be well for me to give him a word of warning? No!If I did such a thing, he would certainly tell me not to be a donkey,and I should deserve the rebuke.