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diff --git a/.gitattributes b/.gitattributes new file mode 100644 index 0000000..6833f05 --- /dev/null +++ b/.gitattributes @@ -0,0 +1,3 @@ +* text=auto +*.txt text +*.md text diff --git a/1602-0.txt b/1602-0.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..24b2142 --- /dev/null +++ b/1602-0.txt @@ -0,0 +1,7094 @@ +The Project Gutenberg eBook of Dawn O’Hara, by Edna Ferber + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and +most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions +whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms +of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at +www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you +will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before +using this eBook. + +Title: Dawn O’Hara + The Girl Who Laughed + +Author: Edna Ferber + +Release Date: January, 1999 [eBook #1602] +[Most recently updated: April 20, 2023] + +Language: English + + +*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK DAWN O’HARA *** + + + + +Dawn O’Hara + +THE GIRL WHO LAUGHED + +By Edna Ferber + + + + +TO MY DEAR MOTHER +WHO FREQUENTLY INTERRUPTS +AND TO +MY SISTER FANNIE +WHO SAYS “SH-SH-SH!” OUTSIDE MY DOOR + + + + +CONTENTS + + CHAPTER I. THE SMASH-UP + CHAPTER II. MOSTLY EGGS + CHAPTER III. GOOD AS NEW + CHAPTER IV. DAWN DEVELOPS A HEIMWEH + CHAPTER V. THE ABSURD BECOMES SERIOUS + CHAPTER VI. STEEPED IN GERMAN + CHAPTER VII. BLACKIE’S PHILOSOPHY + CHAPTER VIII. KAFFEE AND KAFFEEKUCHEN + CHAPTER IX. THE LADY FROM VIENNA + CHAPTER X. A TRAGEDY OF GOWNS + CHAPTER XI. VON GERHARD SPEAKS + CHAPTER XII. BENNIE THE CONSOLER + CHAPTER XIII. THE TEST + CHAPTER XIV. BENNIE AND THE CHARMING OLD MAID + CHAPTER XV. FAREWELL TO KNAPFS + CHAPTER XVI. JUNE MOONLIGHT, AND A NEW BOARDINGHOUSE + CHAPTER XVII. THE SHADOW OF TERROR + CHAPTER XVIII. PETER ORME + CHAPTER XIX. A TURN OF THE WHEEL + CHAPTER XX. BLACKIE’S VACATION COMES + CHAPTER XXI. HAPPINESS + + + + +DAWN O’HARA + + + + +CHAPTER I. +THE SMASH-UP + + +There are a number of things that are pleasanter than being sick in a +New York boarding-house when one’s nearest dearest is a married sister +up in far-away Michigan. + +Some one must have been very kind, for there were doctors, and a +blue-and-white striped nurse, and bottles and things. There was even a +vase of perky carnations—scarlet ones. I discovered that they had a +trick of nodding their heads, saucily. The discovery did not appear to +surprise me. + +“Howdy-do!” said I aloud to the fattest and reddest carnation that +overtopped all the rest. “How in the world did you get in here?” + +The striped nurse (I hadn’t noticed her before) rose from some corner +and came swiftly over to my bedside, taking my wrist between her +fingers. + +“I’m very well, thank you,” she said, smiling, “and I came in at the +door, of course.” + +“I wasn’t talking to you,” I snapped, crossly, “I was speaking to the +carnations; particularly to that elderly one at the top—the fat one who +keeps bowing and wagging his head at me.” + +“Oh, yes,” answered the striped nurse, politely, “of course. That one +is very lively, isn’t he? But suppose we take them out for a little +while now.” + +She picked up the vase and carried it into the corridor, and the +carnations nodded their heads more vigorously than ever over her +shoulder. + +I heard her call softly to some one. The some one answered with a sharp +little cry that sounded like, “Conscious!” + +The next moment my own sister Norah came quietly into the room, and +knelt at the side of my bed and took me in her arms. It did not seem at +all surprising that she should be there, patting me with reassuring +little love pats, murmuring over me with her lips against my cheek, +calling me a hundred half-forgotten pet names that I had not heard for +years. But then, nothing seemed to surprise me that surprising day. Not +even the sight of a great, red-haired, red-faced, scrubbed looking man +who strolled into the room just as Norah was in the midst of denouncing +newspapers in general, and my newspaper in particular, and calling the +city editor a slave-driver and a beast. The big, red-haired man stood +regarding us tolerantly. + +“Better, eh?” said he, not as one who asks a question, but as though in +confirmation of a thought. Then he too took my wrist between his +fingers. His touch was very firm and cool. After that he pulled down my +eyelids and said, “H’m.” Then he patted my cheek smartly once or twice. +“You’ll do,” he pronounced. He picked up a sheet of paper from the +table and looked it over, keen-eyed. There followed a clinking of +bottles and glasses, a few low-spoken words to the nurse, and then, as +she left the room the big red-haired man seated himself heavily in the +chair near the bedside and rested his great hands on his fat knees. He +stared down at me in much the same way that a huge mastiff looks at a +terrier. Finally his glance rested on my limp left hand. + +“Married, h’m?” + +For a moment the word would not come. I could hear Norah catch her +breath quickly. Then—“Yes,” answered I. + +“Husband living?” I could see suspicion dawning in his cold gray eye. + +Again the catch in Norah’s throat and a little half warning, half +supplicating gesture. And again, “Yes,” said I. + +The dawn of suspicion burst into full glow. + +“Where is he?” growled the red-haired doctor. “At a time like this?” + +I shut my eyes for a moment, too sick at heart to resent his manner. I +could feel, more than see, that Sis was signaling him frantically. I +moistened my lips and answered him, bitterly. + +“He is in the Starkweather Hospital for the insane.” + +When the red-haired man spoke again the growl was quite gone from his +voice. + +“And your home is—where?” + +“Nowhere,” I replied meekly, from my pillow. But at that Sis put her +hand out quickly, as though she had been struck, and said: + +“My home is her home.” + +“Well then, take her there,” he ordered, frowning, “and keep her there +as long as you can. Newspaper reporting, h’m? In New York? That’s a +devil of a job for a woman. And a husband who... Well, you’ll have to +take a six months’ course in loafing, young woman. And at the end of +that time, if you are still determined to work, can’t you pick out +something easier—like taking in scrubbing, for instance?” + +I managed a feeble smile, wishing that he would go away quickly, so +that I might sleep. He seemed to divine my thoughts, for he disappeared +into the corridor, taking Norah with him. Their voices, low-pitched and +carefully guarded, could be heard as they conversed outside my door. + +Norah was telling him the whole miserable business. I wished, savagely, +that she would let me tell it, if it must be told. How could she paint +the fascination of the man who was my husband? She had never known the +charm of him as I had known it in those few brief months before our +marriage. She had never felt the caress of his voice, or the magnetism +of his strange, smoldering eyes glowing across the smoke-dimmed city +room as I had felt them fixed on me. No one had ever known what he had +meant to the girl of twenty, with her brain full of unspoken +dreams—dreams which were all to become glorious realities in that +wonder-place, New York. + +How he had fired my country-girl imagination! He had been the most +brilliant writer on the big, brilliant sheet—and the most dissolute. +How my heart had pounded on that first lonely day when this +Wonder-Being looked up from his desk, saw me, and strolled over to +where I sat before my typewriter! He smiled down at me, companionably. +I’m quite sure that my mouth must have been wide open with surprise. He +had been smoking a cigarette—an expensive-looking, gold-tipped one. Now +he removed it from between his lips with that hand that always shook a +little, and dropped it to the floor, crushing it lightly with the toe +of his boot. He threw back his handsome head and sent out the last +mouthful of smoke in a thin, lazy spiral. I remember thinking what a +pity it was that he should have crushed that costly-looking cigarette, +just for me. + +“My name’s Orme,” he said, gravely. “Peter Orme. And if yours isn’t +Shaughnessy or Burke at least, then I’m no judge of what black hair and +gray eyes stand for.” + +“Then you’re not,” retorted I, laughing up at him, “for it happens to +be O’Hara—Dawn O’Hara, if ye plaze.” + +He picked up a trifle that lay on my desk—a pencil, perhaps, or a bit +of paper—and toyed with it, absently, as though I had not spoken. I +thought he had not heard, and I was conscious of feeling a bit +embarrassed, and very young. Suddenly he raised his smoldering eyes to +mine, and I saw that they had taken on a deeper glow. His white, even +teeth showed in a half smile. + +“Dawn O’Hara,” said he, slowly, and the name had never sounded in the +least like music before, “Dawn O’Hara. It sounds like a rose—a pink +blush rose that is deeper pink at its heart, and very sweet.” + +He picked up the trifle with which he had been toying and eyed it +intently for a moment, as though his whole mind were absorbed in it. +Then he put it down, turned, and walked slowly away. I sat staring +after him like a little simpleton, puzzled, bewildered, stunned. That +had been the beginning of it all. + +He had what we Irish call “a way wid him.” I wonder now why I did not +go mad with the joy, and the pain, and the uncertainty of it all. Never +was a girl so dazzled, so humbled, so worshiped, so neglected, so +courted. He was a creature of a thousand moods to torture one. What +guise would he wear to-day? Would he be gay, or dour, or sullen, or +teasing or passionate, or cold, or tender or scintillating? I know that +my hands were always cold, and my cheeks were always hot, those days. + +He wrote like a modern Demosthenes, with all political New York to +quiver under his philippics. The managing editor used to send him out +on wonderful assignments, and they used to hold the paper for his stuff +when it was late. Sometimes he would be gone for days at a time, and +when he returned the men would look at him with a sort of admiring awe. +And the city editor would glance up from beneath his green eye-shade +and call out: + +“Say, Orme, for a man who has just wired in about a million dollars’ +worth of stuff seems to me you don’t look very crisp and jaunty.” + +“Haven’t slept for a week,” Peter Orme would growl, and then he would +brush past the men who were crowded around him, and turn in my +direction. And the old hot-and-cold, happy, frightened, laughing, +sobbing sensation would have me by the throat again. + +Well, we were married. Love cast a glamour over his very vices. His +love of drink? A weakness which I would transform into strength. His +white hot flashes of uncontrollable temper? Surely they would die down +at my cool, tender touch. His fits of abstraction and irritability? +Mere evidences of the genius within. Oh, my worshiping soul was always +alert with an excuse. + +And so we were married. He had quite tired of me in less than a year, +and the hand that had always shaken a little shook a great deal now, +and the fits of abstraction and temper could be counted upon to appear +oftener than any other moods. I used to laugh, sometimes, when I was +alone, at the bitter humor of it all. It was like a Duchess novel come +to life. + +His work began to show slipshod in spots. They talked to him about it +and he laughed at them. Then, one day, he left them in the ditch on the +big story of the McManus indictment, and the whole town scooped him, +and the managing editor told him that he must go. His lapses had become +too frequent. They would have to replace him with a man not so +brilliant, perhaps, but more reliable. + +I daren’t think of his face as it looked when he came home to the +little apartment and told me. The smoldering eyes were flaming now. His +lips were flecked with a sort of foam. I stared at him in horror. He +strode over to me, clasped his fingers about my throat and shook me as +a dog shakes a mouse. + +“Why don’t you cry, eh?” he snarled. “Why don’t you cry!” + +And then I did cry out at what I saw in his eyes. I wrenched myself +free, fled to my room, and locked the door and stood against it with my +hand pressed over my heart until I heard the outer door slam and the +echo of his footsteps die away. + +Divorce! That was my only salvation. No, that would be cowardly now. I +would wait until he was on his feet again, and then I would demand my +old free life back once more. This existence that was dragging me into +the gutter—this was not life! Life was a glorious, beautiful thing, and +I would have it yet. I laid my plans, feverishly, and waited. He did +not come back that night, or the next, or the next, or the next. In +desperation I went to see the men at the office. No, they had not seen +him. Was there anything that they could do? they asked. I smiled, and +thanked them, and said, oh, Peter was so absent-minded! No doubt he had +misdirected his letters, or something of the sort. And then I went back +to the flat to resume the horrible waiting. + +One week later he turned up at the old office which had cast him off. +He sat down at his former desk and began to write, breathlessly, as he +used to in the days when all the big stories fell to him. One of the +men reporters strolled up to him and touched him on the shoulder, +man-fashion. Peter Orme raised his head and stared at him, and the man +sprang back in terror. The smoldering eyes had burned down to an ash. +Peter Orme was quite bereft of all reason. They took him away that +night, and I kept telling myself that it wasn’t true; that it was all a +nasty dream, and I would wake up pretty soon, and laugh about it, and +tell it at the breakfast table. + +Well, one does not seek a divorce from a husband who is insane. The +busy men on the great paper were very kind. They would take me back on +the staff. Did I think that I still could write those amusing little +human interest stories? Funny ones, you know, with a punch in ’em. + +Oh, plenty of good stories left in me yet, I assured them. They must +remember that I was only twenty-one, after all, and at twenty-one one +does not lose the sense of humor. + +And so I went back to my old desk, and wrote bright, chatty letters +home to Norah, and ground out very funny stories with a punch in ’em, +that the husband in the insane asylum might be kept in comforts. With +both hands I hung on like grim death to that saving sense of humor, +resolved to make something of that miserable mess which was my life—to +make something of it yet. And now— + +At this point in my musings there was an end of the low-voiced +conversation in the hall. Sis tiptoed in and looked her disapproval at +finding me sleepless. + +“Dawn, old girlie, this will never do. Shut your eyes now, like a good +child, and go to sleep. Guess what that great brute of a doctor said! I +may take you home with me next week! Dawn dear, you will come, won’t +you? You must! This is killing you. Don’t make me go away leaving you +here. I couldn’t stand it.” + +She leaned over my pillow and closed my eyelids gently with her sweet, +cool fingers. “You are coming home with me, and you shall sleep and +eat, and sleep and eat, until you are as lively as the Widow Malone, +ohone, and twice as fat. Home, Dawnie dear, where we’ll forget all +about New York. Home, with me.” + +I reached up uncertainly, and brought her hand down to my lips and a +great peace descended upon my sick soul. “Home—with you,” I said, like +a child, and fell asleep. + + + + +CHAPTER II. +MOSTLY EGGS + + +Oh, but it was clean, and sweet, and wonderfully still, that +rose-and-white room at Norah’s! No street cars to tear at one’s nerves +with grinding brakes and clanging bells; no tramping of restless feet +on the concrete all through the long, noisy hours; no shrieking +midnight joy-riders; not one of the hundred sounds which make night +hideous in the city. What bliss to lie there, hour after hour, in a +delicious half-waking, half-sleeping, wholly exquisite stupor, only +rousing myself to swallow egg-nogg No. 426, and then to flop back again +on the big, cool pillow! + +New York, with its lights, its clangor, its millions, was only a +far-away, jumbled nightmare. The office, with its clacking typewriters, +its insistent, nerve-racking telephone bells, its systematic rush, its +smoke-dimmed city room, was but an ugly part of the dream. + +Back to that inferno of haste and scramble and clatter? Never! Never! I +resolved, drowsily. And dropped off to sleep again. + +And the sheets. Oh, those sheets of Norah’s! Why, they were white, +instead of gray! And they actually smelled of flowers. For that matter, +there were rosebuds on the silken coverlet. It took me a week to get +chummy with that rosebud-and-down quilt. I had to explain carefully to +Norah that after a half-dozen years of sleeping under doubtful +boarding-house blankets one does not so soon get rid of a shuddering +disgust for coverings which are haunted by the ghosts of a hundred +unknown sleepers. Those years had taught me to draw up the sheet with +scrupulous care, to turn it down, and smooth it over, so that no +contaminating and woolly blanket should touch my skin. The habit stuck +even after Norah had tucked me in between her fragrant sheets. +Automatically my hands groped about, arranging the old protecting +barrier. + +“What’s the matter, Fuss-fuss?” inquired Norah, looking on. “That down +quilt won’t bite you; what an old maid you are!” + +“Don’t like blankets next to my face,” I elucidated, sleepily, “never +can tell who slept under ’em last—” + +“You cat!” exclaimed Norah, making a little rush at me. “If you weren’t +supposed to be ill I’d shake you! Comparing my darling rosebud quilt to +your miserable gray blankets! Just for that I’ll make you eat an extra +pair of eggs.” + +There never was a sister like Norah. But then, who ever heard of a +brother-in-law like Max? No woman—not even a frazzled-out newspaper +woman—could receive the love and care that they gave me, and fail to +flourish under it. They had been Dad and Mother to me since the day +when Norah had tucked me under her arm and carried me away from New +York. Sis was an angel; a comforting, twentieth-century angel, with +white apron strings for wings, and a tempting tray in her hands in +place of the hymn books and palm leaves that the picture-book angels +carry. She coaxed the inevitable eggs and beef into more tempting forms +than Mrs. Rorer ever guessed at. She could disguise those two plain, +nourishing articles of diet so effectually that neither hen nor cow +would have suspected either of having once been part of her anatomy. +Once I ate halfway through a melting, fluffy, peach-bedecked plate of +something before I discovered that it was only another egg in disguise. + +“Feel like eating a great big dinner to-day, Kidlet?” Norah would ask +in the morning as she stood at my bedside (with a glass of +egg-something in her hand, of course). + +“Eat!”—horror and disgust shuddering through my voice—“Eat! Ugh! Don’t +s-s-speak of it to me. And for pity’s sake tell Frieda to shut the +kitchen door when you go down, will you? I can smell something like +ugh!—like pot roast, with gravy!” And I would turn my face to the wall. + +Three hours later I would hear Sis coming softly up the stairs, +accompanied by a tinkling of china and glass. I would face her, all +protest. + +“Didn’t I tell you, Sis, that I couldn’t eat a mouthful? Not a +mouthf—um-m-m-m! How perfectly scrumptious that looks! What’s that +affair in the lettuce leaf? Oh, can’t I begin on that divine-looking +pinky stuff in the tall glass? H’m? Oh, please!” + +“I thought—” Norah would begin; and then she would snigger softly. + +“Oh, well, that was hours ago,” I would explain, loftily. “Perhaps I +could manage a bite or two now.” + +Whereupon I would demolish everything except the china and doilies. + +It was at this point on the road to recovery, just halfway between +illness and health, that Norah and Max brought the great and unsmiling +Von Gerhard on the scene. It appeared that even New York was +respectfully aware of Von Gerhard, the nerve specialist, in spite of +the fact that he lived in Milwaukee. The idea of bringing him up to +look at me occurred to Max quite suddenly. I think it was on the +evening that I burst into tears when Max entered the room wearing a +squeaky shoe. The Weeping Walrus was a self-contained and tranquil +creature compared to me at that time. The sight of a fly on the wall +was enough to make me burst into a passion of sobs. + +“I know the boy to steady those shaky nerves of yours, Dawn,” said Max, +after I had made a shamefaced apology for my hysterical weeping, “I’m +going to have Von Gerhard up here to look at you. He can run up Sunday, +eh, Norah?” + +“Who’s Von Gerhard?” I inquired, out of the depths of my ignorance. +“Anyway, I won’t have him. I’ll bet he wears a Vandyke and spectacles.” + +“Von Gerhard!” exclaimed Norah, indignantly. “You ought to be thankful +to have him look at you, even if he wears goggles and a flowing beard. +Why, even that red-haired New York doctor of yours cringed and looked +impressed when I told him that Von Gerhard was a friend of my +husband’s, and that they had been comrades at Heidelberg. I must have +mentioned him dozens of times in my letters.” + +“Never.” + +“Queer,” commented Max, “he runs up here every now and then to spend a +quiet Sunday with Norah and me and the Spalpeens. Says it rests him. +The kids swarm all over him, and tear him limb from limb. It doesn’t +look restful, but he says it’s great. I think he came here from Berlin +just after you left for New York, Dawn. Milwaukee fits him as if it had +been made for him.” + +“But you’re not going to drag this wonderful being up here just for +me!” I protested, aghast. + +Max pointed an accusing finger at me from the doorway. “Aren’t you what +the bromides call a bundle of nerves? And isn’t Von Gerhard’s specialty +untying just those knots? I’ll write to him to-night.” + +And he did. And Von Gerhard came. The Spalpeens watched for him, their +noses flattened against the window-pane, for it was raining. As he came +up the path they burst out of the door to meet him. From my bedroom +window I saw him come prancing up the walk like a boy, with the two +children clinging to his coat-tails, all three quite unmindful of the +rain, and yelling like Comanches. + +Ten minutes later he had donned his professional dignity, entered my +room, and beheld me in all my limp and pea-green beauty. I noted +approvingly that he had to stoop a bit as he entered the low doorway, +and that the Vandyke of my prophecy was missing. + +He took my hand in his own steady, reassuring clasp. Then he began to +talk. Half an hour sped away while we discussed New +York—books—music—theatres—everything and anything but Dawn O’Hara. I +learned later that as we chatted he was getting his story, bit by bit, +from every twitch of the eyelids, from every gesture of the hands that +had grown too thin to wear the hateful ring; from every motion of the +lips; from the color of my nails; from each convulsive muscle; from +every shadow, and wrinkle and curve and line of my face. + +Suddenly he asked: “Are you making the proper effort to get well? You +try to conquer those jumping nerfs, yes?” + +I glared at him. “Try! I do everything. I’d eat woolly worms if I +thought they might benefit me. If ever a girl has minded her big sister +and her doctor, that girl is I. I’ve eaten everything from pâté de foie +gras to raw beef, and I’ve drunk everything from blood to champagne.” + +“Eggs?” queried Von Gerhard, as though making a happy suggestion. + +“Eggs!” I snorted. “Eggs! Thousands of ’em! Eggs hard and soft boiled, +poached and fried, scrambled and shirred, eggs in beer and egg-noggs, +egg lemonades and egg orangeades, eggs in wine and eggs in milk, and +eggs au naturel. I’ve lapped up iron-and-wine, and whole rivers of +milk, and I’ve devoured rare porterhouse and roast beef day after day +for weeks. So! Eggs!” + +“Mein Himmel!” ejaculated he, fervently, “And you still live!” A +suspicion of a smile dawned in his eyes. I wondered if he ever laughed. +I would experiment. + +“Don’t breathe it to a soul,” I whispered, tragically, “but eggs, and +eggs alone, are turning my love for my sister into bitterest hate. She +stalks me the whole day long, forcing egg mixtures down my unwilling +throat. She bullies me. I daren’t put out my hand suddenly without +knocking over liquid refreshment in some form, but certainly with an +egg lurking in its depths. I am so expert that I can tell an egg +orangeade from an egg lemonade at a distance of twenty yards, with my +left hand tied behind me, and one eye shut, and my feet in a sack.” + +“You can laugh, eh? Well, that iss good,” commented the grave and +unsmiling one. + +“Sure,” answered I, made more flippant by his solemnity. “Surely I can +laugh. For what else was my father Irish? Dad used to say that a sense +of humor was like a shillaly—an iligent thing to have around handy, +especially when the joke’s on you.” + +The ghost of a twinkle appeared again in the corners of the German blue +eyes. Some fiend of rudeness seized me. + +“Laugh!” I commanded. + +Dr. Ernst von Gerhard stiffened. “Pardon?” inquired he, as one who is +sure that he has misunderstood. + +“Laugh!” I snapped again. “I’ll dare you to do it. I’ll double dare +you! You dassen’t!” + +But he did. After a moment’s bewildered surprise he threw back his +handsome blond head and gave vent to a great, deep infectious roar of +mirth that brought the Spalpeens tumbling up the stairs in defiance of +their mother’s strict instructions. + +After that we got along beautifully. He turned out to be quite human, +beneath the outer crust of reserve. He continued his examination only +after bribing the Spalpeens shamefully, so that even their rapacious +demands were satisfied, and they trotted off contentedly. + +There followed a process which reduced me to a giggling heap but which +Von Gerhard carried out ceremoniously. It consisted of certain raps at +my knees, and shins, and elbows, and fingers, and certain commands +to—“look at my finger! Look at the wall! Look at my finger! Look at the +wall!” + +“So!” said Von Gerhard at last, in a tone of finality. I sank my +battered frame into the nearest chair. “This—this newspaper work—it +must cease.” He dismissed it with a wave of the hand. + +“Certainly,” I said, with elaborate sarcasm. “How should you advise me +to earn my living in the future? In the stories they paint dinner +cards, don’t they? or bake angel cakes?” + +“Are you then never serious?” asked Von Gerhard, in disapproval. + +“Never,” said I. “An old, worn-out, worked-out newspaper reporter, with +a husband in the mad-house, can’t afford to be serious for a minute, +because if she were she’d go mad, too, with the hopelessness of it +all.” And I buried my face in my hands. + +The room was very still for a moment. Then the great Von Gerhard came +over, and took my hands gently from my face. “I—I do beg your pardon,” +he said. He looked strangely boyish and uncomfortable as he said it. “I +was thinking only of your good. We do that, sometimes, forgetting that +circumstances may make our wishes impossible of execution. So. You will +forgive me?” + +“Forgive you? Yes, indeed,” I assured him. And we shook hands, gravely. +“But that doesn’t help matters much, after all, does it?” + +“Yes, it helps. For now we understand one another, is it not so? You +say you can only write for a living. Then why not write here at home? +Surely these years of newspaper work have given you a great knowledge +of human nature. Then too, there is your gift of humor. Surely that is +a combination which should make your work acceptable to the magazines. +Never in my life have I seen so many magazines as here in the United +States. But hundreds! Thousands!” + +“Me!” I exploded—“A real writer lady! No more interviews with +actresses! No more slushy Sunday specials! No more teary tales! Oh, my! +When may I begin? To-morrow? You know I brought my typewriter with me. +I’ve almost forgotten where the letters are on the keyboard.” + +“Wait, wait; not so fast! In a month or two, perhaps. But first must +come other things—outdoor things. Also housework.” + +“Housework!” I echoed, feebly. + +“Naturlich. A little dusting, a little scrubbing, a little sweeping, a +little cooking. The finest kind of indoor exercise. Later you may write +a little—but very little. Run and play out of doors with the children. +When I see you again you will have roses in your cheeks like the German +girls, yes?” + +“Yes,” I echoed, meekly, “I wonder how Frieda will like my elephantine +efforts at assisting with the housework. If she gives notice, Norah +will be lost to you.” + +But Frieda did not give notice. After I had helped her clean the +kitchen and the pantry I noticed an expression of deepest pity +overspreading her lumpy features. The expression became almost one of +agony as she watched me roll out some noodles for soup, and delve into +the sticky mysteries of a new kind of cake. + +Max says that for a poor working girl who hasn’t had time to cultivate +the domestic graces, my cakes are a distinct triumph. Sis sniffs at +that, and mutters something about cups of raisins and nuts and citron +hiding a multitude of batter sins. She never allows the Spalpeens to +eat my cakes, and on my baking days they are usually sent from the +table howling. Norah declares, severely, that she is going to hide the +Green Cook Book. The Green Cook Book is a German one. Norah bought it +in deference to Max’s love of German cookery. It is called Aunt +Julchen’s cook book, and the author, between hints as to flour and +butter, gets delightfully chummy with her pupil. Her cakes are proud, +rich cakes. She orders grandly: + +“Now throw in the yolks of twelve eggs; one-fourth of a pound of +almonds; two pounds of raisins; a pound of citron; a pound of +orange-peel.” + +As if that were not enough, there follow minor instructions as to +trifles like ounces of walnut meats, pounds of confectioner’s sugar, +and pints of very rich cream. When cold, to be frosted with an icing +made up of more eggs, more nuts, more cream, more everything. + +The children have appointed themselves official lickers and scrapers of +the spoons and icing pans, also official guides on their auntie’s +walks. They regard their Aunt Dawn as a quite ridiculous but altogether +delightful old thing. + +And Norah—bless her! looks up when I come in from a romp with the +Spalpeens and says: “Your cheeks are pink! Actually! And you’re losing +a puff there at the back of your ear, and your hat’s on crooked. Oh, +you are beginning to look your old self, Dawn dear!” + +At which doubtful compliment I retort, recklessly: “Pooh! What’s a puff +more or less, in a worthy cause? And if you think my cheeks are pink +now, just wait until your mighty Von Gerhard comes again. By that time +they shall be so red and bursting that Frieda’s, on wash day, will look +anemic by comparison. Say, Norah, how red are German red cheeks, +anyway?” + + + + +CHAPTER III. +GOOD AS NEW + + +So Spring danced away, and Summer sauntered in. My pillows looked less +and less tempting. The wine of the northern air imparted a cocky +assurance. One blue-and-gold day followed the other, and I spent hours +together out of doors in the sunshine, lying full length on the warm, +sweet ground, to the horror of the entire neighborhood. To be sure, I +was sufficiently discreet to choose the lawn at the rear of the house. +There I drank in the atmosphere, as per doctor’s instructions, while +the genial sun warmed the watery blood in my veins and burned the skin +off the end of my nose. + +All my life I had envied the loungers in the parks—those silent, inert +figures that lie under the trees all the long summer day, their shabby +hats over their faces, their hands clasped above their heads, legs +sprawled in uncouth comfort, while the sun dapples down between the +leaves and, like a good fairy godmother, touches their frayed and +wrinkled garments with flickering figures of golden splendor, while +they sleep. They always seemed so blissfully care-free and at +ease—those sprawling men figures—and I, to whom such simple joys were +forbidden, being a woman, had envied them. + +Now I was reveling in that very joy, stretched prone upon the ground, +blinking sleepily up at the sun and the cobalt sky, feeling my very +hair grow, and health returning in warm, electric waves. I even dared +to cross one leg over the other and to swing the pendant member with +nonchalant air, first taking a cautious survey of the neighboring back +windows to see if any one peeked. Doubtless they did, behind those +ruffled curtains, but I grew splendidly indifferent. + +Even the crawling things—and there were myriads of them—added to the +enjoyment of my ease. With my ear so close to the ground the grass +seemed fairly to buzz with them. Everywhere there were crazily busy +ants, and I, patently a sluggard and therefore one of those for whom +the ancient warning was intended, considered them lazily. How they +plunged about, weaving in and out, rushing here and there, +helter-skelter, like bargain-hunting women darting wildly from counter +to counter! + +“O, foolish, foolish antics!” I chided them, “stop wearing yourselves +out this way. Don’t you know that the game isn’t worth the candle, and +that you’ll give yourselves nervous jim-jams and then you’ll have to go +home to be patched up? Look at me! I’m a horrible example.” + +But they only bustled on, heedless of my advice, and showed their +contempt by crawling over me as I lay there like a lady Gulliver. + +Oh, I played what they call a heavy thinking part. It was not only the +ants that came in for lectures. I preached sternly to myself. + +“Well, Dawn old girl, you’ve made a beautiful mess of it. A smashed-up +wreck at twenty-eight! And what have you to show for it? Nothing! +You’re a useless pulp, like a lemon that has been squeezed dry. Von +Gerhard was right. There must be no more newspaper work for you, me +girl. Not if you can keep away from the fascination of it, which I +don’t think you can.” + +Then I would fall to thinking of those years of newspapering—of the +thrills of them, and the ills of them. It had been exhilarating, and +educating, but scarcely remunerative. Mother had never approved. Dad +had chuckled and said that it was a curse descended upon me from the +terrible old Kitty O’Hara, the only old maid in the history of the +O’Haras, and famed in her day for a caustic tongue and a venomed pen. +Dad and Mother—what a pair of children they had been! The very +dissimilarity of their natures had been a bond between them. Dad, +light-hearted, whimsical, care-free, improvident; Mother, gravely +sweet, anxious-browed, trying to teach economy to the handsome Irish +husband who, descendant of a long and royal line of spendthrift +ancestors, would have none of it. + +It was Dad who had insisted that they name me Dawn. Dawn O’Hara! His +sense of humor must have been sleeping. “You were such a rosy, pinky, +soft baby thing,” Mother had once told me, “that you looked just like +the first flush of light at sunrise. That is why your father insisted +on calling you Dawn.” + +Poor Dad! How could he know that at twenty-eight I would be a yellow +wreck of a newspaper reporter—with a wrinkle between my eyes. If he +could see me now he would say: + +“Sure, you look like the dawn yet, me girl—but a Pittsburgh dawn.” + +At that, Mother, if she were here, would pat my check where the hollow +place is, and murmur: “Never mind, Dawnie dearie, Mother thinks you are +beautiful just the same.” Of such blessed stuff are mothers made. + +At this stage of the memory game I would bury my face in the warm grass +and thank my God for having taken Mother before Peter Orme came into my +life. And then I would fall asleep there on the soft, sweet grass, with +my head snuggled in my arms, and the ants wriggling, unchided, into my +ears. + +On the last of these sylvan occasions I awoke, not with a graceful +start, like the story-book ladies, but with a grunt. Sis was digging me +in the ribs with her toe. I looked up to see her standing over me, a +foaming tumbler of something in her hand. I felt that it was eggy and +eyed it disgustedly. + +“Get up,” said she, “you lazy scribbler, and drink this.” + +I sat up, eyeing her severely and picking grass and ants out of my +hair. + +“D’ you mean to tell me that you woke me out of that babe-like slumber +to make me drink that goo? What is it, anyway? I’ll bet it’s another +egg-nogg.” + +“Egg-nogg it is; and swallow it right away, because there are guests to +see you.” + +I emerged from the first dip into the yellow mixture and fixed on her +as stern and terrible a look at any one can whose mouth is encircled by +a mustache of yellow foam. + +“Guests!” I roared, “not for me! Don’t you dare to say that they came +to see me!” + +“Did too,” insists Norah, with firmness, “they came especially to see +you. Asked for you, right from the jump.” + +I finished the egg-nogg in four gulps, returned the empty tumbler with +an air of decision, and sank upon the grass. + +“Tell ’em I rave. Tell ’em that I’m unconscious, and that for weeks I +have recognized no one, not even my dear sister. Say that in my present +nerve-shattered condition I—” + +“That wouldn’t satisfy them,” Norah calmly interrupts, “they know +you’re crazy because they saw you out here from their second story back +windows. That’s why they came. So you may as well get up and face them. +I promised them I’d bring you in. You can’t go on forever refusing to +see people, and you know the Whalens are—” + +“Whalens!” I gasped. “How many of them? Not—not the entire fiendish +three?” + +“All three. I left them champing with impatience.” + +The Whalens live just around the corner. The Whalens are omniscient. +They have a system of news gathering which would make the efforts of a +New York daily appear antiquated. They know that Jenny Laffin feeds the +family on soup meat and oat-meal when Mr. Laffin is on the road; they +know that Mrs. Pearson only shakes out her rugs once in four weeks; +they can tell you the number of times a week that Sam Dempster comes +home drunk; they know that the Merkles never have cream with their +coffee because little Lizzie Merkle goes to the creamery every day with +just one pail and three cents; they gloat over the knowledge that +Professor Grimes, who is a married man, is sweet on Gertie Ashe, who +teaches second reader in his school; they can tell you where Mrs. Black +got her seal coat, and her husband only earning two thousand a year; +they know who is going to run for mayor, and how long poor Angela Sims +has to live, and what Guy Donnelly said to Min when he asked her to +marry him. + +The three Whalens—mother and daughters—hunt in a group. They send +meaning glances to one another across the room, and at parties they get +together and exchange bulletins in a corner. On passing the Whalen +house one is uncomfortably aware of shadowy forms lurking in the +windows, and of parlor curtains that are agitated for no apparent +cause. + +Therefore it was with a groan that I rose and prepared to follow Norah +into the house. Something in my eye caused her to turn at the very +door. “Don’t you dare!” she hissed; then, banishing the warning scowl +from her face, and assuming a near-smile, she entered the room and I +followed miserably at her heels. + +The Whalens rose and came forward effusively; Mrs. Whalen, plump, dark, +voluble; Sally, lean, swarthy, vindictive; Flossie, pudgy, powdered, +over-dressed. They eyed me hungrily. I felt that they were searching my +features for signs of incipient insanity. + +“Dear, DEAR girl!” bubbled the billowy Flossie, kissing the end of my +nose and fastening her eye on my ringless left hand. + +Sally contented herself with a limp and fishy handshake. She and I were +sworn enemies in our school-girl days, and a baleful gleam still lurked +in Sally’s eye. Mrs. Whalen bestowed on me a motherly hug that +enveloped me in an atmosphere of liquid face-wash, strong perfumery and +fried lard. Mrs. Whalen is a famous cook. Said she: + +“We’ve been thinking of calling ever since you were brought home, but +dear me! you’ve been looking so poorly I just said to the girls, wait +till the poor thing feels more like seeing her old friends. Tell me, +how are you feeling now?” + +The three sat forward in their chairs in attitudes of tense waiting. + +I resolved that if err I must it should be on the side of safety. I +turned to sister Norah. + +“How am I feeling anyway, Norah?” I guardedly inquired. + +Norah’s face was a study. “Why Dawn dear,” she said, sugar-sweet, “no +doubt you know better than I. But I’m sure that you are wonderfully +improved—almost your old self, in fact. Don’t you think she looks +splendid, Mrs. Whalen?” + +The three Whalens tore their gaze from my blank countenance to exchange +a series of meaning looks. + +“I suppose,” purred Mrs. Whalen, “that your awful trouble was the real +cause of your—a-a-a-sickness, worrying about it and grieving as you +must have.” + +She pronounces it with a capital T, and I know she means Peter. I hate +her for it. + +“Trouble!” I chirped. “Trouble never troubles me. I just worked too +hard, that’s all, and acquired an awful ‘tired.’ All work and no play +makes Jill a nervous wreck, you know.” + +At that the elephantine Flossie wagged a playful finger at me. “Oh, +now, you can’t make us believe that, just because we’re from the +country! We know all about you gay New Yorkers, with your Bohemian ways +and your midnight studio suppers, and your cigarettes, and cocktails +and high jinks!” + +Memory painted a swift mental picture of Dawn O’Hara as she used to +tumble into bed after a whirlwind day at the office, too dog-tired to +give her hair even one half of the prescribed one hundred strokes of +the brush. But in turn I shook a reproving forefinger at Flossie. + +“You’ve been reading some naughty society novel! One of those +millionaire-divorce-actress-automobile novels. Dear, dear! Shall I ever +forget the first New York actress I ever met; or what she said!” + +I felt, more than saw, a warning movement from Sis. But the three +Whalens had hitched forward in their chairs. + +“What did she say?” gurgled Flossie. “Was it something real reezk?” + +“Well, it was at a late supper—a studio supper given in her honor,” I +confessed. + +“Yes-s-s-s,” hissed the Whalens. + +“And this actress—she was one of those musical comedy actresses, you +know; I remember her part called for a good deal of kicking about in a +short Dutch costume—came in rather late, after the performance. She was +wearing a regal-looking fur-edged evening wrap, and she still wore all +her make-up”—out of the corner of my eye I saw Sis sink back with an +air of resignation—“and she threw open the door and said— + +“Yes-s-s-s!” hissed the Whalens again, wetting their lips. + +“—said: ‘Folks, I just had a wire from mother, up in Maine. The boy has +the croup. I’m scared green. I hate to spoil the party, but don’t ask +me to stay. I want to go home to the flat and blubber. I didn’t even +stop to take my make-up off. My God! If anything should happen to the +boy!—Well, have a good time without me. Jim’s waiting outside.’” A +silence. + +Then—“Who was Jim?” asked Flossie, hopefully. + +“Jim was her husband, of course. He was in the same company.” + +Another silence. + +“Is that all?” demanded Sally from the corner in which she had been +glowering. + +“All! You unnatural girl! Isn’t one husband enough?” + +Mrs. Whalen smiled an uncertain, wavering smile. There passed among the +three a series of cabalistic signs. They rose simultaneously. + +“How quaint you are!” exclaimed Mrs. Whalen, “and so amusing! Come +girls, we mustn’t tire Miss—ah—Mrs.—er—” with another meaning look at +my bare left hand. + +“My husband’s name is still Orme,” I prompted, quite, quite pleasantly. + +“Oh, certainly. I’m so forgetful. And one reads such queer things in +the newspapers now-a-days. Divorces, and separations, and soul-mates +and things.” There was a note of gentle insinuation in her voice. + +Norah stepped firmly into the fray. “Yes, doesn’t one? What a comfort +it must be to you to know that your dear girls are safe at home with +you, and no doubt will be secure, for years to come, from the buffeting +winds of matrimony.” + +There was a tinge of purple in Mrs. Whalen’s face as she moved toward +the door, gathering her brood about her. “Now that dear Dawn is almost +normal again I shall send my little girlies over real often. She must +find it very dull here after her—ah—life in New York.” + +“Not at all,” I said, hurriedly, “not at all. You see I’m—I’m writing a +book. My entire day is occupied.” + +“A book!” screeched the three. “How interesting! What is it? When will +it be published?” + +I avoided Norah’s baleful eye as I answered their questions and +performed the final adieux. + +As the door closed, Norah and I faced each other, glaring. + +“Hussies!” hissed Norah. Whereupon it struck us funny and we fell, a +shrieking heap, into the nearest chair. Finally Sis dabbed at her eyes +with her handkerchief, drew a long breath, and asked, with elaborate +sarcasm, why I hadn’t made it a play instead of a book, while I was +about it. + +“But I mean it,” I declared. “I’ve had enough of loafing. Max must +unpack my typewriter to-night. I’m homesick for a look at the keys. And +to-morrow I’m to be installed in the cubbyhole off the dining-room and +I defy any one to enter it on peril of their lives. If you value the +lives of your offspring, warn them away from that door. Von Gerhard +said that there was writing in my system, and by the Great Horn Spoon +and the Beard of the Prophet, I’ll have it out! Besides, I need the +money. Norah dear, how does one set about writing a book? It seems like +such a large order.” + + + + +CHAPTER IV. +DAWN DEVELOPS A HEIMWEH + + +It’s hard trying to develop into a real Writer Lady in the bosom of +one’s family, especially when the family refuses to take one seriously. +Seven years of newspaper grind have taught me the fallacy of trying to +write by the inspiration method. But there is such a thing as a train +of thought, and mine is constantly being derailed, and wrecked and +pitched about. + +Scarcely am I settled in my cubby-hole, typewriter before me, the +working plan of a story buzzing about in my brain, when I hear my name +called in muffled tones, as though the speaker were laboring with a +mouthful of hairpins. I pay no attention. I have just given my heroine +a pair of calm gray eyes, shaded with black lashes and hair to match. A +voice floats down from the upstairs regions. + +“Dawn! Oh, Dawn! Just run and rescue the cucumbers out of the top of +the ice-box, will you? The iceman’s coming, and he’ll squash ’em.” + +A parting jab at my heroine’s hair and eyes, and I’m off to save the +cucumbers. + +Back at my typewriter once more. Shall I make my heroine petite or +grande? I decide that stateliness and Gibsonesque height should +accompany the calm gray eyes. I rattle away happily, the plot unfolding +itself in some mysterious way. Sis opens the door a little and peers +in. She is dressed for the street. + +“Dawn dear, I’m going to the dressmaker’s. Frieda’s upstairs cleaning +the bathroom, so take a little squint at the roast now and then, will +you? See that it doesn’t burn, and that there’s plenty of gravy. Oh, +and Dawn—tell the milkman we want an extra half-pint of cream to-day. +The tickets are on the kitchen shelf, back of the clock. I’ll be back +in an hour.” + +“Mhmph,” I reply. + +Sis shuts the door, but opens it again almost immediately. + +“Don’t let the Infants bother you. But if Frieda’s upstairs and they +come to you for something to eat, don’t let them have any cookies +before dinner. If they’re really hungry they’ll eat bread and butter.” + +I promise, dreamily, my last typewritten sentence still running through +my head. The gravy seems to have got into the heroine’s calm gray eyes. +What heroine could remain calm-eyed when her creator’s mind is filled +with roast beef? A half-hour elapses before I get back on the track. +Then appears the hero—a tall blond youth, fair to behold. I make him +two yards high, and endow him with a pair of clothing-advertisement +shoulders. + +There assails my nostrils a fearful smell of scorching. The roast! A +wild rush into the kitchen. I fling open the oven door. The roast is +mahogany-colored, and gravyless. It takes fifteen minutes of the most +desperate first-aid-to-the-injured measures before the roast is +revived. + +Back to the writing. It has lost its charm. The gray-eyed heroine is a +stick; she moves like an Indian lady outside a cigar shop. The hero is +a milk-and-water sissy, without a vital spark in him. What’s the use of +trying to write, anyway? Nobody wants my stuff. Good for nothing except +dubbing on a newspaper! + +Rap! Rap! Rappity-rap-rap! Bing! Milk! + +I dash into the kitchen. No milk! No milkman! I fly to the door. He is +disappearing around the corner of the house. + +“Hi! Mr. Milkman! Say, Mr. Milkman!” with frantic beckonings. + +He turns. He lifts up his voice. “The screen door was locked so I left +youse yer milk on top of the ice-box on the back porch. Thought like +the hired girl was upstairs an’ I could git the tickets to-morra.” + +I explain about the cream, adding that it is wanted for short-cake. The +explanation does not seem to cheer him. He appears to be a very gloomy +and reserved milkman. I fancy that he is in the habit of indulging in a +little airy persiflage with Frieda o’ mornings, and he finds me a poor +substitute for her red-cheeked comeliness. + +The milk safely stowed away in the ice-box, I have another look at the +roast. I am dipping up spoonfuls of brown gravy and pouring them over +the surface of the roast in approved basting style, when there is a +rush, a scramble, and two hard bodies precipitate themselves upon my +legs so suddenly that for a moment my head pitches forward into the +oven. I withdraw my head from the oven, hastily. The basting spoon is +immersed in the bottom of the pan. I turn, indignant. The Spalpeens +look up at me with innocent eyes. + +“You little divils, what do you mean by shoving your old aunt into the +oven! It’s cannibals you are!” + +The idea pleases them. They release my legs and execute a savage war +dance around me. The Spalpeens are firm in the belief that I was +brought to their home for their sole amusement, and they refuse to take +me seriously. The Spalpeens themselves are two of the finest examples +of real humor that ever were perpetrated upon parents. Sheila is the +first-born. Norah decided that she should be an Irish beauty, and +bestowed upon her a name that reeks of the bogs. Whereupon Sheila, at +the age of six, is as flaxen-haired and blue-eyed and stolid a little +German madchen as ever fooled her parents, and she is a feminine +reproduction of her German Dad. Two years later came a sturdy boy, and +they named him Hans, in a flaunt of defiance. Hans is black-haired, +gray-eyed and Irish as Killarny. + +“We’re awful hungry,” announces Sheila. + +“Can’t you wait until dinner time? Such a grand dinner!” + +Sheila and Hans roll their eyes to convey to me that, were they to wait +until dinner for sustenance we should find but their lifeless forms. + +“Well then, Auntie will get a nice piece of bread and butter for each +of you.” + +“Don’t want bread an’ butty!” shrieks Hans. “Want tooky!” + +“Cooky!” echoes Sheila, pounding on the kitchen table with the rescued +basting spoon. + +“You can’t have cookies before dinner. They’re bad for your insides.” + +“Can too,” disputes Hans. “Fwieda dives us tookies. Want tooky!” +wailingly. + +“Please, ple-e-e-ease, Auntie Dawnie dearie,” wheedles Sheila, +wriggling her soft little fingers in my hand. + +“But Mother never lets you have cookies before dinner,” I retort +severely. “She knows they are bad for you.” + +“Pooh, she does too! She always says, ‘No, not a cooky!’ And then we +beg and screech, and then she says, ‘Oh, for pity’s sake, Frieda, give +’em a cooky and send ’em out. One cooky can’t kill ’em.’” Sheila’s +imitation is delicious. + +Hans catches the word screech and takes it as his cue. He begins a +series of ear-piercing wails. Sheila surveys him with pride and then +takes the wail up in a minor key. Their teamwork is marvelous. I fly to +the cooky jar and extract two round and sugary confections. I thrust +them into the pink, eager palms. The wails cease. Solemnly they place +one cooky atop the other, measuring the circlets with grave eyes. + +“Mine’s a weeny bit bigger’n yours this time,” decides Sheila, and +holds her cooky heroically while Hans takes a just and lawful bite out +of his sister’s larger share. + +“The blessed little angels!” I say to myself, melting. “The dear, +unselfish little sweeties!” and give each of them another cooky. + +Back to my typewriter. But the words flatly refuse to come now. I make +six false starts, bite all my best finger-nails, screw my hair into a +wilderness of cork-screws and give it up. No doubt a real Lady Writer +could write on, unruffled and unhearing, while the iceman squashed the +cucumbers, and the roast burned to a frazzle, and the Spalpeens +perished of hunger. Possessed of the real spark of genius, trivialities +like milkmen and cucumbers could not dim its glow. Perhaps all +successful Lady Writers with real live sparks have cooks and scullery +maids, and need not worry about basting, and gravy, and milkmen. + +This book writing is all very well for those who have a large faith in +the future and an equally large bank account. But my future will have +to be hand-carved, and my bank account has always been an all too small +pay envelope at the end of each week. It will be months before the book +is shaped and finished. And my pocketbook is empty. Last week Max sent +money for the care of Peter. He and Norah think that I do not know. + +Von Gerhard was here in August. I told him that all my firm resolutions +to forsake newspaperdom forever were slipping away, one by one. + +“I have heard of the fascination of the newspaper office,” he said, in +his understanding way. “I believe you have a heimweh for it, not?” + +“Heimweh! That’s the word,” I had agreed. “After you have been a +newspaper writer for seven years—and loved it—you will be a newspaper +writer, at heart and by instinct at least, until you die. There’s no +getting away from it. It’s in the blood. Newspaper men have been known +to inherit fortunes, to enter politics, to write books and become +famous, to degenerate into press agents and become infamous, to blossom +into personages, to sink into nonentities, but their news-nose remained +a part of them, and the inky, smoky, stuffy smell of a newspaper office +was ever sweet in their nostrils.” + +But, “Not yet,” Von Gerhard had said, “It unless you want to have again +this miserable business of the sick nerfs. Wait yet a few months.” + +And so I have waited, saying nothing to Norah and Max. But I want to be +in the midst of things. I miss the sensation of having my fingers at +the pulse of the big old world. I’m lonely for the noise and the rush +and the hard work; for a glimpse of the busy local room just before +press time, when the lights are swimming in a smoky haze, and the big +presses downstairs are thundering their warning to hurry, and the men +are breezing in from their runs with the grist of news that will be +ground finer and finer as it passes through the mill of copy-readers’ +and editors’ hands. I want to be there in the thick of the confusion +that is, after all, so orderly. I want to be there when the telephone +bells are zinging, and the typewriters are snapping, and the messenger +boys are shuffling in and out, and the office kids are scuffling in a +corner, and the big city editor, collar off, sleeves rolled up from his +great arms, hair bristling wildly above his green eye-shade, is +swearing gently and smoking cigarette after cigarette, lighting each +fresh one at the dying glow of the last. I would give a year of my life +to hear him say: + +“I don’t mind tellin’ you, Beatrice Fairfax, that that was a darn good +story you got on the Millhaupt divorce. The other fellows haven’t a +word that isn’t re-hash.” + +All of which is most unwomanly; for is not marriage woman’s highest +aim, and home her true sphere? Haven’t I tried both? I ought to know. I +merely have been miscast in this life’s drama. My part should have been +that of one who makes her way alone. Peter, with his thin, cruel lips, +and his shaking hands, and his haggard face and his smoldering eyes, is +a shadow forever blotting out the sunny places in my path. I was meant +to be an old maid, like the terrible old Kitty O’Hara. Not one of the +tatting-and-tea kind, but an impressive, bustling old girl, with a +double chin. The sharp-tongued Kitty O’Hara used to say that being an +old maid was a great deal like death by drowning—a really delightful +sensation when you ceased struggling. + +Norah has pleaded with me to be more like other women of my age, and +for her sake I’ve tried. She has led me about to bridge parties and tea +fights, and I have tried to act as though I were enjoying it all, but I +knew that I wasn’t getting on a bit. I have come to the conclusion that +one year of newspapering counts for two years of ordinary existence, +and that while I’m twenty-eight in the family Bible I’m fully forty +inside. When one day may bring under one’s pen a priest, a pauper, a +prostitute, a philanthropist, each with a story to tell, and each +requiring to be bullied, or cajoled, or bribed, or threatened, or +tricked into telling it; then the end of that day’s work finds one +looking out at the world with eyes that are very tired and as old as +the world itself. + +I’m spoiled for sewing bees and church sociables and afternoon bridges. +A hunger for the city is upon me. The long, lazy summer days have +slipped by. There is an autumn tang in the air. The breeze has a touch +that is sharp. + +Winter in a little northern town! I should go mad. But winter in the +city! The streets at dusk on a frosty evening; the shop windows +arranged by artist hands for the beauty-loving eyes of women; the rows +of lights like jewels strung on an invisible chain; the glitter of +brass and enamel as the endless procession of motors flashes past; the +smartly-gowned women; the keen-eyed, nervous men; the shrill note of +the crossing policeman’s whistle; every smoke-grimed wall and pillar +taking on a mysterious shadowy beauty in the purple dusk, every +unsightly blot obscured by the kindly night. But best of all, the +fascination of the People I’d Like to Know. They pop up now and then in +the shifting crowds, and are gone the next moment, leaving behind them +a vague regret. Sometimes I call them the People I’d Like to Know and +sometimes I call them the People I Know I’d Like, but it means much the +same. Their faces flash by in the crowd, and are gone, but I recognize +them instantly as belonging to my beloved circle of unknown friends. + +Once it was a girl opposite me in a car—a girl with a wide, humorous +mouth, and tragic eyes, and a hole in her shoe. Once it was a big, +homely, red-headed giant of a man with an engineering magazine sticking +out of his coat pocket. He was standing at a book counter reading +Dickens like a schoolboy and laughing in all the right places, I know, +because I peaked over his shoulder to see. Another time it was a +sprightly little, grizzled old woman, staring into a dazzling shop +window in which was displayed a wonderful collection of fashionably +impossible hats and gowns. She was dressed all in rusty black, was the +little old lady, and she had a quaint cast in her left eye that gave +her the oddest, most sporting look. The cast was working overtime as +she gazed at the gowns, and the ridiculous old sprigs on her rusty +black bonnet trembled with her silent mirth. She looked like one of +those clever, epigrammatic, dowdy old duchesses that one reads about in +English novels. I’m sure she had cardamon seeds in her shabby bag, and +a carriage with a crest on it waiting for her just around the corner. I +ached to slip my hand through her arm and ask her what she thought of +it all. I know that her reply would have been exquisitely witty and +audacious, and I did so long to hear her say it. + +No doubt some good angel tugs at my common sense, restraining me from +doing these things that I am tempted to do. Of course it would be +madness for a woman to address unknown red-headed men with the look of +an engineer about them and a book of Dickens in their hands; or perky +old women with nutcracker faces; or girls with wide humorous mouths. +Oh, it couldn’t be done, I suppose. They would clap me in a padded cell +in no time if I were to say: + +“Mister Red-headed Man, I’m so glad your heart is young enough for +Dickens. I love him too—enough to read him standing at a book counter +in a busy shop. And do you know, I like the squareness of your jaw, and +the way your eyes crinkle up when you laugh; and as for your being an +engineer—why one of the very first men I ever loved was the engineer in +‘Soldiers of Fortune.’” + +I wonder what the girl in the car would have said if I had crossed over +to her, and put my hand on her arm and spoken, thus: + +“Girl with the wide, humorous mouth, and the tragic eyes, and the hole +in your shoe, I think you must be an awfully good sort. I’ll wager you +paint, or write, or act, or do something clever like that for a living. +But from that hole in your shoe which you have inked so carefully, +although it persists in showing white at the seams, I fancy you are +stumbling over a rather stony bit of Life’s road just now. And from the +look in your eyes, girl, I’m afraid the stones have cut and bruised +rather cruelly. But when I look at your smiling, humorous mouth I know +that you are trying to laugh at the hurts. I think that this morning, +when you inked your shoe for the dozenth time, you hesitated between +tears and laughter, and the laugh won, thank God! Please keep right on +laughing, and don’t you dare stop for a minute! Because pretty soon +you’ll come to a smooth easy place, and then won’t you be glad that you +didn’t give up to lie down by the roadside, weary of your hurts?” + +Oh, it would never do. Never. And yet no charm possessed by the people +I know and like can compare with the fascination of those People I’d +Like to Know, and Know I Would Like. + +Here at home with Norah there are no faces in the crowds. There are no +crowds. When you turn the corner at Main street you are quite sure that +you will see the same people in the same places. You know that Mamie +Hayes will be flapping her duster just outside the door of the jewelry +store where she clerks. She gazes up and down Main street as she flaps +the cloth, her bright eyes keeping a sharp watch for stray traveling +men that may chance to be passing. You know that there will be the same +lounging group of white-faced, vacant-eyed youths outside the +pool-room. Dr. Briggs’s patient runabout will be standing at his office +doorway. Outside his butcher shop Assemblyman Schenck will be holding +forth on the subject of county politics to a group of red-faced, badly +dressed, prosperous looking farmers and townsmen, and as he talks the +circle of brown tobacco juice which surrounds the group closes in upon +them, nearer and nearer. And there, in a roomy chair in a corner of the +public library reference room, facing the big front window, you will +see Old Man Randall. His white hair forms a halo above his pitiful +drink-marred face. He was to have been a great lawyer, was Old Man +Randall. But on the road to fame he met Drink, and she grasped his arm, +and led him down by-ways, and into crooked lanes, and finally into +ditches, and he never arrived at his goal. There in that library window +nook it is cool in summer, and warm in winter. So he sits and dreams, +holding an open volume, unread, on his knees. Sometimes he writes, +hunched up in his corner, feverishly scribbling at ridiculous plays, +short stories, and novels which later he will insist on reading to the +tittering schoolboys and girls who come into the library to do their +courting and reference work. Presently, when it grows dusk, Old Man +Randall will put away his book, throw his coat over his shoulders, +sleeves dangling, flowing white locks sweeping the frayed velvet +collar. He will march out with his soldierly tread, humming a bit of a +tune, down the street and into Vandermeister’s saloon, where he will +beg a drink and a lunch, and some man will give it to him for the sake +of what Old Man Randall might have been. + +All these things you know. And knowing them, what is left for the +imagination? How can one dream dreams about people when one knows how +much they pay their hired girl, and what they have for dinner on +Wednesdays? + + + + +CHAPTER V. +THE ABSURD BECOMES SERIOUS + + +I can understand the emotions of a broken-down war horse that is +hitched to a vegetable wagon. I am going to Milwaukee to work! It is a +thing to make the gods hold their sides and roll down from their +mountain peaks with laughter. After New York—Milwaukee! + +Of course Von Gerhard is to blame. But I think even he sees the humor +of it. It happened in this way, on a day when I was indulging in a +particularly greenery-yallery fit of gloom. Norah rushed into my room. +I think I was mooning over some old papers, or letters, or ribbons, or +some such truck in the charming, knife-turning way that women have when +they are blue. + +“Out wid yez!” cried Norah. “On with your hat and coat! I’ve just had a +wire from Ernst von Gerhard. He’s coming, and you look like an +under-done dill pickle. You aren’t half as blooming as when he was here +in August, and this is October. Get out and walk until your cheeks are +so red that Von Gerhard will refuse to believe that this fiery-faced +puffing, bouncing creature is the green and limp thing that huddled in +a chair a few months ago. Out ye go!” + +And out I went. Hatless, I strode countrywards, leaving paved streets +and concrete walks far behind. There were drifts of fallen leaves all +about, and I scuffled through them drearily, trying to feel gloomy, and +old, and useless, and failing because of the tang in the air, and the +red-and-gold wonder of the frost-kissed leaves, and the regular +pump-pump of good red blood that was coursing through my body as per +Norah’s request. + +In a field at the edge of the town, just where city and country begin +to have a bowing acquaintance, the college boys were at football +practice. Their scarlet sweaters made gay patches of color against the +dull gray-brown of the autumn grass. + +“Seven-eighteen-two-four!” called a voice. There followed a scuffle, a +creaking of leather on leather, a thud. I watched them, a bit +enviously, walking backwards until a twist in the road hid them from +view. That same twist transformed my path into a real country road—a +brown, dusty, monotonous Michigan country road that went severely about +its business, never once stopping to flirt with the blushing autumn +woodland at its left, or to dally with the dimpling ravine at its +right. + +“Now if that were an English country road,” thought I, “a sociably +inclined, happy-go-lucky, out-for-pleasure English country road, one +might expect something of it. On an English country road this would be +the psychological moment for the appearance of a blond god, in gray +tweed. What a delightful time of it Richard Le Gallienne’s hero had on +his quest! He could not stroll down the most innocent looking lane, he +might not loiter along the most out-of-the-way path, he never ambled +over the barest piece of country road, that he did not come face to +face with some witty and lovely woman creature, also in search of +things unconventional, and able to quote charming lines from Chaucer to +him.” + +Ah, but that was England, and this is America. I realize it sadly as I +step out of the road to allow a yellow milk wagon to rattle past. The +red letters on the yellow milk cart inform the reader that it is the +property of August Schimmelpfennig, of Hickory Grove. The +Schimmelpfennig eye may be seen staring down upon me from the bit of +glass in the rear as the cart rattles ahead, doubtless being suspicious +of hatless young women wandering along country roads at dusk, alone. +There was that in the staring eye to which I took exception. It wore an +expression which made me feel sure that the mouth below it was all +a-grin, if I could but have seen it. It was bad enough to be stared at +by the fishy Schimmelpfennig eye, but to be grinned at by the +Schimmelpfennig mouth!—I resented it. In order to show my resentment I +turned my back on the Schimmelpfennig cart and pretended to look up the +road which I had just traveled. + +I pretended to look up the road, and then I did look in earnest. No +wonder the Schimmelpfennig eye and mouth had worn the leering +expression. The blond god in gray tweed was swinging along toward me! I +knew that he was blond because he wore no hat and the last rays of the +October sun were making a little halo effect about his head. I knew +that his gray clothes were tweed because every well regulated hero on a +country road wears tweed. It’s almost a religion with them. He was not +near enough to make a glance at his features possible. I turned around +and continued my walk. The yellow cart, with its impudent +Schimmelpfennig leer, was disappearing in a cloud of dust. Shades of +the “Duchess” and Bertha M. Clay! How does one greet a blond god in +gray tweed on a country road, when one has him! + +The blond god solved the problem for me. + +“Hi!” he called. I did not turn. There was a moment’s silence. Then +there came a shrill, insistent whistle, of the kind that is made by +placing four fingers between the teeth. It is a favorite with the +gallery gods. I would not have believed that gray tweed gods stooped to +it. + +“Hi!” called the voice again, very near now. “Lieber Gott! Never have I +seen so proud a young woman!” + +I whirled about to face Von Gerhard; a strangely boyish and +unprofessional looking Von Gerhard. + +“Young man,” I said severely, “have you been a-follerin’ of me?” + +“For miles,” groaned he, as we shook hands. “You walk like a grenadier. +I am sent by the charming Norah to tell you that you are to come home +to mix the salad dressing, for there is company for supper. I am the +company.” + +I was still a bit dazed. “But how did you know which road to take? And +when—” + +“Wunderbar, nicht wahr?” laughed Von Gerhard. “But really quite simple. +I come in on an earlier train than I had expected, chat a moment with +sister Norah, inquire after the health of my patient, and am told that +she is running away from a horde of blue devils!—quote your charming +sister—that have swarmed about her all day. What direction did her +flight take? I ask. Sister Norah shrugs her shoulders and presumes that +it is the road which shows the reddest and yellowest autumn colors. +That road will be your road. So!” + +“Pooh! How simple! That is the second disappointment you have given me +to-day.” + +“But how is that possible? The first has not had time to happen.” + +“The first was yourself,” I replied, rudely. + +“I had been longing for an adventure. And when I saw you ’way up the +road, such an unusual figure for our Michigan country roads, I forgot +that I was a disappointed old grass widder with a history, and I grew +young again, and my heart jumped up into my throat, and I sez to +mesilf, sez I: ‘Enter the hero!’ And it was only you.” + +Von Gerhard stared a moment, a curious look on his face. Then he +laughed one of those rare laughs of his, and I joined him because I was +strangely young, light, and happy to be alive. + +“You walk and enjoy walking, yes?” asked Von Gerhard, scanning my face. +“Your cheeks they are like—well, as unlike the cheeks of the German +girls as Diana’s are unlike a dairy maid’s. And the nerfs? They no +longer jump, eh?” + +“Oh, they jump, but not with weariness. They jump to get into action +again. From a life of too much excitement I have gone to the other +extreme. I shall be dead of ennui in another six months.” + +“Ennui?” mused he, “and you are—how is it?—twenty-eight years, yes? +H’m!” + +There was a world of exasperation in the last exclamation. + +“I am a thousand years old,” it made me exclaim, “a million!” + +“I will prove to you that you are sixteen,” declared Von Gerhard, +calmly. + +We had come to a fork in the road. At the right the narrower road ran +between two rows of great maples that made an arch of golden splendor. +The frost had kissed them into a gorgeous radiance. + +“Sunshine Avenue,” announced Von Gerhard. “It beckons us away from +home, and supper and salad dressing and duty, but who knows what we +shall find at the end of it!” + +“Let’s explore,” I suggested. “It is splendidly golden enough to be +enchanted.” + +We entered the yellow canopied pathway. + +“Let us pretend this is Germany, yes?” pleaded Von Gerhard. “This +golden pathway will end in a neat little glass-roofed restaurant, with +tables and chairs outside, and comfortable German papas and mammas and +pig-tailed children sitting at the tables, drinking coffee or beer. +There will be stout waiters, and a red-faced host. And we will seat +ourselves at one of the tables, and I will wave my hand, and one of the +stout waiters will come flying. ‘Will you have coffee, _Fraulein_, or +beer?’ It sounds prosaic, but it is very, very good, as you will see. +Pathways in Germany always end in coffee and Kuchen and waiters in +white aprons.” + +But, “Oh, no!” I exclaimed, for his mood was infectious. “This is +France. Please! The golden pathway will end in a picturesque little +French farm, with a dairy. And in the doorway of the farmhouse there +will be a red-skirted peasant woman, with a white cap! and a baby on +her arm! and sabots! Oh, surely she will wear sabots!” + +“Most certainly she will wear sabots,” Von Gerhard said, heatedly, “and +blue knitted stockings. And the baby’s name is Mimi!” + +We had taken hands and were skipping down the pathway now, like two +excited children. + +“Let’s run,” I suggested. And run we did, like two mad creatures, until +we rounded a gentle curve and brought up, panting, within a foot of a +decrepit rail fence. The rail fence enclosed a stubbly, lumpy field. +The field was inhabited by an inquiring cow. Von Gerhard and I stood +quite still, hand in hand, gazing at the cow. Then we turned slowly and +looked at each other. + +“This pathway of glorified maples ends in a cow,” I said, solemnly. At +which we both shrieked with mirth, leaning on the decrepit fence and +mopping our eyes with our handkerchiefs. + +“Did I not say you were sixteen?” taunted Von Gerhard. We were getting +surprisingly well acquainted. + +“Such a scolding as we shall get! It will be quite dark before we are +home. Norah will be tearing her hair.” + +It was a true prophecy. As we stampeded up the steps the door was flung +open, disclosing a tragic figure. + +“Such a steak!” wailed Norah, “and it has been done for hours and +hours, and now it looks like a piece of fried ear. Where have you two +driveling idiots been? And mushrooms too.” + +“She means that the ruined steak was further enhanced by mushrooms,” I +explained in response to Von Gerhard’s bewildered look. We marched into +the house, trying not to appear like sneak thieves. Max, pipe in mouth, +surveyed us blandly. + +“Fine color you’ve got, Dawn,” he remarked. + +“There is such a thing as overdoing this health business,” snapped +Norah, with a great deal of acidity for her. “I didn’t tell you to make +them purple, you know.” + +Max turned to Von Gerhard. “Now what does she mean by that do you +suppose, eh Ernst?” + +“Softly, brother, softly!” whispered Von Gerhard. “When women exchange +remarks that apparently are simple, and yet that you, a man, cannot +understand, then know there is a woman’s war going on, and step softly, +and hold your peace. Aber ruhig!” + +Calm was restored with the appearance of the steak, which was found to +have survived the period of waiting, and to be incredibly juicy and +tender. Presently we were all settled once more in the great beamed +living room, Sis at the piano, the two men smoking their after-dinner +cigars with that idiotic expression of contentment which always adorns +the masculine face on such occasions. + +I looked at them—at those three who had done so much for my happiness +and well being, and something within me said: “Now! Speak now!” Norah +was playing very softly, so that the Spalpeens upstairs might not be +disturbed. I took a long breath and made the plunge. + +“Norah, if you’ll continue the slow music, I’ll be much obliged. ‘The +time has come, the Walrus said, to talk of many things.’” + +“Don’t be absurd,” said Norah, over her shoulder, and went on playing. + +“I never was more serious in my life, good folkses all. I’ve got to be. +This butterfly existence has gone on long enough. Norah, and Max, and +Mr. Doctor Man, I am going away.” + +Norah’s hands crashed down on the piano keys with a jangling discord. +She swung about to face me. + +“Not New York again, Dawn! Not New York!” + +“I am afraid so,” I answered. + +Max—bless his great, brotherly heart—rose and came over to me and put a +hand on my shoulder. + +“Don’t you like it here, girlie? Want to be hauled home on a shutter +again, do you? You know that as long as we have a home, you have one. +We need you here.” + +But I shook my head. From his chair at the other side of the room I +could feel Von Gerhard’s gaze fixed upon us. He had said nothing. + +“Need me! No one needs me. Don’t worry; I’m not going to become maudlin +about it. But I don’t belong here, and you know, it. I have my work to +do. Norah is the best sister that a woman ever had. And Max, you’re an +angel brother-in-law. But how can I stay on here and keep my +self-respect?” I took Max’s big hand in mine and gathered courage from +it. + +“But you have been working,” wailed Norah, “every morning. And I +thought the book was coming on beautifully. And I’m sure it will be a +wonderful book, Dawn dear. You are so clever.” + +“Oh, the book—it is too uncertain. Perhaps it will go, but perhaps it +won’t. And then—what? It will be months before the book is properly +polished off. And then I may peddle it around for more months. No; I +can’t afford to trifle with uncertainties. Every newspaper man or woman +writes a book. It’s like having the measles. There is not a newspaper +man living who does not believe, in his heart, that if he could only +take a month or two away from the telegraph desk or the police run, he +could write the book of the year, not to speak of the great American +Play. Why, just look at me! I’ve only been writing seriously for a few +weeks, and already the best magazines in the country are refusing my +manuscripts daily.” + +“Don’t joke,” said Norah, coming over to me, “I can’t stand it.” + +“Why not? Much better than weeping, isn’t it? And anyway, I’m no +subject for tears any more. Dr. von Gerhard will tell you how well and +strong I am. Won’t you, Herr Doktor?” + +“Well,” said Von Gerhard, in his careful, deliberate English, “since +you ask me, I should say that you might last about one year, in New +York.” + +“There! What did I tell you!” cried Norah. + +“What utter blither!” I scoffed, turning to glare at Von Gerhard. + +“Gently,” warned Max. “Such disrespect to the man who pulled you back +from the edge of the yawning grave only six months ago!” + +“Yawning fiddlesticks!” snapped I, elegantly. “There was nothing wrong +with me except that I wanted to be fussed over. And I have been. And +I’ve loved it. But it must stop now.” I rose and walked over to the +table and faced Von Gerhard, sitting there in the depths of a great +chair. “You do not seem to realize that I am not free to come and go, +and work and play, and laugh and live like other women. There is my +living to make. And there is—Peter Orme. Do you think that I could stay +on here like this? Oh, I know that Max is not a poor man. But he is not +a rich man, either. And there are the children to be educated, and +besides, Max married Norah O’Hara, not the whole O’Hara tribe. I want +to go to work. I am not a free woman, but when I am working, I forget, +and am almost happy. I tell you I must be well again! I will be well! I +am well!” + +At the end of which dramatic period I spoiled the whole effect by +bowing my head on the table and giving way to a fit of weeping such as +I had not had since the days of my illness. + +“Looks like it,” said Max, at which I decided to laugh, and the +situation was saved. + +It was then that Von Gerhard proposed the thing that set us staring at +him in amused wonder. He came over and stood looking down at us, his +hands outspread upon the big library table, his body bent forward in an +attitude of eager intentness. I remember thinking what wonderful hands +they were, true indexes of the man’s character; broad, white, surgeonly +hands; the fingers almost square at the tips. They were hands as +different from those slender, nervous, unsteady, womanly hands of Peter +Orme as any hands could be, I thought. They were hands made for work +that called for delicate strength, if such a paradox could be; hands to +cling to; to gain courage from; hands that spelled power and reserve. I +looked at them, fascinated, as I often had done before, and thought +that I never had seen such SANE hands. + +“You have done me the honor to include me in this little family +conclave,” began Ernst von Gerhard. “I am going to take advantage of +your trust. I shall give you some advice—a thing I usually keep for +unpleasant professional occasions. Do not go back to New York.” + +“But I know New York. And New York—the newspaper part of it—knows me. +Where else can I go?” + +“You have your book to finish. You could never finish it there, is it +not so?” + +I’m afraid I shrugged my shoulders. It was all so much harder than I +had expected. What did they want me to do? I asked myself, bitterly. + +Von Gerhard went on. “Why not go where the newspaper work will not be +so nerve-racking? where you still might find time for this other work +that is dear to you, and that may bring its reward in time.” He reached +out and took my hand, into his great, steady clasp. “Come to the happy, +healthy, German town called Milwaukee, yes? Ach, you may laugh. But +newspaper work is newspaper work the world over, because men and women +are just men and women the world over. But there you could live sanely, +and work not too hard, and there would be spare hours for the book that +is near your heart. And I—I will speak of you to Norberg, of the Post. +And on Sundays, if you are good, I may take you along the marvelous +lake drives in my little red runabout, yes? Aber wunderbar, those +drives are! So.” + +Then—“Milwaukee!” shrieked Max and Norah and I, together. “After New +York—Milwaukee!” + +“Laugh,” said Von Gerhard, quite composedly. “I give you until +to-morrow morning to stop laughing. At the end of that time it will not +seem quite so amusing. No joke is so funny after one has contemplated +it for twelve hours.” + +The voice of Norah, the temptress, sounded close to my ear. “Dawn dear, +just think how many million miles nearer you would be to Max, and me, +and home.” + +“Oh, you have all gone mad! The thing is impossible. I shan’t go back +to a country sheet in my old age. I suppose that in two more years I +shall be editing a mothers’ column on an agricultural weekly.” + +“Norberg would be delighted to get you,” mused Von Gerhard, “and it +would be day work instead of night work.” + +“And you would send me a weekly bulletin on Dawn’s health, wouldn’t +you, Ernst?” pleaded Norah. “And you’d teach her to drink beer and she +shall grow so fat that the Spalpeens won’t know their auntie.” + +At last—“How much do they pay?” I asked, in desperation. And the thing +that had appeared so absurd at first began to take on the shape of +reality. + +Von Gerhard did speak to Norberg of the Post. And I am to go to +Milwaukee next week. The skeleton of the book manuscript is stowed +safely away in the bottom of my trunk and Norah has filled in the +remaining space with sundry flannels, and hot water bags and medicine +flasks, so that I feel like a schoolgirl on her way to boarding-school, +instead of like a seasoned old newspaper woman with a capital PAST and +a shaky future. I wish that I were chummier with the Irish saints. I +need them now. + + + + +CHAPTER VI. +STEEPED IN GERMAN + + +I am living at a little private hotel just across from the court house +square with its scarlet geraniums and its pretty fountain. The house is +filled with German civil engineers, mechanical engineers, and Herr +Professors from the German academy. On Sunday mornings we have +Pfannkuchen with currant jelly, and the Herr Professors come down to +breakfast in fearful flappy German slippers. I’m the only creature in +the place that isn’t just over from Germany. Even the dog is a +dachshund. It is so unbelievable that every day or two I go down to +Wisconsin Street and gaze at the stars and stripes floating from the +government building, in order to convince myself that this is America. +It needs only a Kaiser or so, and a bit of Unter den Linden to be quite +complete. + +The little private hotel is kept by Herr and Frau Knapf. After one has +seen them, one quite understands why the place is steeped in a German +atmosphere up to its eyebrows. + +I never would have found it myself. It was Doctor von Gerhard who had +suggested Knapf’s, and who had paved the way for my coming here. + +“You will find it quite unlike anything you have ever tried before,” he +warned me. “Very German it is, and very, very clean, and most +inexpensive. Also I think you will find material there—how is it you +call it?—copy, yes? Well, there should be copy in plenty; and types! +But you shall see.” + +From the moment I rang the Knapf doorbell I saw. The dapper, cheerful +Herr Knapf, wearing a disappointed Kaiser Wilhelm mustache, opened the +door. I scarcely had begun to make my wishes known when he interrupted +with a large wave of the hand, and an elaborate German bow. + +“Ach yes! You would be the lady of whom the Herr Doktor has spoken. +Gewiss! Frau Orme, not? But so a young lady I did not expect to see. A +room we have saved for you—aber wunderhubsch! It makes me much pleasure +to show. Folgen Sie mir, bitte.” + +“You—you speak English?” I faltered, with visions of my evenings spent +in expressing myself in the sign language. + +“Englisch? But yes. Here in Milwaukee it gives aber mostly German. And +then too, I have been only twenty years in this country. And always in +Milwaukee. Here is it gemutlich—and mostly it gives German.” + +I tried not to look frightened, and followed him up to the “but +wonderfully beautiful” room. To my joy I found it high-ceilinged, airy, +and huge, with a great vault of a clothes closet bristling with hooks, +and boasting an unbelievable number of shelves. My trunk was swallowed +up in it. Never in all my boarding-house experience have I seen such a +room, or such a closet. The closet must have been built for a bride’s +trousseau in the days of hoop-skirts and scuttle bonnets. There was a +separate and distinct hook for each and every one of my most obscure +garments. I tried to spread them out. I used two hooks to every +petticoat, and three for my kimono, and when I had finished there were +rows of hooks to spare. Tiers of shelves yawned for hat-boxes which I +possessed not. Bluebeard’s wives could have held a family reunion in +that closet and invited all of Solomon’s spouses. Finally, in +desperation, I gathered all my poor garments together and hung them in +a sociable bunch on the hooks nearest the door. How I should have loved +to have shown that closet to a select circle of New York boarding-house +landladies! + +After wrestling in vain with the forest of hooks, I turned my attention +to my room. I yanked a towel thing off the center table and replaced it +with a scarf that Peter had picked up in the Orient. I set up my +typewriter in a corner near a window and dug a gay cushion or two and a +chafing-dish out of my trunk. I distributed photographs of Norah and +Max and the Spalpeens separately, in couples, and in groups. Then I +bounced up and down in a huge yellow brocade chair and found it +unbelievably soft and comfortable. Of course, I reflected, after the +big veranda, and the apple tree at Norah’s, and the leather-cushioned +comfort of her library, and the charming tones of her Oriental rugs and +hangings— + +“Oh, stop your carping, Dawn!” I told myself. “You can’t expect +charming tones, and Oriental do-dads and apple trees in a German +boarding-house. Anyhow there’s running water in the room. For general +utility purposes that’s better than a pink prayer rug.” + +There was a time when I thought that it was the luxuries that made life +worth living. That was in the old Bohemian days. + +“Necessities!” I used to laugh, “Pooh! Who cares about the necessities! +What if the dishpan does leak? It is the luxuries that count.” + +Bohemia and luxuries! Half a dozen lean boarding-house years have +steered me safely past that. After such a course in common sense you +don’t stand back and examine the pictures of a pink Moses in a nest of +purple bullrushes, or complain because the bureau does not harmonize +with the wall paper. Neither do you criticize the blue and saffron +roses that form the rug pattern. ’Deedy not! Instead you warily punch +the mattress to see if it is rock-stuffed, and you snoop into the +clothes closet; you inquire the distance to the nearest bath room, and +whether the payments are weekly or monthly, and if there is a baby in +the room next door. Oh, there’s nothing like living in a boarding-house +for cultivating the materialistic side. + +But I was to find that here at Knapf’s things were quite different. Not +only was Ernst von Gerhard right in saying that it was “very German, +and very, very clean;” he recognized good copy when he saw it. Types! I +never dreamed that such faces existed outside of the old German +woodcuts that one sees illustrating time-yellowed books. + +I had thought myself hardened to strange boarding-house dining rooms, +with their batteries of cold, critical women’s eyes. I had learned to +walk unruffled in the face of the most carping, suspicious and the +fishiest of these batteries. Therefore on my first day at Knapf’s I +went down to dinner in the evening, quite composed and secure in the +knowledge that my collar was clean and that there was no flaw to find +in the fit of my skirt in the back. + +As I opened the door of my room I heard sounds as of a violent +altercation in progress downstairs. I leaned over the balusters and +listened. The sounds rose and fell and swelled and boomed. They were +German sounds that started in the throat, gutturally, and spluttered +their way up. They were sounds such as I had not heard since the night +I was sent to cover a Socialist meeting in New York. I tip-toed down +the stairs, although I might have fallen down and landed with a thud +without having been heard. The din came from the direction of the +dining room. Well, come what might, I would not falter. After all, it +could not be worse than that awful time when I had helped cover the +teamsters’ strike. I peered into the dining room. + +The thunder of conversation went on as before. But there was no +bloodshed. Nothing but men and women sitting at small tables, eating +and talking. When I say eating and talking I do not mean that those +acts were carried on separately. Not at all. The eating and the talking +went on simultaneously, neither interrupting the other. A fork full of +food and a mouthful of ten-syllabled German words met, wrestled, and +passed one another, unscathed. I stood in the doorway, fascinated, +until Herr Knapf spied me, took a nimble skip in my direction, twisted +the discouraged mustaches into temporary sprightliness, and waved me +toward a table in the center of the room. + +Then a frightful thing happened. When I think of it now I turn cold. +The battery was not that of women’s eyes, but of men’s. And +conversation ceased! The uproar and the booming of vowels was hushed. +The silence was appalling. I looked up in horror to find that what +seemed to be millions of staring blue eyes were fixed on me. The +stillness was so thick that you could cut it with a knife. Such men! +Immediately I dubbed them the aborigines, and prayed that I might find +adjectives with which to describe their foreheads. + +It appeared that the aborigines were especially favored in that they +were all placed at one long, untidy table at the head of the room. The +rest of us sat at small tables. Later I learned that they were all +engineers. At meals they discuss engineering problems in the most +awe-inspiring German. After supper they smoke impossible German pipes +and dozens of cigarettes. They have bulging, knobby foreheads and +bristling pompadours, and some of the rawest of them wear wild-looking +beards, and thick spectacles, and cravats and trousers that Lew Fields +never even dreamed of. They are all graduates of high-sounding foreign +universities and are horribly learned and brilliant, but they are the +worst mannered lot I ever saw. + +In the silence that followed my entrance a red-cheeked maid approached +me and asked what I would have for supper. Supper? I asked. Was not +dinner served in the evening? The aborigines nudged each other and +sniggered like fiendish little school-boys. + +The red-cheeked maid looked at me pityingly. Dinner was served in the +middle of the day, naturlich. For supper there was Wienerschnitzel, and +kalter Aufschnitt, also Kartoffel Salat, and fresh Kaffeekuchen. + +The room hung breathless on my decision. I wrestled with a horrible +desire to shriek and run. Instead I managed to mumble an order. The +aborigines turned to one another inquiringly. + +“Was hat sie gesagt?” they asked. “What did she say?” Whereupon they +fell to discussing my hair and teeth and eyes and complexion in German +as crammed with adjectives as was the rye bread over which I was +choking with caraway. The entire table watched me with wide-eyed, +unabashed interest while I ate, and I advanced by quick stages from +red-faced confusion to purple mirth. It appeared that my presence was +the ground for a heavy German joke in connection with the youngest of +the aborigines. He was a very plump and greasy looking aborigine with a +doll-like rosiness of cheek and a scared and bristling pompadour and +very small pig-eyes. The other aborigines clapped him on the back and +roared: + +“Ai Fritz! Jetzt brauchst du nicht zu weinen! Deine Lena war aber nicht +so huebsch, eh?” + +Later I learned that Fritz was the newest arrival and that since coming +to this country he had been rather low in spirits in consequence of a +certain flaxen-haired Lena whom he had left behind in the fatherland. + +An examination of the dining room and its other occupants served to +keep my mind off the hateful long table. The dining room was a double +one, the floor carpetless and clean. There was a little platform at one +end with hardy-looking plants in pots near the windows. The wall was +ornamented with very German pictures of very plump, bare-armed German +girls being chucked under the chin by very dashing, mustachioed German +lieutenants. It was all very bare, and strange and foreign to my eyes, +and yet there was something bright and comfortable about it. I felt +that I was going to like it, aborigines and all. The men drink beer +with their supper and read the Staats-Zeitung and the Germania and +foreign papers that I never heard of. It is uncanny, in these United +States. But it is going to be bully for my German. + +After my first letter home Norah wrote frantically, demanding to know +if I was the only woman in the house. I calmed her fears by assuring +her that, while the men were interesting and ugly with the fascinating +ugliness of a bulldog, the women were crushed looking and uninteresting +and wore hopeless hats. I have written Norah and Max reams about this +household, from the aborigines to Minna, who tidies my room and serves +my meals, and admires my clothes. Minna is related to Frau Knapf, whom +I have never seen. Minna is inordinately fond of dress, and her remarks +anent my own garments are apt to be a trifle disconcerting, especially +when she intersperses her recital of dinner dishes with admiring +adjectives directed at my blouse or hat. Thus: + +“Wir haben roast beef, und spareribs mit Sauerkraut, und schicken—ach, +wie schon, Frau Orme! Aber ganz prachtvoll!” Her eyes and hands are +raised toward heaven. + +“What’s prachtful?” I ask, startled. “The chicken?” + +“Nein; your waist. Selbst gemacht?” + +I am even becoming hardened to the manners of the aborigines. It used +to fuss me to death to meet one of them in the halls. They always +stopped short, brought heels together with a click, bent stiffly from +the waist, and thundered: “Nabben’, Fraulein!” + +I have learned to take the salutation quite calmly, and even the +wildest, most spectacled and knobby-browed aborigine cannot startle me. +Nonchalantly I reply, “Nabben’,” and wish that Norah could but see me +in the act. + +When I told Ernst von Gerhard about them, he laughed a little and +shrugged his shoulders and said: + +“Na, you should not look so young, and so pretty, and so unmarried. In +Germany a married woman brushes her hair quite smoothly back, and pins +it in a hard knob. And she knows nothing of such bewildering collars +and fluffy frilled things in the front of the blouse. How do you call +them—jabots?” + +Von Gerhard has not behaved at all nicely. I did not see him until two +weeks after my arrival in Milwaukee, although he telephoned twice to +ask if there was anything that he could do to make me comfortable. + +“Yes,” I had answered the last time that I heard his voice over the +telephone. “It would be a whole heap of comfort to me just to see you. +You are the nearest thing to Norah that there is in this whole German +town, and goodness knows you’re far from Irish.” + +He came. The weather had turned suddenly cold and he was wearing a +fur-lined coat with a collar of fur. He looked most amazingly handsome +and blond and splendidly healthy. The clasp of his hands was just as +big and sure as ever. + +“You have no idea how glad I am to see you,” I told him. “If you had, +you would have been here days ago. Aren’t you rather ill-mannered and +neglectful, considering that you are responsible for my being here?” + +“I did not know whether you, a married woman, would care to have me +here,” he said, in his composed way. “In a place like this people are +not always kind enough to take the trouble to understand. And I would +not have them raise their eyebrows at you, not for—” + +“Married!” I laughed, some imp of willfulness seizing me, “I’m not +married. What mockery to say that I am married simply because I must +write madam before my name! I am not married, and I shall talk to whom +I please.” + +And then Von Gerhard did a surprising thing. He took two great steps +over to my chair, and grasped my hands and pulled me to my feet. I +stared up at him like a silly creature. His face was suffused with a +dull red, and his eyes were unbelievably blue and bright. He had my +hands in his great grip, but his voice was very quiet and contained. + +“You are married,” he said. “Never forget that for a moment. You are +bound, hard and fast and tight. And you are for no man. You are married +as much as though that poor creature in the mad house were here working +for you, instead of the case being reversed as it is. So.” + +“What do you mean!” I cried, wrenching myself away indignantly. “What +right have you to talk to me like this? You know what my life has been, +and how I have tried to smile with my lips and stay young in my heart! +I thought you understood. Norah thought so too, and Max—” + +“I do understand. I understand so well that I would not have you talk +as you did a moment ago. And I said what I said not so much for your +sake, as for mine. For see, I too must remember that you write madam +before your name. And sometimes it is hard for me to remember.” + +“Oh,” I said, like a simpleton, and stood staring after him as he +quietly gathered up his hat and gloves and left me standing there. + + + + +CHAPTER VII. +BLACKIE’S PHILOSOPHY + + +I did not write Norah about Von Gerhard. After all, I told myself, +there was nothing to write. And so I was the first to break the solemn +pact that we had made. + +“You will write everything, won’t you, Dawn dear?” Norah had pleaded, +with tears in her pretty eyes. “Promise me. We’ve been nearer to each +other in these last few months than we have been since we were girls. +And I’ve loved it so. Please don’t do as you did during those miserable +years in New York, when you were fighting your troubles alone and we +knew nothing of it. You wrote only the happy things. Promise me you’ll +write the unhappy ones too—though the saints forbid that there should +be any to write! And Dawn, don’t you dare to forget your heavy +underwear in November. Those lake breezes!—Well, some one has to tell +you, and I can’t leave those to Von Gerhard. He has promised to act as +monitor over your health.” + +And so I promised. I crammed my letters with descriptions of the Knapf +household. I assured her that I was putting on so much weight that the +skirts which formerly hung about me in limp, dejected folds now refused +to meet in the back, and all the hooks and eyes were making faces at +each other. My cheeks, I told her, looked as if I were wearing +plumpers, and I was beginning to waddle and puff as I walked. + +Norah made frantic answer: + +“For mercy’s sake child, be careful or you’ll be FAT!” + +To which I replied: “Don’t care if I am. Rather be hunky and healthy +than skinny and sick. Have tried both.” + +It is impossible to avoid becoming round-cheeked when one is working on +a paper that allows one to shut one’s desk and amble comfortably home +for dinner at least five days in the week. Everybody is at least plump +in this comfortable, gemutlich town, where everybody placidly locks his +shop or office and goes home at noon to dine heavily on soup and meat +and vegetables and pudding, washed down by the inevitable beer and +followed by forty winks on the dining room sofa with the German Zeitung +spread comfortably over the head as protection against the flies. + +There is a fascination about the bright little city. There is about it +something quaint and foreign, as though a cross-section of the old +world had been dumped bodily into the lap of Wisconsin. It does not +seem at all strange to hear German spoken everywhere—in the streets, in +the shops, in the theaters, in the street cars. One day I chanced upon +a sign hung above the doorway of a little German bakery over on the +north side. There were Hornchen and Kaffeekuchen in the windows, and a +brood of flaxen-haired and sticky children in the back of the shop. I +stopped, open-mouthed, to stare at the worn sign tacked over the door. + +“Hier wird Englisch gesprochen,” it announced. + +I blinked. Then I read it again. I shut my eyes, and opened them again +suddenly. The fat German letters spoke their message as before—“English +spoken here.” + +On reaching the office I told Norberg, the city editor, about my find. +He was not impressed. Norberg never is impressed. He is the most +soul-satisfying and theatrical city editor that I have ever met. He is +fat, and unbelievably nimble, and keen-eyed, and untiring. He says, +“Hell!” when things go wrong; he smokes innumerable cigarettes, +inhaling the fumes and sending out the thin wraith of smoke with little +explosive sounds between tongue and lips; he wears blue shirts, and no +collar to speak of, and his trousers are kept in place only by a +miracle and an inefficient looking leather belt. + +When he refused to see the story in the little German bakery sign I +began to argue. + +“But man alive, this is America! I think I know a story when I see it. +Suppose you were traveling in Germany, and should come across a sign +over a shop, saying: ‘Hier wird Deutsch gesprochen.’ Wouldn’t you think +you were dreaming?” + +Norberg waved an explanatory hand. “This isn’t America. This is +Milwaukee. After you’ve lived here a year or so you’ll understand what +I mean. If we should run a story of that sign, with a two-column cut, +Milwaukee wouldn’t even see the joke.” + +But it was not necessary that I live in Milwaukee a year or so in order +to understand its peculiarities, for I had a personal conductor and +efficient guide in the new friend that had come into my life with the +first day of my work on the Post. Surely no woman ever had a stronger +friend than little “Blackie” Griffith, sporting editor of the Milwaukee +Post. We became friends, not step by step, but in one gigantic leap +such as sometimes triumphs over the gap between acquaintance and +liking. + +I never shall forget my first glimpse of him. He strolled into the city +room from his little domicile across the hall. A shabby, disreputable, +out-at-elbows office coat was worn over his ultra-smart street clothes, +and he was puffing at a freakish little pipe in the shape of a +miniature automobile. He eyed me a moment from the doorway, a +fantastic, elfin little figure. I thought that I had never seen so +strange and so ugly a face as that of this little brown Welshman with +his lank, black hair and his deep-set, uncanny black eyes. Suddenly he +trotted over to me with a quick little step. In the doorway he had +looked forty. Now a smile illumined the many lines of his dark +countenance, and in some miraculous way he looked twenty. + +“Are you the New York importation?” he, asked, his great black eyes +searching my face. + +“I’m what’s left of it,” I replied, meekly. + +“I understand you’ve been in for repairs. Must of met up with somethin’ +on the road. They say the goin’ is full of bumps in N’ York.” + +“Bumps!” I laughed, “it’s uphill every bit of the road, and yet you’ve +got to go full speed to get anywhere. But I’m running easily again, +thank you.” + +He waved away a cloud of pipe-smoke, and knowingly squinted through the +haze. “We don’t speed up much here. And they ain’t no hill climbin’ t’ +speak of. But say, if you ever should hit a nasty place on the route, +toot your siren for me and I’ll come. I’m a regular little human garage +when it comes to patchin’ up those aggravatin’ screws that need oilin’. +And, say, don’t let Norberg bully you. My name’s Blackie. I’m goin’ t’ +like you. Come on over t’ my sanctum once in a while and I’ll show you +my scrapbook and let you play with the office revolver.” + +And so it happened that I had not been in Milwaukee a month before +Blackie and I were friends. + +Norah was horrified. My letters were full of him. I told her that she +might get a more complete mental picture of him if she knew that he +wore the pinkest shirts, and the purplest neckties, and the blackest +and whitest of black-and-white checked vests that ever aroused the envy +of an office boy, and beneath them all, the gentlest of hearts. And +therefore one loves him. There is a sort of spell about the illiterate +little slangy, brown Welshman. He is the presiding genius of the place. +The office boys adore him. The Old Man takes his advice in selecting a +new motor car; the managing editor arranges his lunch hour to suit +Blackie’s and they go off to the Press club together, arm in arm. It is +Blackie who lends a sympathetic ear to the society editor’s tale of +woe. He hires and fires the office boys; boldly he criticizes the news +editor’s makeup; he receives delegations of tan-coated, red-faced +prizefighting-looking persons; he gently explains to the photographer +why that last batch of cuts make their subjects look as if afflicted +with the German measles; he arbitrates any row that the newspaper may +have with such dignitaries as the mayor or the chief of police; he +manages boxing shows; he skims about in a smart little roadster; he +edits the best sporting page in the city; and at four o’clock of an +afternoon he likes to send around the corner for a chunk of devil’s +food cake with butter filling from the Woman’s Exchange. Blackie never +went to school to speak of. He doesn’t know was from were. But he can +“see” a story quicker, and farther and clearer than any newspaper man I +ever knew—excepting Peter Orme. + +There is a legend about to the effect that one day the managing editor, +who is Scotch and without a sense of humor, ordered that Blackie should +henceforth be addressed by his surname of Griffith, as being a more +dignified appellation for the use of fellow reporters, hangers-on, copy +kids, office boys and others about the big building. + +The day after the order was issued the managing editor summoned a +freckled youth and thrust a sheaf of galley proofs into his hand. + +“Take those to Mr. Griffith,” he ordered without looking up. + +“T’ who?” + +“To Mr. Griffith,” said the managing editor, laboriously, and scowling +a bit. + +The boy took three unwilling steps toward the door. Then he turned a +puzzled face toward the managing editor. + +“Say, honest, I ain’t never heard of dat guy. He must be a new one. +W’ere’ll I find him?” + +“Oh, damn! Take those proofs to Blackie!” roared the managing editor. +And thus ended Blackie’s enforced flight into the realms of dignity. + +All these things, and more, I wrote to the scandalized Norah. I +informed her that he wore more diamond rings and scarf pins and watch +fobs than a railroad conductor, and that his checked top-coat shrieked +to Heaven. + +There came back a letter in which every third word was underlined, and +which ended by asking what the morals of such a man could be. + +Then I tried to make Blackie more real to Norah who, in all her +sheltered life, had never come in contact with a man like this. + +“... As for his morals—or what you would consider his morals, Sis—they +probably are a deep crimson; but I’ll swear there is no yellow streak. +I never have heard anything more pathetic than his story. Blackie sold +papers on a down-town corner when he was a baby six years old. Then he +got a job as office boy here, and he used to sharpen pencils, and run +errands, and carry copy. After office hours he took care of some horses +in an alley barn near by, and after that work was done he was employed +about the pressroom of one of the old German newspaper offices. +Sometimes he would be too weary to crawl home after working half the +night, and so he would fall asleep, a worn, tragic little figure, on a +pile of old papers and sacks in a warm corner near the presses. He was +the head of a household, and every penny counted. And all the time he +was watching things, and learning. Nothing escaped those keen black +eyes. He used to help the photographer when there was a pile of plates +to develop, and presently he knew more about photography than the man +himself. So they made him staff photographer. In some marvelous way he +knew more ball players, and fighters and horsemen than the sporting +editor. He had a nose for news that was nothing short of wonderful. He +never went out of the office without coming back with a story. They +used to use him in the sporting department when a rush was on. Then he +became one of the sporting staff; then assistant sporting editor; then +sporting editor. He knows this paper from the basement up. He could +operate a linotype or act as managing editor with equal ease. + +“No, I’m afraid that Blackie hasn’t had much time for morals. But, +Norah dear, I wish that you could hear him when he talks about his +mother. He may follow doubtful paths, and associate with questionable +people, and wear restless clothes, but I wouldn’t exchange his +friendship for that of a dozen of your ordinary so-called good men. All +these years of work and suffering have made an old man of little +Blackie, although he is young in years. But they haven’t spoiled his +heart any. He is able to distinguish between sham and truth because he +has been obliged to do it ever since he was a child selling papers on +the corner. But he still clings to the office that gave him his start, +although he makes more money in a single week outside the office than +his salary would amount to in half a year. He says that this is a job +that does not interfere with his work.” + +Such is Blackie. Surely the oddest friend a woman ever had. He +possesses a genius for friendship, and a wonderful understanding of +suffering, born of those years of hardship and privation. Each learned +the other’s story, bit by bit, in a series of confidences exchanged +during that peaceful, beatific period that follows just after the last +edition has gone down. Blackie’s little cubby-hole of an office is +always blue with smoke, and cluttered with a thousand odds and +ends—photographs, souvenirs, boxing-gloves, a litter of pipes and +tobacco, a wardrobe of dust-covered discarded coats and hats, and +Blackie in the midst of it all, sunk in the depths of his swivel chair, +and looking like an amiable brown gnome, or a cheerful little +joss-house god come to life. There is in him an uncanny wisdom which +only the streets can teach. He is one of those born newspaper men who +could not live out of sight of the ticker-tape, and the copy-hook and +the proof-sheet. + +“Y’ see, girl, it’s like this here,” Blackie explained one day. “W’re +all workin’ for some good reason. A few of us are workin’ for the glory +of it, and most of us are workin’ t’ eat, and lots of us are pluggin’ +an’ savin’ in the hopes that some day we’ll have money enough to get +back at some people we know; but there is some few workin’ for the pure +love of the work—and I guess I’m one of them fools. Y’ see, I started +in at this game when I was such a little runt that now it’s a ingrowing +habit, though it is comfortin’ t’ know you got a place where you c’n +always come in out of the rain, and where you c’n have your mail sent.” + +“This newspaper work is a curse,” I remarked. “Show me a clever +newspaper man and I’ll show you a failure. There is nothing in it but +the glory—and little of that. We contrive and scheme and run about all +day getting a story. And then we write it at fever heat, searching our +souls for words that are cleancut and virile. And then we turn it in, +and what is it? What have we to show for our day’s work? An ephemeral +thing, lacking the first breath of life; a thing that is dead before it +is born. Why, any cub reporter, if he were to put into some other +profession the same amount of nerve, and tact, and ingenuity and +finesse, and stick-to-it-iveness that he expends in prying a single +story out of some unwilling victim, could retire with a fortune in no +time.” + +Blackie blew down the stem of his pipe, preparatory to re-filling the +bowl. There was a quizzical light in his black eyes. The little heap of +burned matches at his elbow was growing to kindling wood proportions. +It was common knowledge that Blackie’s trick of lighting pipe or +cigarette and then forgetting to puff at it caused his bill for matches +to exceed his tobacco expense account. + +“You talk,” chuckled Blackie, “like you meant it. But sa-a-ay, girl, +it’s a lonesome game, this retirin’ with a fortune. I’ve noticed that +them guys who retire with a barrel of money usually dies at the end of +the first year, of a kind of a lingerin’ homesickness. You c’n see +their pictures in th’ papers, with a pathetic story of how they was +just beginnin’ t’ enjoy life when along comes the grim reaper an’ +claims ’em.” + +Blackie slid down in his chair and blew a column of smoke ceilingward. + +“I knew a guy once—newspaper man, too—who retired with a fortune. He +used to do the city hall for us. Well, he got in soft with the new +administration before election, and made quite a pile in stocks that +was tipped off to him by his political friends. His wife was crazy for +him to quit the newspaper game. He done it. An’ say, that guy kept on +gettin’ richer and richer till even his wife was almost satisfied. But +sa-a-ay, girl, was that chap lonesome! One day he come up here looking +like a dog that’s run off with the steak. He was just dyin’ for a kind +word, an’ he sniffed the smell of the ink and the hot metal like it was +June roses. He kind of wanders over to his old desk and slumps down in +the chair, and tips it back, and puts his feet on the desk, with his +hat tipped back, and a bum stogie in his mouth. And along came a kid +with a bunch of papers wet from the presses and sticks one in his hand, +and—well, girl, that fellow, he just wriggled he was so happy. You know +as well as I do that every man on a morning paper spends his day off +hanging around the office wishin’ that a mob or a fire or somethin’ big +would tear lose so he could get back into the game. I guess I told you +about the time Von Gerhard sent me abroad, didn’t I?” + +“Von Gerhard!” I repeated, startled. “Do you know him?” + +“Well, he ain’t braggin’ about it none,” Blackie admitted. “Von +Gerhard, he told me I had about five years or so t’ live, about two, +three years ago. He don’t approve of me. Pried into my private life, +old Von Gerhard did, somethin’ scand’lous. I had sort of went to pieces +about that time, and I went t’ him to be patched up. He thumps me fore +‘an’ aft, firing a volley of questions, lookin’ up the roof of m’ +mouth, and squintin’ at m’ finger nails an’ teeth like I was a prize +horse for sale. Then he sits still, lookin’ at me for about half a +minute, till I begin t’ feel uncomfortable. Then he says, slow: ‘Young +man, how old are you?’ + +“‘O, twenty-eight or so,’ I says, airy. + +“‘My Gawd!’ said he. ‘You’ve crammed twice those years into your life, +and you’ll have to pay for it. Now you listen t’ me. You got t’ quit +workin’, an’ smokin’, and get away from this. Take a ocean voyage,’ he +says, ’an’ try to get four hours sleep a night, anyway.’ + +“Well say, mother she was scared green. So I tucked her under m’ arm, +and we hit it up across the ocean. Went t’ Germany, knowin’ that it +would feel homelike there, an’ we took in all the swell baden, and +chased up the Jungfrau—sa-a-ay, that’s a classy little mountain, that +Jungfrau. Mother, she had some swell time I guess. She never set down +except for meals, and she wrote picture postals like mad. But sa-a-ay, +girl, was I lonesome! Maybe that trip done me good. Anyway, I’m livin’ +yet. I stuck it out for four months, an’ that ain’t so rotten for a guy +who just grew up on printer’s ink ever since he was old enough to hold +a bunch of papers under his arm. Well, one day mother an’ me was +sittin’ out on one of them veranda cafes they run to over there, w’en +somebody hits me a crack on the shoulder, an’ there stands old Ryan who +used t’ do A. P. here. He was foreign correspondent for some big New +York syndicate papers over there. + +“‘Well if it ain’t Blackie!’ he says. ‘What in Sam Hill are you doing +out of your own cell when Milwaukee’s just got four more games t’ win +the pennant?’ + +“Sa-a-a-ay, girl, w’en I got through huggin’ him around the neck an’ +buyin’ him drinks I knew it was me for the big ship. ‘Mother,’ I says, +‘if you got anybody on your mind that you neglected t’ send picture +postals to, now’s’ your last chance. ’F I got to die I’m going out with +m’ scissors in one mitt, and m’ trusty paste-pot by m’ side!’ An’ we +hits it up for old Milwaukee. I ain’t been away since, except w’en I +was out with the ball team, sending in sportin’ extry dope for the pink +sheet. The last time I was in at Baumbach’s in comes Von Gerhard an’—” + +“Who are Baumbach’s?” I interrupted. + +Blackie regarded me pityingly. “You ain’t never been to Baumbach’s? Why +girl, if you don’t know Baumbach’s, you ain’t never been properly +introduced to Milwaukee. No wonder you ain’t hep to the ways of this +little community. There ain’t what the s’ciety editor would call the +proper ontong cordyal between you and the natives if you haven’t had +coffee at Baumbach’s. It ain’t hardly legal t’ live in Milwaukee all +this time without ever having been inside of B—” + +“Stop! If you do not tell me at once just where this wonderful place +may be found, and what one does when one finds it, and how I happened +to miss it, and why it is so necessary to the proper understanding of +the city—” + +“I’ll tell you what I’ll do,” said Blackie, grinning, “I’ll romp you +over there to-morrow afternoon at four o’clock. Ach Himmel! What will +that for a grand time be, no?” + +“Blackie, you’re a dear to be so polite to an old married cratur’ like +me. Did you notice—that is, does Ernst von Gerhard drop in often at +Baumbach’s?” + + + + +CHAPTER VIII. +KAFFEE AND KAFFEEKUCHEN + + +I have visited Baumbach’s. I have heard Milwaukee drinking its +afternoon Kaffee. + +O Baumbach’s, with your deliciously crumbling butter cookies and your +kaffee kuchen, and your thick cream, and your thicker waitresses and +your cockroaches, and your dinginess and your dowdy German ladies and +your black, black Kaffee, where in this country is there another like +you! + +Blackie, true to his promise, had hailed me from the doorway on the +afternoon of the following day. In the rush of the day’s work I had +quite forgotten about Blackie and Baumbach’s. + +“Come, Kindchen!” he called. “Get your bonnet on. We will by Baumbach’s +go, no?” + +Ruefully I gazed at the grimy cuffs of my blouse, and felt of my +dishevelled hair. “Oh, I’m afraid I can’t go. I look so mussy. Haven’t +had time to brush up.” + +“Brush up!” scoffed Blackie, “the only thing about you that will need +brushin’ up is your German. I was goin’ t’ warn you to rumple up your +hair a little so you wouldn’t feel overdressed w’en you got there. Come +on, girl.” + +And so I came. And oh, I’m so glad I came! + +I must have passed it a dozen times without once noticing it—just a +dingy little black shop nestling between two taller buildings, almost +within the shadow of the city hall. Over the sidewalk swung a shabby +black sign with gilt letters that spelled, “Franz Baumbach.” + +Blackie waved an introductory hand in the direction of the sign. “There +he is. That’s all you’ll ever see of him.” + +“Dead?” asked I, regretfully, as we entered the narrow doorway. + +“No; down in the basement baking Kaffeekuchen.” + +Two tiny show-windows faced the street—such queer, old-fashioned +windows in these days of plate glass. At the back they were quite open +to the shop, and in one of them reposed a huge, white, immovable +structure—a majestic, heavy, nutty, surely indigestible birthday cake. +Around its edge were flutings and scrolls of white icing, and on its +broad breast reposed cherries, and stout butterflies of jelly, and +cunning traceries of colored sugar. It was quite the dressiest cake I +had ever beheld. Surely no human hand could be wanton enough to guide a +knife through all that magnificence. But in the center of all this +splendor was an inscription in heavy white letters of icing: +“Charlottens Geburtstag.” + +Reluctantly I tore my gaze from this imposing example of the German +confectioner’s art, for Blackie was tugging impatiently at my sleeve. + +“But Blackie,” I marveled, “do you honestly suppose that that structure +is intended for some Charlotte’s birthday?” + +“In Milwaukee,” explained Blackie, “w’en you got a birthday you got t’ +have a geburtstag cake, with your name on it, and all the cousins and +aunts and members of the North Side Frauen Turner Verein Gesellchaft, +in for the day. It ain’t considered decent if you don’t. Are you ready +to fight your way into the main tent?” + +It was holiday time, and the single narrow aisle of the front shop was +crowded. It was not easy to elbow one’s way through the packed little +space. Men and women were ordering recklessly of the cakes of every +description that were heaped in cases and on shelves. + +Cakes! What a pale; dry name to apply to those crumbling, melting, +indigestible German confections! Blackie grinned with enjoyment while I +gazed. There were cakes the like of which I had never seen and of which +I did not even know the names. There were little round cup cakes made +of almond paste that melts in the mouth; there were Schnecken glazed +with a delicious candied brown sugar; there were Bismarcks composed of +layer upon layer of flaky crust inlaid with an oozy custard that evades +the eager consumer at the first bite, and that slides down one’s collar +when chased with a pursuing tongue. There were Pfeffernusse; there, +were Lebkuchen; there were cheese-kuchen; plum-kuchen, peach-kuchen, +Apfelkuchen, the juicy fruit stuck thickly into the crust, the whole +dusted over with powdered sugar. There were Torten, and Hornchen, and +butter cookies. + +Blackie touched my arm, and I tore my gaze from a cherry-studded +Schaumtorte that was being reverently packed for delivery. + +“My, what a greedy girl! Now get your mind all made up. This is your +chance. You know you’re supposed t’ take a slant at th’ things an’ make +up your mind w’at you want before you go back w’ere th’ tables are. +Don’t fumble this thing. When Olga or Minna comes waddlin’ up t’ you +an’ says: ‘Nu, Fraulein?’ you gotta tell her whether your heart says +plum-kuchen oder Nusstorte, or both, see? Just like that. Now make up +your mind. I’d hate t’ have you blunder. Have you decided?” + +“Decided! How can I?” I moaned, watching a black-haired, black-eyed +Alsatian girl behind the counter as she rolled a piece of white paper +into a cone and dipped a spoonful of whipped cream from a great brown +bowl heaped high with the snowy stuff. She filled the paper cone, +inserted the point of it into one end of a hollow pastry horn, and +gently squeezed. Presto! A cream-filled Hornchen! + +“Oh, Blackie!” I gasped. “Come on. I want to go in and eat.” + +As we elbowed our way to the rear room separated from the front shop +only by a flimsy wooden partition, I expected I know not what. + +But surely this was not Blackie’s much-vaunted Baumbach’s! This long, +narrow, dingy room, with its bare floor and its iron-legged tables +whose bare marble tops were yellow with age and use! I said nothing as +we seated ourselves. Blackie was watching me out of the tail of his +eye. My glance wandered about the shabby, smoke-filled room, and slowly +and surely the charm of that fusty, dingy little cafe came upon me. + +A huge stove glowed red in one corner. On the wall behind the stove was +suspended a wooden rack, black with age, its compartments holding +German, Austrian and Hungarian newspapers. Against the opposite wall +stood an ancient walnut mirror, and above it hung a colored print of +Bismarck, helmeted, uniformed, and fiercely mustached. The clumsy +iron-legged tables stood in two solemn rows down the length of the +narrow room. Three or four stout, blond girls plodded back and forth, +from tables to front shop, bearing trays of cakes and steaming cups of +coffee. There was a rumble and clatter of German. Every one seemed to +know every one else. A game of chess was in progress at one table, and +between moves each contestant would refresh himself with a long-drawn, +sibilant mouthful of coffee. There was nothing about the place or its +occupants to remind one of America. This dim, smoky, cake-scented cafe +was Germany. + +“Time!” said Blackie. “Here comes Rosie to take our order. You can take +your choice of coffee or chocolate. That’s as fancy as they get here.” + +An expansive blond girl paused at our table smiling a broad welcome at +Blackie. + +“Wie geht’s, Roschen?” he greeted her. Roschen’s smile became still +more pervasive, so that her blue eyes disappeared in creases of good +humor. She wiped the marble table top with a large and careless gesture +that precipitated stray crumbs into our laps. “Gut!” murmured she, +coyly, and leaned one hand on a portly hip in an attitude of waiting. + +“Coffee?” asked Blackie, turning to me. I nodded. + +“Zweimal Kaffee?” beamed Roschen, grasping the idea. + +“Now’s your time to speak up,” urged Blackie. “Go ahead an’ order all +the cream gefillte things that looked good to you out in front.” + +But I leaned forward, lowering my voice discreetly. “Blackie, before I +plunge in too recklessly, tell me, are their prices very—” + +“Sa-a-ay, child, you just can’t spend half a dollar here if you try. +The flossiest kind of thing they got is only ten cents a order. They’ll +smother you in whipped cream f’r a quarter. You c’n come in here an’ +eat an’ eat an’ put away piles of cakes till you feel like a +combination of Little Jack Horner an’ old Doc Johnson. An’ w’en you’re +all through, they hand yuh your check, an’, say—it says forty-five +cents. You can’t beat it, so wade right in an’ spoil your complexion.” + +With enthusiasm I turned upon the patient Rosie. “O, bring me some of +those cunning little round things with the cream on ’em, you know—two +of those, eh Blackie? And a couple of those with the flaky crust and +the custard between, and a slice of that fluffy-looking cake and some +of those funny cocked-hat shaped cookies—” + +But a pall of bewilderment was slowly settling over Rosie’s erstwhile +smiling face. Her plump shoulders went up in a helpless shrug, and she +turned her round blue eyes appealingly to Blackie. + +“Was meint sie alles?” she asked. + +So I began all over again, with the assistance of Blackie. We went into +minute detail. We made elaborate gestures. We drew pictures of our +desired goodies on the marble-topped table, using a soft-lead pencil. +Rosie’s countenance wore a distracted look. In desperation I was about +to accompany her to the crowded shop, there to point out my chosen +dainties when suddenly, as they would put it here, a light went her +over. + +“Ach, yes-s-s-s! Sie wollten vielleicht abgeruhrter Gugelhopf haben, +und auch Schaumtorte, und Bismarcks, und Hornchen mit cream gefullt, +nicht?” + +“Certainly,” I murmured, quite crushed. Roschen waddled merrily off to +the shop. + +Blackie was rolling a cigarette. He ran his funny little red tongue +along the edge of the paper and glanced up at me in glee. “Don’t bother +about me,” he generously observed. “Just set still and let the +atmosphere soak in.” + +But already I was lost in contemplation of a red-faced, pompadoured +German who was drinking coffee and reading the Fliegende Blatter at a +table just across the way. There were counterparts of my aborigines at +Knapf’s—thick spectacled engineers with high foreheads—actors and +actresses from the German stock company—reporters from the English and +German newspapers—business men with comfortable German +consciences—long-haired musicians—dapper young lawyers—a giggling group +of college girls and boys—a couple of smartly dressed women nibbling +appreciatively at slices of Nusstorte—low-voiced lovers whose coffee +cups stood untouched at their elbows, while no fragrant cloud of steam +rose to indicate that there was warmth within. Their glances grow +warmer as the neglected Kaffee grows colder. The color comes and goes +in the girl’s face and I watch it, a bit enviously, marveling that the +old story still should be so new. + +At a large square table near the doorway a group of eight men were +absorbed in an animated political discussion, accompanied by much +waving of arms, and thundering of gutturals. It appeared to be a table +of importance, for the high-backed bench that ran along one side was +upholstered in worn red velvet, and every newcomer paused a moment to +nod or to say a word in greeting. It was not of American politics that +they talked, but of the politics of Austria and Hungary. Finally the +argument resolved itself into a duel of words between a handsome, +red-faced German whose rosy skin seemed to take on a deeper tone in +contrast to the whiteness of his hair and mustache, and a swarthy young +fellow whose thick spectacles and heavy mane of black hair gave him the +look of a caricature out of an illustrated German weekly. The red-faced +man argued loudly, with much rapping of bare knuckles on the table top. +But the dark man spoke seldom, and softly, with a little twisted +half-smile on his lips; and whenever he spoke the red-faced man grew +redder, and there came a huge laugh from the others who sat listening. + +“Say, wouldn’t it curdle your English?” Blackie laughed. + +Solemnly I turned to him. “Blackie Griffith, these people do not even +realize that there is anything unusual about this.” + +“Sure not; that’s the beauty of it. They don’t need to make no +artificial atmosphere for this place; it just grows wild, like +dandelions. Everybody comes here for their coffee because their aunts +an’ uncles and Grossmutters and Grosspapas used t’ come, and come yet, +if they’re livin’! An’, after all, what is it but a little German +bakery?” + +“But O, wise Herr Baumbach down in the kitchen! O, subtle Frau Baumbach +back of the desk!” said I. “Others may fit their shops with mirrors, +and cut-glass chandeliers and Oriental rugs and mahogany, but you sit +serenely by, and you smile, and you change nothing. You let the brown +walls grow dimmer with age; you see the marble-topped tables turning +yellow; you leave bare your wooden floor, and you smile, and smile, and +smile.” + +“Fine!” applauded Blackie. “You’re on. And here comes Rosie.” + +Rosie, the radiant, placed on the table cups and saucers of an +unbelievable thickness. She set them down on the marble surface with a +crash as one who knows well that no mere marble or granite could +shatter the solidity of those stout earthenware receptacles. Napkins +there were none. I was to learn that fingers were rid of any clinging +remnants of cream or crumb by the simple expedient of licking them. + +Blackie emptied his pitcher of cream into his cup of black, black +coffee, sugared it, stirred, tasted, and then, with a wicked gleam in +his black eyes he lifted the heavy cup to his lips and took a long, +gurgling mouthful. + +“Blackie,” I hissed, “if you do that again I shall refuse to speak to +you!” + +“Do what?” demanded he, all injured innocence. + +“Snuffle up your coffee like that.” + +“Why, girl, that’s th’ proper way t’ drink coffee here. Listen t’ +everybody else.” And while I glared he wrapped his hand lovingly about +his cup, holding the spoon imprisoned between first and second fingers, +and took another sibilant mouthful. “Any more of your back talk and +I’ll drink it out of m’ saucer an’ blow on it like the hefty party over +there in the earrings is doin’. Calm yerself an’ try a Bismarck.” + +I picked up one of the flaky confections and eyed it in despair. There +were no plates except that on which the cakes reposed. + +“How does one eat them?” I inquired. + +“Yuh don’t really eat ’em. The motion is more like inhalin’. T’ eat ’em +successful you really ought t’ get into a bath-tub half-filled with +water, because as soon’s you bite in at one end w’y the custard stuff +slides out at the other, an’ no human mouth c’n be two places at oncet. +Shut your eyes girl, an’ just wade in.” + +I waded. In silence I took a deep delicious bite, nimbly chased the coy +filling around a corner with my tongue, devoured every bit down to the +last crumb and licked the stickiness off my fingers. Then I +investigated the interior of the next cake. + +“I’m coming here every day,” I announced. + +“Better not. Ruin your complexion and turn all your lines into bumps. +Look at the dame with the earrings. I’ve been keepin’ count an’ I’ve +seen her eat three Schnecken, two cream puffs, a Nusshornchen and a +slice of Torte with two cups of coffee. Ain’t she a horrible example! +And yet she’s got th’ nerve t’ wear a princess gown!” + +“I don’t care,” I replied, recklessly, my voice choked with whipped +cream and butteriness. “I can just feel myself getting greasy. Haven’t +I done beautifully for a new hand? Now tell me about some of these +people. Who is the funny little man in the checked suit with the black +braid trimming, and the green cravat, and the white spats, and the tan +hat and the eyeglasses?” + +“Ain’t them th’ dizzy habiliments?” A note of envy crept into Blackie’s +voice. “His name is Hugo Luders. Used t’ be a reporter on the Germania, +but he’s reformed and gone into advertisin’, where there’s real money. +Some say he wears them clo’es on a bet, and some say his taste in dress +is a curse descended upon him from Joseph, the guy with the fancy coat, +but I think he wears ’em because he fancies ’em. He’s been coming here +ever’ afternoon for twelve years, has a cup of coffee, game of chess, +and a pow-wow with a bunch of cronies. If Baumbach’s ever decide to +paint the front of their shop or put in cut glass fixtures and +handpainted china, Hugo Luders would serve an injunction on ’em. Next!” + +“Who’s the woman with the leathery complexion and the belt to match, +and the untidy hair and the big feet? I like her face. And why does she +sit at a table with all those strange-looking men? And who are all the +men? And who is the fur-lined grand opera tenor just coming in—Oh!” + +Blackie glanced over his shoulder just as the tall man in the doorway +turned his face toward us. “That? Why, girl, that’s Von Gerhard, the +man who gives me one more year t’ live. Look at everybody kowtowing to +him. He don’t favor Baumbach’s often. Too busy patching up the nervous +wrecks that are washed up on his shores.” + +The tall figure in the doorway was glancing from table to table, +nodding here and there to an acquaintance. His eyes traveled the length +of the room. Now they were nearing us. I felt a sudden, inexplicable +tightening at heart and throat, as though fingers were clutching there. +Then his eyes met mine, and I felt the blood rushing to my face as he +came swiftly over to our table and took my hand in his. + +“So you have discovered Baumbach’s,” he said. “May I have my coffee and +cigar here with you?” + +“Blackie here is responsible for my being initiated into the sticky +mysteries of Baumbach’s. I never should have discovered it if he had +not offered to act as personal conductor. You know one another, I +believe?” + +The two men shook hands across the table. There was something forced +and graceless about the act. Blackie eyed Von Gerhard through a misty +curtain of cigarette smoke. Von Gerhard gazed at Blackie through +narrowed lids as he lighted his cigar. “I’m th’ gink you killed off two +or three years back,” Blackie explained. + +“I remember you perfectly,” Von Gerhard returned, courteously. “I +rejoice to see that I was mistaken.” + +“Well,” drawled Blackie, a wicked gleam in his black eyes, “I’m some +rejoiced m’self, old top. Angel wings and a white kimono, worn +bare-footy, would go some rotten with my Spanish style of beauty, what? +Didn’t know that you and m’dame friend here was acquainted. Known each +other long?” + +I felt myself flushing again. + +“I knew Dr. von Gerhard back home. I’ve scarcely seen him since I have +been here. Famous specialists can’t be bothered with middle-aged +relatives of their college friends, can they, Herr Doktor?” + +And now it was Von Gerhard’s face that flushed a deep and painful +crimson. He looked at me, in silence, and I felt very little, and +insignificant, and much like an impudent child who has stuck out its +tongue at its elders. Silent men always affect talkative women in that +way. + +“You know that what you say is not true,” he said, slowly. + +“Well, we won’t quibble. We—we were just about to leave, weren’t we +Blackie?” + +“Just,” said Blackie, rising. “Sorry t’ see you drinkin’ Baumbach’s +coffee, Doc. It ain’t fair t’ your patients.” + +“Quite right,” replied Von Gerhard; and rose with us. “I shall not +drink it. I shall walk home with Mrs. Orme instead, if she will allow +me. That will be more stimulating than coffee, and twice as dangerous, +perhaps, but—” + +“You know how I hate that sort of thing,” I said, coldly, as we passed +from the warmth of the little front shop where the plump girls were +still filling pasteboard boxes with holiday cakes, to the brisk chill +of the winter street. The little black-and-gilt sign swung and creaked +in the wind. Whimsically, and with the memory of that last cream-filled +cake fresh in my mind, I saluted the letters that spelled “Franz +Baumbach.” + +Blackie chuckled impishly. “Just the same, try a pinch of soda +bicarb’nate when you get home, Dawn,” he advised. “Well, I’m off to the +factory again. Got t’ make up for time wasted on m’ lady friend. Auf +wiedersehen!” + +And the little figure in the checked top-coat trotted off. + +“But he called you—Dawn,” broke from Von Gerhard. + +“Mhum,” I agreed. “My name’s Dawn.” + +“Surely not to him. You have known him but a few weeks. I would not +have presumed—” + +“Blackie never presumes,” I laughed. “Blackie’s just—Blackie. Imagine +taking offense at him! He knows every one by their given name, from Jo, +the boss of the pressroom, to the Chief, who imports his office coats +from London. Besides, Blackie and I are newspaper men. And people don’t +scrape and bow in a newspaper office—especially when they’re fond of +one another. You wouldn’t understand.” + +As I looked at Von Gerhard in the light of the street lamp I saw a +tense, drawn look about the little group of muscles which show when the +teeth are set hard. When he spoke those muscles had relaxed but little. + +“One man does not talk ill of another. But this is different. I want to +ask you—do you know what manner of man this—this Blackie is? I ask you +because I would have you safe and sheltered always from such as +he—because I—” + +“Safe! From Blackie? Now listen. There never was a safer, saner, truer, +more generous friend. Oh, I know what his life has been. But what else +could it have been, beginning as he did? I have no wish to reform him. +I tried my hand at reforming one man, and made a glorious mess of it. +So I’ll just take Blackie as he is, if you please—slang, wickedness, +pink shirt, red necktie, diamond rings and all. If there’s any bad in +him, we all know it, for it’s right down on the table, face up. You’re +just angry because he called you Doc.” + +“Small one,” said Von Gerhard, in his quaint German idiom, “we will not +quarrel, you and I. If I have been neglectful it was because edged +tools were never a chosen plaything of mine. Perhaps your little +Blackie realizes that he need have no fear of such things, for the +Great Fear is upon him.” + +“The Great Fear! You mean!—” + +“I mean that there are too many fine little lines radiating from the +corners of the sunken eyes, and that his hand-clasp leaves a moisture +in the palm. Ach! you may laugh. Come, we will change the subject to +something more cheerful, yes? Tell me, how grows the book?” + +“By inches. After working all day on a bulletin paper whose city editor +is constantly shouting: ‘Boil it now, fellows! Keep it down! We’re +crowded!’ it is too much of a wrench to find myself seated calmly +before my own typewriter at night, privileged to write one hundred +thousand words if I choose. I can’t get over the habit of crowding the +story all into the first paragraph. Whenever I flower into a +descriptive passage I glance nervously over my shoulder, expecting to +find Norberg stationed behind me, scissors and blue pencil in hand. +Consequently the book, thus far, sounds very much like a police +reporter’s story of a fire four minutes before the paper is due to go +to press.” + +Von Gerhard’s face was unsmiling. “So,” he said, slowly. “You burn the +candle at both ends. All day you write, is it not so? And at night you +come home to write still more? Ach, Kindchen!—Na, we shall change all +that. We will be better comrades, we two, yes? You remember that gay +little walk of last autumn, when we explored the Michigan country lane +at dusk? I shall be your Sunday Schatz, and there shall be more rambles +like that one, to bring the roses into your cheeks. We shall be good +Kameraden, as you and this little Griffith are—what is it they say—good +fellows? That is it—good fellows, yes? So, shall we shake hands on it?” + +But I snatched my hand away. “I don’t want to be a good fellow,” I +cried. “I’m tired of being a good fellow. I’ve been a good fellow for +years and years, while every other married woman in the world has been +happy in her own home, bringing up her babies. When I am old I want +some sons to worry me, too, and to stay awake nights for, and some +daughters to keep me young, and to prevent me from doing my hair in a +knob and wearing bonnets! I hate good-fellow women, and so do you, and +so does every one else! I—I—” + +“Dawn!” cried Von Gerhard. But I ran up the steps and into the house +and slammed the door behind me, leaving him standing there. + + + + +CHAPTER IX. +THE LADY FROM VIENNA + + +Two more aborigines have appeared. One of them is a lady aborigine. +They made their entrance at supper and I forgot to eat, watching them. +The new-comers are from Vienna. He is an expert engineer and she is a +woman of noble birth, with a history. Their combined appearance is +calculated to strike terror to the heart. He is daringly ugly, with a +chin that curves in under his lip and then out in a peak, like pictures +of Punch. She wore a gray gown of a style I never had seen before and +never expect to see again. It was fastened with huge black buttons all +the way down the breathlessly tight front, and the upper part was +composed of that pre-historic garment known as a basque. She curved in +where she should have curved out, and she bulged where she should have +had “lines.” About her neck was suspended a string of cannon-ball beads +that clanked as she walked. On her forehead rested a sparse fringe. + +“Mein Himmel!” thought I. “Am I dreaming? This isn’t Wisconsin. This is +Nurnberg, or Strassburg, with a dash of Heidelberg and Berlin thrown +in. Dawn, old girl, it’s going to be more instructive than a Cook’s +tour.” + +That turned out to be the truest prophecy I ever made. + +The first surprising thing that the new-comers did was to seat +themselves at the long table with the other aborigines, the lady +aborigine being the only woman among the twelve men. It was plain that +they had known one another previous to this meeting, for they became +very good friends at once, and the men grew heavily humorous about +there being thirteen at table. + +At that the lady aborigine began to laugh. Straightway I forgot the +outlandish gown, forgot the cannon-ball beads, forgot the sparse +fringe, forgave the absence of “lines.” Such a voice! A lilting, +melodious thing. She broke into a torrent of speech, with bewildering +gestures, and I saw that her hands were exquisitely formed and as +expressive as her voice. Her German was the musical tongue of the +Viennese, possessing none of the gutturals and sputterings. When she +crowned it with the gay little trilling laugh my views on the language +underwent a lightning change. It seemed the most natural thing in the +world to see her open the flat, silver case that dangled at the end of +the cannon-ball chain, take out a cigarette, light it, and smoke it +there in that little German dining room. She wore the most gracefully +nonchalant air imaginable as she blew little rings and wreaths, and +laughed and chatted brightly with her husband and the other men. +Occasionally she broke into French, her accent as charmingly perfect as +it had been in her native tongue. There was a moment of breathless +staring on the part of the respectable middle-class Frauen at the other +tables. Then they shrugged their shoulders and plunged into their meal +again. There was a certain little high-born air of assurance about that +cigarette-smoking that no amount of staring could ruffle. + +Watching the new aborigines grew to be a sort of game. The lady +aborigine of the golden voice, and the ugly husband of the peaked chin +had a strange fascination for me. I scrambled downstairs at meal time +in order not to miss them, and I dawdled over the meal so that I need +not leave before they. I discovered that when the lady aborigine was +animated, her face was that of a young woman, possessing a certain +high-bred charm, but that when in repose the face of the lady aborigine +was that of a very old and tired woman indeed. Also that her husband +bullied her, and that when he did that she looked at him worshipingly. + +Then one evening, a week or so after the appearance of the new +aborigines, there came a clumping at my door. I was seated at my +typewriter and the book was balkier than usual, and I wished that the +clumper at the door would go away. + +“Come!” I called, ungraciously enough. Then, on second thought: +“Herein!” + +The knob turned slowly, and the door opened just enough to admit the +top of a head crowned with a tight, moist German knob of hair. I +searched my memory to recognize the knob, failed utterly and said +again, this time with mingled curiosity and hospitality: + +“Won’t you come in?” + +The apparently bodiless head thrust itself forward a bit, disclosing an +apologetically smiling face, with high check bones that glistened with +friendliness and scrubbing. + +“Nabben’, Fraulein,” said the head. + +“Nabben’,” I replied, more mystified than ever. “Howdy do! Is there +anything—” + +The head thrust itself forward still more, showing a pair of plump +shoulders as its support. Then the plump shoulders heaved into the +room, disclosing a stout, starched gingham body. + +“Ich bin Frau Knapf,” announced the beaming vision. + +Now up to this time Frau Knapf had maintained a Mrs. Harris-like +mysteriousness. I had heard rumors of her, and I had partaken of +certain crispy dishes of German extraction, reported to have come from +her deft hands, but I had not even caught a glimpse of her skirts +whisking around a corner. + +Therefore: “Frau Knapf!” I repeated. “Nonsense! There ain’t no sich +person—that is, I’m glad to see you. Won’t you come in and sit down?” + +“Ach, no!” smiled the substantial Frau Knapf, clinging tightly to the +door knob. “I got no time. It gives much to do to-night yet. Kuchen +dough I must set, und ich weiss nicht was. I got no time.” + +Bustling, red-cheeked Frau Knapf! This was why I had never had a +glimpse of her. Always, she got no time. For while Herr Knapf, dapper +and genial, welcomed new-comers, chatted with the diners, poured a +glass of foaming Doppel-brau for Herr Weber or, dexterously carved fowl +for the aborigines’ table, Frau Knapf was making the wheels go round. I +discovered that it was she who bakes the melting, golden German +Pfannkuchen on Sunday mornings; she it is who fries the crisp and +hissing Wienerschnitzel; she it is who prepares the plump ducklings, +and the thick gravies, and the steaming lentil soup and the rosy +sausages nestling coyly in their bed of sauerkraut. All the week Frau +Knapf bakes and broils and stews, her rosy cheeks taking on a twinkling +crimson from the fire over which she bends. But on Sunday night Frau +Knapf sheds her huge apron and rolls down the sleeves from her plump +arms. On Sunday evening she leaves pots and pans and cooking, and is a +transformed Frau Knapf. Then does she don a bright blue silk waist and +a velvet coat that is dripping with jet, and a black bonnet on which +are perched palpitating birds and weary-looking plumes. Then she and +Herr Knapf walk comfortably down to the Pabst theater to see the German +play by the German stock company. They applaud their favorite stout, +blond, German comedienne as she romps through the acts of a sprightly +German comedy, and after the play they go to their favorite Wein-stube +around the corner. There they have sardellen and cheese sandwiches and +a great deal of beer, and for one charmed evening Frau Knapf forgets +all about the insides of geese and the thickening for gravies, and is +happy. + +Many of these things Frau Knapf herself told me, standing there by the +door with the Kuchen heavy on her mind. Some of them I got from Ernst +von Gerhard when I told him about my visitor and her errand. The errand +was not disclosed until Frau Knapf had caught me casting a despairing +glance at my last typewritten page. + +“Ach, see! you got no time for talking to, ain’t it?” she apologized. + +“Heaps of time,” I politely assured her, “don’t hurry. But why not have +a chair and be comfortable?” + +Frau Knapf was not to be deceived. “I go in a minute. But first it is +something I like to ask you. You know maybe Frau Nirlanger?” + +I shook my head. + +“But sure you must know. From Vienna she is, with such a voice like a +bird.” + +“And the beads, and the gray gown, and the fringe, and the cigarettes?” + +“And the oogly husband,” finished Frau Knapf, nodding. + +“Oogly,” I agreed, “isn’t the name for it. And so she is Frau +Nirlanger? I thought there would be a Von at the very least.” + +Whereupon my visitor deserted the doorknob, took half a dozen stealthy +steps in my direction and lowered her voice to a hissing whisper of +confidence. + +“It is more as a Von. I will tell you. Today comes Frau Nirlanger by me +and she says: ‘Frau Knapf, I wish to buy clothes, aber echt +Amerikanische. Myself, I do not know what is modish, and I cannot go +alone to buy.’” + +“That’s a grand idea,” said I, recalling the gray basque and the +cannon-ball beads. + +“Ja, sure it is,” agreed Frau Knapf. “Soo-o-o, she asks me was it some +lady who would come with her by the stores to help a hat and suit and +dresses to buy. Stylish she likes they should be, and echt +Amerikanisch. So-o-o-o, I say to her, I would go myself with you, only +so awful stylish I ain’t, and anyway I got no time. But a lady I know +who is got such stylish clothes!” Frau Knapf raised admiring hands and +eyes toward heaven. “Such a nice lady she is, and stylish, like +anything! And her name is Frau Orme.” + +“Oh, really, Frau Knapf—” I murmured in blushing confusion. + +“Sure, it is so,” insisted Frau Knapf, coming a step nearer, and +sinking her, voice one hiss lower. “You shouldn’t say I said it, but +Frau Nirlanger likes she should look young for her husband. He is much +younger as she is—aber much. Anyhow ten years. Frau Nirlanger does not +tell me this, but from other people I have found out.” Frau Knapf shook +her head mysteriously a great many times. “But maybe you ain’t got such +an interest in Frau Nirlanger, yes?” + +“Interest! I’m eaten up with curiosity. You shan’t leave this room +alive until you’ve told me!” + +Frau Knapf shook with silent mirth. “Now you make jokings, ain’t? Well, +I tell you. In Vienna, Frau Nirlanger was a widow, from a family aber +hoch edel—very high born. From the court her family is, and friends +from the Emperor, und alles. Sure! Frau Nirlanger, she is different +from the rest. Books she likes, und meetings, und all such komisch +things. And what you think!” + +“I don’t know,” I gasped, hanging on her words, “what DO I think?” + +“She meets this here Konrad Nirlanger, and falls with him in love. Und +her family is mad! But schrecklich mad! Forty years old she is, and +from a noble family, and Konrad Nirlanger is only a student from a +university, and he comes from the Volk. Sehr gebildet he is, but not +high born. So-o-o-o-o, she runs with him away and is married.” + +Shamelessly I drank it all in. “You don’t mean it! Well, then what +happened? She ran away with him—with that chin! and then what?” + +Frau Knapf was enjoying it as much as I. She drew a long breath, felt +of the knob of hair, and plunged once more into the story. + +“Like a story-book it is, nicht? Well, Frau Nirlanger, she has already +a boy who is ten years old, and a fine sum of money that her first +husband left her. Aber when she runs with this poor kerl away from her +family, and her first husband’s family is so schrecklich mad that they +try by law to take from her her boy and her money, because she has her +highborn family disgraced, you see? For a year they fight in the +courts, and then it stands that her money Frau Nirlanger can keep, but +her boy she cannot have. He will be taken by her highborn family and +educated, and he must forget all about his mamma. To cry it is, ain’t +it? Das arme Kind! Well, she can stand it no longer to live where her +boy is, and not to see him. So-o-o-o, Konrad Nirlanger he gets a chance +to come by Amerika where there is a big engineering plant here in +Milwaukee, and she begs her husband he should come, because this boy +she loves very much—Oh, she loves her young husband too, but different, +yes?” + +“Oh, yes,” I agreed, remembering the gay little trilling laugh, and the +face that was so young when animated, and so old and worn in repose. +“Oh, yes. Quite, quite different.” + +Frau Knapf smoothed her spotless skirt and shook her head slowly and +sadly. “So-o-o-o, by Amerika they come. And Konrad Nirlanger he is +maybe a little cross and so, because for a year they have been in the +courts, and it might have been the money they would lose, and for money +Konrad Nirlanger cares—well, you shall see. But Frau Nirlanger must not +mourn and cry. She must laugh and sing, and be gay for her husband. But +Frau Nirlanger has no grand clothes, for first she runs away with +Konrad Nirlanger, and then her money is tied in the law. Now she has +again her money, and she must be young—but young!” + +With a gesture that expressed a world of pathos and futility Frau Knapf +flung out her arms. “He must not see that she looks different as the +ladies in this country. So Frau Nirlanger wants she should buy here in +the stores new dresses—echt Amerikanische. All new and beautiful things +she would have, because she must look young, ain’t it? And perhaps her +boy will remember her when he is a fine young man, if she is yet young +when he grows up, you see? And too, there is the young husband. First, +she gives up her old life, and her friends and her family for this man, +and then she must do all things to keep him. Men, they are but +children, after all,” spake the wise Frau Knapf in conclusion. “They +war and cry and plead for that which they would have, and when they +have won, then see! They are amused for a moment, and the new toy is +thrown aside.” + +“Poor, plain, vivacious, fascinating little Frau Nirlanger!” I said. “I +wonder just how much of pain and heartache that little musical laugh of +hers conceals?” + +“Ja, that is so,” mused Frau Knapf. “Her eyes look like eyes that have +wept much, not? And so you will be so kind and go maybe to select the +so beautiful clothes?” + +“Clothes?” I repeated, remembering the original errand. “But dear lady! +How, does one select clothes for a woman of forty who would not weary +her husband? That is a task for a French modiste, a wizard, and a fairy +godmother all rolled into one.” + +“But you will do it, yes?” urged Frau Knapf. + +“I’ll do it,” I agreed, a bit ruefully, “if only to see the face of the +oogly husband when his bride is properly corseted and shod.” + +Whereupon Frau Knapf, in a panic, remembered the unset Kuchen dough and +rushed away, with her hand on her lips and her eyes big with secrecy. +And I sat staring at the last typewritten page stuck in my typewriter +and I found that the little letters on the white page were swimming in +a dim purple haze. + + + + +CHAPTER X. +A TRAGEDY OF GOWNS + + +From husbands in general, and from oogly German husbands in particular +may Hymen defend me! Never again will I attempt to select “echt +Amerikanische” clothes for a woman who must not weary her young +husband. But how was I to know that the harmless little shopping +expedition would resolve itself into a domestic tragedy, with Herr +Nirlanger as the villain, Frau Nirlanger as the persecuted heroine, and +I as—what is it in tragedy that corresponds to the innocent bystander +in real life? That would be my role. + +The purchasing of the clothes was a real joy. Next to buying pretty +things for myself there is nothing I like better than choosing them for +some one else. And when that some one else happens to be a fascinating +little foreigner who coos over the silken stuffs in a delightful +mixture of German and English; and especially when that some one else +must be made to look so charming that she will astonish her oogly +husband, then does the selecting of those pretty things cease to be a +task, and become an art. + +It was to be a complete surprise to Herr Nirlanger. He was to know +nothing of it until everything was finished and Frau Nirlanger, dressed +in the prettiest of the pretty Amerikanisch gowns, was ready to astound +him when he should come home from the office of the vast plant where he +solved engineering problems. + +“From my own money I buy all this,” Frau Nirlanger confided to me, with +a gay little laugh of excitement, as we started out. “From Vienna it +comes. Always I have given it at once to my husband, as a wife should. +Yesterday it came, but I said nothing, and when my husband said to me, +‘Anna, did not the money come as usual to-day? It is time,’ I told a +little lie—but a little one, is it not? Very amusing it was. Almost I +did laugh. Na, he will not be cross when he see how his wife like the +Amerikanische ladies will look. He admires very much the ladies of +Amerika. Many times he has said so.” + +(“I’ll wager he has—the great, ugly boor!” I thought, in parenthesis.) +“We’ll show him!” I said, aloud. “He won’t know you. Such a lot of +beautiful clothes as we can buy with all this money. Oh, dear Frau +Nirlanger, it’s going to be slathers of fun! I feel as excited about it +as though it were a trousseau we were buying.” + +“So it is,” she replied, a little shadow of sadness falling across the +brightness of her face. “I had no proper clothes when we were +married—but nothing! You know perhaps my story. In America, everyone +knows everything. It is wonderful. When I ran away to marry Konrad +Nirlanger I had only the dress which I wore; even that I borrowed from +one of the upper servants, on a pretext, so that no one should +recognize me. Ach Gott! I need not have worried. So! You see, it will +be after all a trousseau.” + +Why, oh, why should a woman with her graceful carriage and pretty +vivacity have been cursed with such an ill-assorted lot of features! +Especially when certain boorish young husbands have expressed an +admiration for pink-and-white effects in femininity. + +“Never mind, Mr. Husband, I’ll show yez!” I resolved as the elevator +left us at the floor where waxen ladies in shining glass cases smiled +amiably all the day. + +There must be no violent pinks or blues. Brown was too old. She was not +young enough for black. Violet was too trying. And so the gowns began +to strew tables and chairs and racks, and still I shook my head, and +Frau Nirlanger looked despairing, and the be-puffed and real +Irish-crocheted saleswoman began to develop a baleful gleam about the +eyes. + +And then we found it! It was a case of love at first sight. The +unimaginative would have called it gray. The thoughtless would have +pronounced it pink. It was neither, and both; a soft, rosily-gray +mixture of the two, like the sky that one sometimes sees at winter +twilight, the pink of the sunset veiled by the gray of the snow clouds. +It was of a supple, shining cloth, simple in cut, graceful in lines. + +“There! We’ve found it. Let’s pray that it will not require too much +altering.” + +But when it had been slipped over her head we groaned at the inadequacy +of her old-fashioned stays. There followed a flying visit to the +department where hips were whisked out of sight in a jiffy, and where +lines miraculously took the place of curves. Then came the gown once +more, over the new stays this time. The effect was magical. The +Irish-crocheted saleswoman and I clasped hands and fell back in +attitudes of admiration. Frau Nirlanger turned this way and that before +the long mirror and chattered like a pleased child. Her adjectives grew +into words of six syllables. She cooed over the soft-shining stuff in +little broken exclamations in French and German. + +Then came a straight and simple street suit of blue cloth, a lingerie +gown of white, hats, shoes and even a couple of limp satin petticoats. +The day was gone before we could finish. + +I bullied them into promising the pinky-gray gown for the next +afternoon. + +“Sooch funs!” giggled Frau Nirlanger, “and how it makes one tired. So +kind you were, to take this trouble for me. Me, I could never have +warred with that Fraulein who served us—so haughty she was, nicht? But +it is good again pretty clothes to have. Pretty gowns I lofe—you also, +not?” + +“Indeed I do lofe ’em. But my money comes to me in a yellow pay +envelope, and it is spent before it reaches me, as a rule. It doesn’t +leave much of a margin for general recklessness.” + +A tiny sigh came from Frau Nirlanger. “There will be little to give to +Konrad this time. So much money they cost, those clothes! But Konrad, +he will not care when he sees the so beautiful dresses, is it not so?” + +“Care!” I cried with a great deal of bravado, although a tiny inner +voice spake in doubt. “Certainly not. How could he?” + +Next day the boxes came, and we smuggled them into my room. The +unwrapping of the tissue paper folds was a ceremony. We reveled in the +very crackle of it. I had scuttled home from the office as early as +decency would permit, in order to have plenty of time for the dressing. +It must be quite finished before Herr Nirlanger should arrive. Frau +Nirlanger had purchased three tickets for the German theater, also as a +surprise, and I was to accompany the happily surprised husband and the +proud little wife of the new Amerikanische clothes. + +I coaxed her to let me do things to her hair. Usually she wore a stiff +and ugly coiffure that could only be described as a chignon. I do not +recollect ever having seen a chignon, but I know that it must look like +that. I was thankful for my Irish deftness of fingers as I stepped back +to view the result of my labors. The new arrangement of the hair gave +her features a new softness and dignity. + +We came to the lacing of the stays, with their exaggerated length. +“Aber!” exclaimed Frau Nirlanger, not daring to laugh because of the +strange snugness. “Ach!” and again, “Aber to laugh it is!” + +We had decided the prettiest of the new gowns must do honor to the +occasion. “This shade is called ashes of roses,” I explained, as I +slipped it over her head. + +“Ashes of roses!” she echoed. “How pretty, yes? But a little sad too, +is it not so? Like rosy hopes that have been withered. Ach, what a +foolish talk! So, now you will fasten it please. A real trick it is to +button such a dress—so sly they are, those fastenings.” + +When all the sly fastenings were secure I stood at gaze. + +“Nose is shiny,” I announced, searching in a drawer for chamois and +powder. + +Frau Nirlanger raised an objecting hand. “But Konrad does not approve +of such things. He has said so. He has—” + +“You tell your Konrad that a chamois skin isn’t half as objectionable +as a shiny one. Come here and let me dust this over your nose and chin, +while I breathe a prayer of thanks that I have no overzealous husband +near to forbid me the use of a bit of powder. There! If I sez it mesilf +as shouldn’t, yez ar-r-re a credit t’ me, me darlint.” + +“You are satisfied. There is not one small thing awry? Ach, how we +shall laugh at Konrad’s face.” + +“Satisfied! I’d kiss you if I weren’t afraid that I should muss you up. +You’re not the same woman. You look like a girl! And so pretty! Now +skedaddle into your own rooms, but don’t you dare to sit down for a +moment. I’m going down to get Frau Knapf before your husband arrives.” + +“But is there then time?” inquired Frau Nirlanger. “He should be here +now.” + +“I’ll bring her up in a jiffy, just for one peep. She won’t know you! +Her face will be a treat! Don’t touch your hair—it’s quite perfect. And +f’r Jawn’s sake! Don’t twist around to look at yourself in the back or +something will burst, I know it will. I’ll be back in a minute. Now +run!” + +The slender, graceful figure disappeared with a gay little laugh, and I +flew downstairs for Frau Knapf. She was discovered with a spoon in one +hand and a spluttering saucepan in the other. I detached her from them, +clasped her big, capable red hands and dragged her up the stairs, +explaining as I went. + +“Now don’t fuss about that supper! Let ’em wait. You must see her +before Herr Nirlanger comes home. He’s due any minute. She looks like a +girl. So young! And actually pretty! And her figure—divine! Funny what +a difference a decent pair of corsets, and a gown, and some puffs will +make, h’m?” + +Frau Knapf was panting as I pulled her after me in swift eagerness. +Between puffs she brought out exclamations of surprise and unbelief +such as: “Unmoglich! (Puff! Puff!) Aber—wunderbar! (Puff! Puff!)” + +We stopped before Frau Nirlanger’s door. I struck a dramatic pose. +“Prepare!” I cried grandly, and threw open the door with a bang. + +Crouched against the wall at a far corner of the room was Frau +Nirlanger. Her hands were clasped over her breast and her eyes were +dilated as though she had been running. In the center of the room stood +Konrad Nirlanger, and on his oogly face was the very oogliest look that +I have ever seen on a man. He glanced at us as we stood transfixed in +the doorway, and laughed a short, sneering laugh that was like a +stinging blow on the cheek. + +“So!” he said; and I would not have believed that men really said “So!” +in that way outside of a melodrama. “So! You are in the little +surprise, yes? You carry your meddling outside of your newspaper work, +eh? I leave behind me an old wife in the morning and in the evening, +presto! I find a young bride. Wonderful!—but wonderful!” He laughed an +unmusical and mirthless laugh. + +“But—don’t you like it?” I asked, like a simpleton. + +Frau Nirlanger seemed to shrink before our very eyes, so that the +pretty gown hung in limp folds about her. + +I stared, fascinated, at Konrad Nirlanger’s cruel face with its little +eyes that were too close together and its chin that curved in below the +mouth and out again so grotesquely. + +“Like it?” sneered Konrad Nirlanger. “For a young girl, yes. But how +useless, this belated trousseau. What a waste of good money! For see, a +young wife I do not want. Young women one can have in plenty, always. +But I have an old woman married, and for an old woman the gowns need be +few—eh, Frau Orme? And you too, Frau Knapf?” + +Frau Knapf, crimson and staring, was dumb. There came a little +shivering moan from the figure crouched in the corner, and Frau +Nirlanger, her face queerly withered and ashen, crumpled slowly in a +little heap on the floor and buried her shamed head in her arms. + +Konrad Nirlanger turned to his wife, the black look on his face growing +blacker. + +“Come, get up Anna,” he ordered, in German. “These heroics become not a +woman of your years. And too, you must not ruin the so costly gown that +will be returned to-morrow.” + +Frau Nirlanger’s white face was lifted from the shelter of her arms. +The stricken look was still upon it, but there was no cowering in her +attitude now. Slowly she rose to her feet. I had not realized that she +was so tall. + +“The gown does not go back,” she said. + +“So?” he snarled, with a savage note in his voice. “Now hear me. There +shall be no more buying of gowns and fripperies. You hear? It is for +the wife to come to the husband for the money; not for her to waste it +wantonly on gowns, like a creature of the streets. You,” his voice was +an insult, “you, with your wrinkles and your faded eyes in a gown of—” +he turned inquiringly toward me—“How does one call it, that color, Frau +Orme?” + +There came a blur of tears to my eyes. “It is called ashes of roses,” I +answered. “Ashes of roses.” + +Konrad Nirlanger threw back his head and laughed a laugh as stinging as +a whip-lash. “Ashes of roses! So? It is well named. For my dear wife it +is poetically fit, is it not so? For see, her roses are but withered +ashes, eh Anna?” + +Deliberately and in silence Anna Nirlanger walked to the mirror and +stood there, gazing at the woman in the glass. There was something +dreadful and portentous about the calm and studied deliberation with +which she critically viewed that reflection. She lifted her arms slowly +and patted into place the locks that had become disarranged, turning +her head from side to side to study the effect. Then she took from a +drawer the bit of chamois skin that I had given her, and passed it +lightly over her eyelids and cheeks, humming softly to herself the +while. No music ever sounded so uncanny to my ears. The woman before +the mirror looked at the woman in the mirror with a long, steady, +measuring look. Then, slowly and deliberately, the long graceful folds +of her lovely gown trailing behind her, she walked over to where her +frowning husband stood. So might a queen have walked, head held high, +gaze steady. She stopped within half a foot of him, her eyes level with +his. For a long half-minute they stood thus, the faded blue eyes of the +wife gazing into the sullen black eyes of the husband, and his were the +first to drop, for all the noble blood in Anna Nirlanger’s veins, and +all her long line of gently bred ancestors were coming to her aid in +dealing with her middle-class husband. + +“You forget,” she said, very slowly and distinctly. “If this were +Austria, instead of Amerika, you would not forget. In Austria people of +your class do not speak in this manner to those of my caste.” + +“Unsinn!” laughed Konrad Nirlanger. “This is Amerika.” + +“Yes,” said Anna Nirlanger, “this is Amerika. And in Amerika all things +are different. I see now that my people knew of what they spoke when +they called me mad to think of wedding a clod of the people, such as +you.” + +For a moment I thought that he was going to strike her. I think he +would have, if she had flinched. But she did not. Her head was held +high, and her eyes did not waver. + +“I married you for love. It is most comical, is it not? With you I +thought I should find peace, and happiness and a re-birth of the +intellect that was being smothered in the splendor and artificiality +and the restrictions of my life there. Well, I was wrong. But wrong. +Now hear me!” Her voice was tense with passion. “There will be gowns—as +many and as rich as I choose. You have said many times that the ladies +of Amerika you admire. And see! I shall be also one of those so-admired +ladies. My money shall go for gowns! For hats! For trifles of lace and +velvet and fur! You shall learn that it is not a peasant woman whom you +have married. This is Amerika, the land of the free, my husband. And +see! Who is more of Amerika than I? Who?” + +She laughed a high little laugh and came over to me, taking my hands in +her own. + +“Dear girl, you must run quickly and dress. For this evening we go to +the theater. Oh, but you must. There shall be no unpleasantness, that I +promise. My husband accompanies us—with joy. Is it not so, Konrad? With +joy? So!” + +Wildly I longed to decline, but I dared not. So I only nodded, for fear +of the great lump in my throat, and taking Frau Knapf’s hand I turned +and fled with her. Frau Knapf was muttering: + +“Du Hund! Du unverschamter Hund du!” in good Billingsgate German, and +wiping her eyes with her apron. And I dressed with trembling fingers +because I dared not otherwise face the brave little Austrian, the +plucky little aborigine who, with the donning of the new Amerikanische +gown had acquired some real Amerikanisch nerve. + + + + +CHAPTER XI. +VON GERHARD SPEAKS + + +Of Von Gerhard I had not had a glimpse since that evening of my +hysterical outburst. On Christmas day there had come a box of roses so +huge that I could not find vases enough to hold its contents, although +I pressed into service everything from Mason jars from the kitchen to +hand-painted atrocities from the parlor. After I had given posies to +Frau Nirlanger, and fastened a rose in Frau Knapf’s hard knob of hair, +where it bobbed in ludicrous discomfort, I still had enough to fill the +washbowl. My room looked like a grand opera star’s boudoir when she is +expecting the newspaper reporters. I reveled in the glowing fragrance +of the blossoms and felt very eastern and luxurious and popular. It had +been a busy, happy, work-filled week, in which I had had to snatch odd +moments for the selecting of certain wonderful toys for the Spalpeens. +There had been dolls and doll-clothes and a marvelous miniature kitchen +for the practical and stolid Sheila, and ingenious bits of mechanism +that did unbelievable things when wound up, for the clever, imaginative +Hans. I was not to have the joy of seeing their wide-eyed delight, but +I knew that there would follow certain laboriously scrawled letters, +filled with topsy-turvy capitals and crazily leaning words of thanks to +the doting old auntie who had been such good fun the summer before. + +Boarding-house Christmases had become an old story. I had learned to +accept them, even to those obscure and foreign parts of turkey which +are seen only on boarding-house plates, and which would be recognized +nowhere else as belonging to that stately bird. + +Christmas at Knapf’s had been a happy surprise; a day of hearty good +cheer and kindness. There had even been a Christmas tree, hung with +stodgy German angels and Pfeffernuesse and pink-frosted cakes. I found +myself the bewildered recipient of gifts from everyone—from the Knapfs, +and the aborigines and even from one of the crushed-looking wives. The +aborigine whom they called Fritz had presented me with a huge and +imposing Lebkuchen, reposing in a box with frilled border, ornamented +with quaint little red-and-green German figures in sugar, and labeled +Nurnberg in stout letters, for it had come all the way from that +kuchen-famous city. The Lebkuchen I placed on my mantel shelf as +befitted so magnificent a work of art. It was quite too elaborate and +imposing to be sent the way of ordinary food, although it had a certain +tantalizingly spicy scent that tempted one to break off a corner here +and there. + +On the afternoon of Christmas day I sat down to thank Dr. von Gerhard +for the flowers as prettily as might be. Also I asked his pardon, a +thing not hard to do with the perfume of his roses filling the room. + +“For you,” I wrote, “who are so wise in the ways of those tricky things +called nerves, must know that it was only a mild hysteria that made me +say those most unladylike things. I have written Norah all about it. +She has replied, advising me to stick to the good-fellow role but not +to dress the part. So when next you see me I shall be a perfectly safe +and sane comrade in petticoats. And I promise you—no more outbursts.” + +So it happened that on the afternoon of New Year’s day Von Gerhard and +I gravely wished one another many happy and impossible things for the +coming year, looking fairly and squarely into each other’s eyes as we +did so. + +“So,” said Von Gerhard, as one who is satisfied. “The nerfs are steady +to-day. What do you say to a brisk walk along the lake shore to put us +in a New Year frame of mind, and then a supper down-town somewhere, +with a toast to Max and Norah?” + +“You’ve saved my life! Sit down here in the parlor and gaze at the +crepe-paper oranges while I powder my nose and get into some street +clothes. I have such a story to tell you! It has made me quite +contented with my lot.” + +The story was that of the Nirlangers; and as we struggled against a +brisk lake breeze I told it, and partly because of the breeze, and +partly because of the story, there were tears in my eyes when I had +finished. Von Gerhard stared at me, aghast. + +“But you are—crying!” he marveled, watching a tear slide down my nose. + +“I’m not,” I retorted. “Anyway I know it. I think I may blubber if I +choose to, mayn’t I, as well as other women?” + +“Blubber?” repeated Von Gerhard, he of the careful and cautious +English. “But most certainly, if you wish. I had thought that newspaper +women did not indulge in the luxury of tears.” + +“They don’t—often. Haven’t the time. If a woman reporter were to burst +into tears every time she saw something to weep over she’d be going +about with a red nose and puffy eyelids half the time. Scarcely a day +passes that does not bring her face to face with human suffering in +some form. Not only must she see these things, but she must write of +them so that those who read can also see them. And just because she +does not wail and tear her hair and faint she popularly is supposed to +be a flinty, cigarette-smoking creature who rampages up and down the +land, seeking whom she may rend with her pen and gazing, dry-eyed, upon +scenes of horrid bloodshed.” + +“And yet the little domestic tragedy of the Nirlangers can bring tears +to your eyes?” + +“Oh, that was quite different. The case of the Nirlangers had nothing +to do with Dawn O’Hara, newspaper reporter. It was just plain Dawn +O’Hara, woman, who witnessed that little tragedy. Mein Himmel! Are all +German husbands like that?” + +“Not all. I have a very good friend named Max—” + +“O, Max! Max is an angel husband. Fancy Max and Norah waxing tragic on +the subject of a gown! Now you—” + +“I? Come, you are sworn to good-fellowship. As one comrade to another, +tell me, what sort of husband do you think I should make, eh? The +boorish Nirlanger sort, or the charming Max variety. Come, tell me—you +who always have seemed so—so damnably able to take care of yourself.” +His eyes were twinkling in the maddening way they had. + +I looked out across the lake to where a line of white-caps was piling +up formidably only to break in futile wrath against the solid wall of +the shore. And there came over me an equally futile wrath; that savage, +unreasoning instinct in women which prompts them to hurt those whom +they love. + +“Oh, you!” I began, with Von Gerhard’s amused eyes laughing down upon +me. “I should say that you would be more in the Nirlanger style, in +your large, immovable, Germansure way. Not that you would stoop to +wrangle about money or gowns, but that you would control those things. +Your wife will be a placid, blond, rather plump German Fraulein, of +excellent family and no imagination. Men of your type always select +negative wives. Twenty years ago she would have run to bring you your +Zeitung and your slippers. She would be that kind, if +Zeitung-and-slipper husbands still were in existence. You will be fond +of her, in a patronizing sort of way, and she will never know the +difference between that and being loved, not having a great deal of +imagination, as I have said before. And you will go on becoming more +and more famous, and she will grow plumper and more placid, and less +and less understanding of what those komisch medical journals have to +say so often about her husband who is always discovering things. And +you will live happily ever after—” + +A hand gripped my shoulder. I looked up, startled, into two blue eyes +blazing down into mine. Von Gerhard’s face was a painful red. I think +that the hand on my shoulder even shook me a little, there on that +bleak and deserted lake drive. I tried to wrench my shoulder free with +a jerk. + +“You are hurting me!” I cried. + +A quiver of pain passed over the face that I had thought so calmly +unemotional. “You talk of hurts! You, who set out deliberately and +maliciously to make me suffer! How dare you then talk to me like this! +You stab with a hundred knives—you, who know how I—” + +“I’m sorry,” I put in, contritely. “Please don’t be so dreadful about +it. After all, you asked me, didn’t you? Perhaps I’ve hurt your vanity. +There, I didn’t mean that, either. Oh, dear, let’s talk about something +impersonal. We get along wretchedly of late.” + +The angry red ebbed away from Von Gerhard’s face. The blaze of wrath in +his eyes gave way to a deeper, brighter light that held me fascinated, +and there came to his lips a smile of rare sweetness. The hand that had +grasped my shoulder slipped down, down, until it met my hand and +gripped it. + +“Na, ’s ist schon recht, Kindchen. Those that we most care for we would +hurt always. When I have told you of my love for you, although already +you know it, then you will tell me. Hush! Do not deny this thing. There +shall be no more lies between us. There shall be only the truth, and no +more about plump, blonde German wives who run with Zeitung and +slippers. After all, it is no secret. Three months ago I told Norah. It +was not news to her. But she trusted me.” + +I felt my face to be as white and as tense as his own. “Norah—knows!” + +“It is better to speak these things. Then there need be no shifting of +the eyes, no evasive words, no tricks, no subterfuge.” + +We had faced about and were retracing our steps, past the rows of +peculiarly home-like houses that line Milwaukee’s magnificent lake +shore. Windows were hung with holiday scarlet and holly, and here and +there a face was visible at a window, looking out at the man and woman +walking swiftly along the wind-swept heights that rose far above the +lake. + +A wretched revolt seized me as I gazed at the substantial comfort of +those normal, happy homes. + +“Why did you tell me! What good can that do? At least we were +make-believe friends before. Suppose I were to tell you that I care, +then what.” + +“I do not ask you to tell me,” Von Gerhard replied, quietly. + +“You need not. You know. You knew long, long ago. You know I love the +big quietness of you, and your sureness, and the German way you have of +twisting your sentences about, and the steady grip of your great firm +hands, and the rareness of your laugh, and the simplicity of you. Why I +love the very cleanliness of your ruddy skin, and the way your hair +grows away from your forehead, and your walk, and your voice and—Oh, +what is the use of it all?” + +“Just this, Dawn. The light of day sweetens all things. We have dragged +this thing out into the sunlight, where, if it grows, it will grow +sanely and healthily. It was but an ugly, distorted, unsightly thing, +sending out pale unhealthy shoots in the dark, unwholesome cellars of +our inner consciences. Norah’s knowing was the cleanest, sweetest thing +about it.” + +“How wonderfully you understand her, and how right you are! Her knowing +seems to make it as it should be, doesn’t it? I am braver already, for +the knowledge of it. It shall make no difference between us?” + +“There is no difference, Dawn,” said he. + +“No. It is only in the story-books that they sigh, and groan and utter +silly nonsense. We are not like that. Perhaps, after a bit, you will +meet some one you care for greatly—not plump, or blond, or German, +perhaps, but still—” + +“Doch you are flippant?” + +“I must say those things to keep the tears back. You would not have me +wailing here in the street. Tell me just one thing, and there shall be +no more fluttering breaths and languishing looks. Tell me, when did you +begin to care?” + +We had reached Knapfs’ door-step. The short winter day was already +drawing to its close. In the half-light Von Gerhard’s eyes glowed +luminous. + +“Since the day I first met you at Norah’s,” he said, simply. + +I stared at him, aghast, my ever-present sense of humor struggling to +the surface. “Not—not on that day when you came into the room where I +sat in the chair by the window, with a flowered quilt humped about my +shoulders! And a fever-sore twisting my mouth! And my complexion the +color of cheese, and my hair plastered back from my forehead, and my +eyes like boiled onions!” + +“Thank God for your gift of laughter,” Von Gerhard said, and took my +hand in his for one brief moment before he turned and walked away. + +Quite prosaically I opened the big front door at Knapfs’ to find Herr +Knapf standing in the hallway with his: + +“Nabben’, Frau Orme.” + +And there was the sane and soothing scent of Wienerschnitzel and +spluttering things in the air. And I ran upstairs to my room and turned +on all the lights and looked at the starry-eyed creature in the mirror. +Then I took the biggest, newest photograph of Norah from the mantel and +looked at her for a long, long minute, while she looked back at me in +her brave true way. + +“Thank you, dear,” I said to her. “Thank you. Would you think me stagey +and silly if I were to kiss you, just once, on your beautiful trusting +eyes?” + +A telephone bell tinkled downstairs and Herr Knapf stationed himself at +the foot of the stairs and roared my name. + +When I had picked up the receiver: “This is Ernst,” said the voice at +the other end of the wire. “I have just remembered that I had asked you +down-town for supper.” + +“I would rather thank God fasting,” I replied, very softly, and hung +the receiver on its hook. + + + + +CHAPTER XII. +BENNIE THE CONSOLER + + +In a corner of Frau Nirlanger’s bedroom, sheltered from draughts and +glaring light, is a little wooden bed, painted blue and ornamented with +stout red roses that are faded by time and much abuse. Every evening at +eight o’clock three anxious-browed women hold low-spoken conclave about +the quaint old bed, while its occupant sleeps and smiles as he sleeps, +and clasps to his breast a chewed-looking woolly dog. For a new joy has +come to the sad little Frau Nirlanger, and I, quite by accident, was +the cause of bringing it to her. The queer little blue bed, with its +faded roses, was brought down from the attic by Frau Knapf, for she is +one of the three foster mothers of the small occupant of the bed. The +occupant of the bed is named Bennie, and a corporation formed for the +purpose of bringing him up in the way he should go is composed of: Dawn +O’Hara Orme, President and Distracted Guardian; Mrs. Konrad Nirlanger, +Cuddler-in-chief and Authority on the Subject of Bennie’s Bed-time; Mr. +Blackie Griffith, Good Angel, General Cut-up and Monitor off’n Bennie’s +Neckties and Toys; Dr. Ernst von Gerhard, Chief Medical Adviser, and +Sweller of the Exchequer, with the Privilege of Selecting All Candies. +Members of the corporation meet with great frequency evenings and +Sundays, much to the detriment of a certain Book-in-the-making with +which Dawn O’Hara Orme was wont to struggle o’ evenings. + +Bennie had been one of those little tragedies that find their way into +juvenile court. Bennie’s story was common enough, but Bennie himself +had been different. Ten minutes after his first appearance in the court +room everyone, from the big, bald judge to the newest probation +officer, had fallen in love with him. Somehow, you wanted to smooth the +hair from his forehead, tip his pale little face upward, and very +gently kiss his smooth, white brow. Which alone was enough to +distinguish Bennie, for Juvenile court children, as a rule, are +distinctly not kissable. + +Bennie’s mother was accused of being unfit to care for her boy, and +Bennie was temporarily installed in the Detention Home. There the +superintendent and his plump and kindly wife had fallen head over heels +in love with him, and had dressed him in a smart little Norfolk suit +and a frivolous plaid silk tie. There were delays in the case, and +postponement after postponement, so that Bennie appeared in the court +room every Tuesday for four weeks. The reporters, and the probation +officers and policemen became very chummy with Bennie, and showered him +with bright new pennies and certain wonderful candies. Superintendent +Arnett of the Detention Home was as proud of the boy as though he were +his own. And when Bennie would look shyly and questioningly into his +face for permission to accept the proffered offerings, the big +superintendent would chuckle delightedly. Bennie had a strangely mobile +face for such a baby, and the whitest, smoothest brow I have ever seen. + +The comedy and tears and misery and laughter of the big, white-walled +court room were too much for Bennie. He would gaze about with puzzled +blue eyes; then, giving up the situation as something too vast for his +comprehension, he would fall to drawing curly-cues on a bit of paper +with a great yellow pencil presented him by one of the newspaper men. + +Every Tuesday the rows of benches were packed with a motley crowd of +Poles, Russians, Slavs, Italians, Greeks, Lithuanians—a crowd made up +of fathers, mothers, sisters, brothers, aunts, uncles, neighbors, +friends, and enemies of the boys and girls whose fate was in the hands +of the big man seated in the revolving chair up in front. But Bennie’s +mother was not of this crowd; this pitiful, ludicrous crowd filling the +great room with the stifling, rancid odor of the poor. Nor was Bennie. +He sat, clear-eyed and unsmiling, in the depths of a great chair on the +court side of the railing and gravely received the attentions of the +lawyers, and reporters and court room attaches who had grown fond of +the grave little figure. + +Then, on the fifth Tuesday, Bennie’s mother appeared. How she had come +to be that child’s mother God only knows—or perhaps He had had nothing +to do with it. She was terribly sober and frightened. Her face was +swollen and bruised, and beneath one eye there was a puffy +green-and-blue swelling. Her sordid story was common enough as the +probation officer told it. The woman had been living in one wretched +room with the boy. Her husband had deserted her. There was no food, and +little furniture. The queer feature of it, said the probation officer, +was that the woman managed to keep the boy fairly neat and clean, +regardless of her own condition, and he generally had food of some +sort, although the mother sometimes went without food for days. Through +the squalor and misery and degradation of her own life Bennie had +somehow been kept unsullied, a thing apart. + +“H’m!” said judge Wheeling, and looked at Bennie. Bennie was standing +beside his mother. He was very quiet, and his eyes were smiling up into +those of the battered creature who was fighting for him. “I guess we’ll +have to take you out of this,” the judge decided, abruptly. “That boy +is too good to go to waste.” + +The sodden, dazed woman before him did not immediately get the full +meaning of his words. She still stood there, swaying a bit, and staring +unintelligently at the judge. Then, quite suddenly, she realized it. +She took a quick step forward. Her hand went up to her breast, to her +throat, to her lips, with an odd, stifled gesture. + +“You ain’t going to take him away! From me! No, you wouldn’t do that, +would you? Not for—not for always! You wouldn’t do that—you wouldn’t—” + +Judge Wheeling waved her away. But the woman dropped to her knees. + +“Judge, give me a chance! I’ll stop drinking. Only don’t take him away +from me! Don’t, judge, don’t! He’s all I’ve got in the world. Give me a +chance. Three months! Six months! A year!” + +“Get up!” ordered judge Wheeling, gruffly, “and stop that! It won’t do +you a bit of good.” + +And then a wonderful thing happened. The woman rose to her feet. A new +and strange dignity had come into her battered face. The lines of +suffering and vice were erased as by magic, and she seemed to grow +taller, younger, almost beautiful. When she spoke again it was slowly +and distinctly, her words quite free from the blur of the barroom and +street vernacular. + +“I tell you you must give me a chance. You cannot take a child from a +mother in this way. I tell you, if you will only help me I can crawl +back up the road that I’ve traveled. I was not always like this. There +was another life, before—before—Oh, since then there have been years of +blackness, and hunger, and cold and—worse! But I never dragged the boy +into it. Look at him!” + +Our eyes traveled from the woman’s transfigured face to that of the +boy. We could trace a wonderful likeness where before we had seen none. +But the woman went on in her steady, even tone. + +“I can’t talk as I should, because my brain isn’t clear. It’s the +drink. When you drink, you forget. But you must help me. I can’t do it +alone. I can remember how to live straight, just as I can remember how +to talk straight. Let me show you that I’m not all bad. Give me a +chance. Take the boy and then give him back to me when you are +satisfied. I’ll try—God only knows how I’ll try. Only don’t take him +away forever, Judge! Don’t do that!” + +Judge Wheeling ran an uncomfortable finger around his collar’s edge. + +“Any friends living here?” + +“No! No!” + +“Sure about that?” + +“Quite sure.” + +“Now see here; I’m going to give you your chance. I shall take this boy +away from you for a year. In that time you will stop drinking and +become a decent, self-supporting woman. You will be given in charge of +one of these probation officers. She will find work for you, and a good +home, and she’ll stand by you, and you must report to her. If she is +satisfied with you at the end of the year, the boy goes back to you.” + +“She will be satisfied,” the woman said, simply. She stooped and taking +Bennie’s face between her hands kissed him once. Then she stepped aside +and stood quite still, looking after the little figure that passed out +of the court room with his hand in that of a big, kindly police +officer. She looked until the big door had opened and closed upon them. + +Then—well, it was just another newspaper story. It made a good one. +That evening I told Frau Nirlanger about it, and she wept, softly, and +murmured: “Ach, das arme baby! Like my little Oscar he is, without a +mother.” I told Ernst about him too, and Blackie, because I could not +get his grave little face out of my mind. I wondered if those who had +charge of him now would take the time to bathe the little body, and +brush the soft hair until it shone, and tie the gay plaid silk tie as +lovingly as “Daddy” Arnett of the Detention Home had done. + +Then it was that I, quite unwittingly, stepped into Bennie’s life. + +There was an anniversary, or a change in the board of directors, or a +new coat of paint or something of the kind in one of the orphan homes, +and the story fell to me. I found the orphan home to be typical of its +kind—a big, dreary, prison-like structure. The woman at the door did +not in the least care to let me in. She was a fish-mouthed woman with a +hard eye, and as I told my errand her mouth grew fishier and the eye +harder. Finally she led me down a long, dark, airless stretch of +corridor and departed in search of the matron, leaving me seated in the +unfriendly reception room, with its straight-backed chairs placed +stonily against the walls, beneath rows of red and blue and yellow +religious pictures. + +Just as I was wondering why it seemed impossible to be holy and +cheerful at the same time, there came a pad-padding down the corridor. +The next moment the matron stood in the doorway. She was a mountainous, +red-faced woman, with warts on her nose. + +“Good-afternoon,” I said, sweetly. (“Ugh! What a brute!”) I thought. +Then I began to explain my errand once more. Criticism of the Home? No +indeed, I assured her. At last, convinced of my disinterestedness she +reluctantly guided me about the big, gloomy building. There were +endless flights of shiny stairs, and endless stuffy, airless rooms, +until we came to a door which she flung open, disclosing the nursery. +It seemed to me that there were a hundred babies—babies at every stage +of development, of all sizes, and ages and types. They glanced up at +the opening of the door, and then a dreadful thing happened. + +Every child that was able to walk or creep scuttled into the farthest +corners and remained quite, quite still with a wide-eyed expression of +fear and apprehension on every face. + +For a moment my heart stood still. I turned to look at the woman by my +side. Her thin lips were compressed into a straight, hard line. She +said a word to a nurse standing near, and began to walk about, eying +the children sharply. She put out a hand to pat the head of one +red-haired mite in a soiled pinafore; but before her hand could descend +I saw the child dodge and the tiny hand flew up to the head, as though +in defense. + +“They are afraid of her!” my sick heart told me. “Those babies are +afraid of her! What does she do to them? I can’t stand this. I’m +going.” + +I mumbled a hurried “Thank you,” to the fat matron as I turned to leave +the big, bare room. At the head of the stairs there was a great, black +door. I stopped before it—God knows why!—and pointed toward it. + +“What is in that room?” I asked. Since then I have wondered many times +at the unseen power that prompted me to put the question. + +The stout matron bustled on, rattling her keys as she walked. + +“That—oh, that’s where we keep the incorrigibles.” + +“May I see them?” I asked, again prompted by that inner voice. + +“There is only one.” She grudgingly unlocked the door, using one of the +great keys that swung from her waist. The heavy, black door swung open. +I stepped into the bare room, lighted dimly by one small window. In the +farthest corner crouched something that stirred and glanced up at our +entrance. It peered at us with an ugly look of terror and defiance, and +I stared back at it, in the dim light. During one dreadful, breathless +second I remained staring, while my heart stood still. Then—“Bennie!” I +cried. And stumbled toward him. “Bennie—boy!” + +The little unkempt figure, in its soiled knickerbocker suit, the sunny +hair all uncared for, the gay plaid tie draggled and limp, rushed into +my arms with a crazy, inarticulate cry. + +Down on my knees on the bare floor I held him close—close! and his arms +were about my neck as though they never should unclasp. + +“Take me away! Take me away!” His wet cheek was pressed against my own +streaming one. “I want my mother! I want Daddy Arnett! Take me away!” + +I wiped his cheeks with my notebook or something, picked him up in my +arms, and started for the door. I had quite forgotten the fat matron. + +“What are you doing?” she asked, blocking the doorway with her huge +bulk. + +“I’m going to take him back with me. Please let me! I’ll take care of +him until the year is up. He shan’t bother you any more.” + +“That is impossible,” she said, coldly. “He has been sent here by the +court, for a year, and he must stay here. Besides, he is a stubborn, +uncontrollable child.” + +“Uncontrollable! He’s nothing of the kind! Why don’t you treat him as a +child should be treated, instead of like a little animal? You don’t +know him! Why, he’s the most lovable—! And he’s only a baby! Can’t you +see that? A baby!” + +She only stared her dislike, her little pig eyes grown smaller and more +glittering. + +“You great—big—thing!” I shrieked at her, like an infuriated child. +With the tears streaming down my cheeks I unclasped Bennie’s cold hands +from about my neck. He clung to me, frantically, until I had to push +him away and run. + +The woman swung the door shut, and locked it. But for all its thickness +I could hear Bennie’s helpless fists pounding on its panels as I +stumbled down the stairs, and Bennie’s voice came faintly to my ears, +muffled by the heavy door, as he shrieked to me to take him away to his +mother, and to Daddy Arnett. + +I blubbered all the way back in the car, until everyone stared, but I +didn’t care. When I reached the office I made straight for Blackie’s +smoke-filled sanctum. When my tale was ended he let me cry all over his +desk, with my head buried in a heap of galley-proofs and my tears +watering his paste-pot. He sat calmly by, smoking. Finally he began +gently to philosophize. “Now girl, he’s prob’ly better off there than +he ever was at home with his mother soused all the time. Maybe he give +that warty matron friend of yours all kinds of trouble, yellin’ for his +ma.” + +I raised my head from the desk. “Oh, you can talk! You didn’t see him. +What do you care! But if you could have seen him, crouched +there—alone—like a little animal! He was so sweet—and +lovable—and—and—he hadn’t been decently washed for weeks—and his arms +clung to me—I can feel his hands about my neck!—” + +I buried my head in the papers again. Blackie went on smoking. There +was no sound in the little room except the purr-purring of Blackie’s +pipe. Then: + +“I done a favor for Wheeling once,” mused he. + +I glanced up, quickly. “Oh, Blackie, do you think—” + +“No, I don’t. But then again, you can’t never tell. That was four or +five years ago, and the mem’ry of past favors grows dim fast. Still, if +you’re through waterin’ the top of my desk, why I’d like t’ set down +and do a little real brisk talkin’ over the phone. You’re excused.” + +Quite humbly I crept away, with hope in my heart. + +To this day I do not know what secret string the resourceful Blackie +pulled. But the next afternoon I found a hastily scrawled note tucked +into the roll of my typewriter. It sent me scuttling across the hall to +the sporting editor’s smoke-filled room. And there on a chair beside +the desk, surrounded by scrap-books, lead pencils, paste-pot and odds +and ends of newspaper office paraphernalia, sat Bennie. His hair was +parted very smoothly on one side, and under his dimpled chin bristled a +very new and extremely lively green-and-red plaid silk tie. + +The next instant I had swept aside papers, brushes, pencils, books, and +Bennie was gathered close in my arms. Blackie, with a strange glow in +his deep-set black eyes regarded us with an assumed disgust. + +“Wimmin is all alike. Ain’t it th’ truth? I used t’ think you was +different. But shucks! It ain’t so. Got t’ turn on the weeps the minute +you’re tickled or mad. Why say, I ain’t goin’ t’ have you comin’ in +here an’ dampenin’ up the whole place every little while! It’s +unhealthy for me, sittin’ here in the wet.” + +“Oh, shut up, Blackie,” I said, happily. “How in the world did you do +it?” + +“Never you mind. The question is, what you goin’ t’ do with him, now +you’ve got him? Goin’ t’ have a French bunny for him, or fetch him up +by hand? Wheeling appointed a probation skirt to look after the crowd +of us, and we got t’ toe the mark.” + +“Glory be!” I ejaculated. “I don’t know what I shall do with him. I +shall have to bring him down with me every morning, and perhaps you can +make a sporting editor out of him.” + +“Nix. Not with that forehead. He’s a high-brow. We’ll make him dramatic +critic. In the meantime, I’ll be little fairy godmother, an’ if you’ll +get on your bonnet I’ll stake you and the young ’un to strawberry +shortcake an’ chocolate ice cream.” + +So it happened that a wondering Frau Knapf and a sympathetic Frau +Nirlanger were called in for consultation an hour later. Bennie was +ensconced in my room, very wide-eyed and wondering, but quite content. +With the entrance of Frau Nirlanger the consultation was somewhat +disturbed. She made a quick rush at him and gathered him in her hungry +arms. + +“Du baby du!” she cried. “Du Kleiner! And she was down on her knees, +and somehow her figure had melted into delicious mother-curves, with +Bennie’s head just fitting into that most gracious one between her +shoulder and breast. She cooed to him in a babble of French and German +and English, calling him her lee-tel Oscar. Bennie seemed miraculously +to understand. Perhaps he was becoming accustomed to having strange +ladies snatch him to their breasts. + +“So,” said Frau Nirlanger, looking up at us. “Is he not sweet? He shall +be my lee-tel boy, nicht? For one small year he shall be my own boy. +Ach, I am but lonely all the long day here in this strange land. You +will let me care for him, nicht? And Konrad, he will be very angry, but +that shall make no bit of difference. Eh, Oscar?” + +And so the thing was settled, and an hour later three anxious-browed +women were debating the weighty question of eggs or bread-and-milk for +Bennie’s supper. Frau Nirlanger was for soft-boiled eggs as being none +too heavy after orphan asylum fare; I was for bread-and-milk, that +being the prescribed supper dish for all the orphans and waifs that I +had ever read about, from “The Wide, Wide World” to “Helen’s Babies,” +and back again. Frau Knapf was for both eggs and bread-and-milk with a +dash of meat and potatoes thrown in for good measure, and a slice or so +of Kuchen on the side. We compromised on one egg, one glass of milk, +and a slice of lavishly buttered bread, and jelly. It was a clean, +sweet, sleepy-eyed Bennie that we tucked between the sheets. We three +women stood looking down at him as he lay there in the quaint old +blue-painted bed that had once held the plump little Knapfs. + +“You think anyway he had enough supper? mused the anxious-browed Frau +Knapf. + +“To school he will have to go, yes?” murmured Frau Nirlanger, +regretfully. + +I tucked in the covers at one side of the bed, not that they needed +tucking, but because it was such a comfortable, satisfying thing to do. + +“Just at this minute,” I said, as I tucked, “I’d rather be a newspaper +reporter than anything else in the world. As a profession ’tis so +broadenin’, an’ at the same time, so chancey.” + + + + +CHAPTER XIII. +THE TEST + + +Some day the marriageable age for women will be advanced from twenty to +thirty, and the old maid line will be changed from thirty to forty. +When that time comes there will be surprisingly few divorces. The +husband of whom we dream at twenty is not at all the type of man who +attracts us at thirty. The man I married at twenty was a brilliant, +morbid, handsome, abnormal creature with magnificent eyes and very +white teeth and no particular appetite at mealtime. The man whom I +could care for at thirty would be the normal, safe and substantial sort +who would come in at six o’clock, kiss me once, sniff the air twice and +say: “Mm! What’s that smells so good, old girl? I’m as hungry as a +bear. Trot it out. Where are the kids?” + +These are dangerous things to think upon. So dangerous and disturbing +to the peace of mind that I have decided not to see Ernst von Gerhard +for a week or two. I find that seeing him is apt to make me forget +Peter Orme; to forget that my duty begins with a capital D; to forget +that I am dangerously near the thirty year old mark; to forget Norah, +and Max, and the Spalpeens, and the world, and everything but the +happiness of being near him, watching his eyes say one thing while his +lips say another. + +At such times I am apt to work myself up into rather a savage frame of +mind, and to shut myself in my room evenings, paying no heed to Frau +Nirlanger’s timid knocking, or Bennie’s good-night message. I uncover +my typewriter and set to work at the thing which may or may not be a +book, and am extremely wretched and gloomy and pessimistic, after this +fashion: + +“He probably wouldn’t care anything about you if you were free. It is +just a case of the fruit that is out of reach being the most desirable. +Men don’t marry frumpy, snuffy old things of thirty, or thereabouts. +Men aren’t marrying now-a-days, anyway. Certainly not for love. They +marry for position, or power, or money, when they do marry. Think of +all the glorious creatures he meets every day—women whose hair, and +finger-nails and teeth and skin are a religion; women whose clothes are +a fine art; women who are free to care only for themselves; to rest, to +enjoy, to hear delightful music, and read charming books, and eat +delicious food. He doesn’t really care about you, with your rumpled +blouses, and your shabby gloves and shoes, and your somewhat doubtful +linen collars. The last time you saw him you were just coming home from +the office after a dickens of a day, and there was a smudge on the end +of your nose, and he told you of it, laughing. But you didn’t laugh. +You rubbed it off, furiously, and you wanted to cry. Cry! You, Dawn +O’Hara! Begorra! ’Tis losin’ your sense av humor you’re after doin’! +Get to work.” + +After which I would fall upon the book in a furious, futile fashion, +writing many incoherent, irrelevant paragraphs which I knew would be +cast aside as worthless on the sane and reasoning to-morrow. + +Oh, it had been easy enough to talk of love in a lofty, superior +impersonal way that New Year’s day. Just the luxury of speaking of it +at all, after those weeks of repression, sufficed. But it is not so +easy to be impersonal and lofty when the touch of a coat sleeve against +your arm sends little prickling, tingling shivers racing madly through +thousands of too taut nerves. It is not so easy to force the mind and +tongue into safe, sane channels when they are forever threatening to +rush together in an overwhelming torrent that will carry misery and +destruction in its wake. Invariably we talk with feverish earnestness +about the book; about my work at the office; about Ernst’s profession, +with its wonderful growth; about Norah, and Max and the Spalpeens, and +the home; about the latest news; about the weather; about Peter +Orme—and then silence. + +At our last meeting things took a new and startling turn. So startling, +so full of temptation and happiness-that-must-not-be, that I resolved +to forbid myself the pain and joy of being near him until I could be +quite sure that my grip on Dawn O’Hara was firm, unshakable and +lasting. + +Von Gerhard sports a motor-car, a rakish little craft, built long and +low, with racing lines, and a green complexion, and a nose that cuts +through the air like the prow of a swift boat through water. Von +Gerhard had promised me a spin in it on the first mild day. Sunday +turned out to be unexpectedly lamblike, as only a March day can be, +with real sunshine that warmed the end of one’s nose instead of +laughing as it tweaked it, as the lying February sunshine had done. + +“But warmly you must dress yourself,” Von Gerhard warned me, “with no +gauzy blouses or sleeveless gowns. The air cuts like a knife, but it +feels good against the face. And a little road-house I know, where one +is served great steaming plates of hot oyster stew. How will that be +for a lark, yes?” + +And so I had swathed myself in wrappings until I could scarcely clamber +into the panting little car, and we had darted off along the smooth +lake drives, while the wind whipped the scarlet into our cheeks, even +while it brought the tears to our eyes. There was no chance for +conversation, even if Von Gerhard had been in talkative mood, which he +was not. He seemed more taciturn than usual, seated there at the wheel, +looking straight ahead at the ribbon of road, his eyes narrowed down to +mere keen blue slits. I realized, without alarm, that he was driving +furiously and lawlessly, and I did not care. Von Gerhard was that sort +of man. One could sit quite calmly beside him while he pulled at the +reins of a pair of runaway horses, knowing that he would conquer them +in the end. + +Just when my face began to feel as stiff and glazed as a mummy’s, we +swung off the roadway and up to the entrance of the road-house that was +to revive us with things hot and soupy. + +“Another minute,” I said, through stiff lips, as I extricated myself +from my swathings, “and I should have been what Mr. Mantalini described +as a demnition body. For pity’s sake, tell ’em the soup can’t be too +hot nor too steaming for your lady friend. I’ve had enough fresh air to +last me the remainder of my life. May I timidly venture to suggest that +a cheese sandwich follow the oyster stew? I am famished, and this place +looks as though it might make a speciality of cheese sandwiches.” + +“By all means a cheese sandwich. Und was noch? That fresh air it has +given you an appetite, nicht wahr?” But there was no sign of a smile on +his face, nor was the kindly twinkle of amusement to be seen in his +eyes—that twinkle that I had learned to look for. + +“Smile for the lady,” I mockingly begged when we had been served. +“You’ve been owlish all the afternoon. Here, try a cheese sandwich. +Now, why do you suppose that this mustard tastes so much better than +the kind one gets at home?” + +Von Gerhard had been smoking a cigarette, the first that I had ever +seen in his fingers. Now he tossed it into the fireplace that yawned +black and empty at one side of the room. He swept aside the plates and +glasses that stood before him, leaned his arms on the table and +deliberately stared at me. + +“I sail for Europe in June, to be gone a year—probably more,” he said. + +“Sail!” I echoed, idiotically; and began blindly to dab clots of +mustard on that ridiculous sandwich. + +“I go to study and work with Gluck. It is the opportunity of a +lifetime. Gluck is to the world of medicine what Edison is to the world +of electricity. He is a wizard, a man inspired. You should see him—a +little, bent, grizzled, shabby old man who looks at you, and sees you +not. It is a wonderful opportunity, a—” + +The mustard and the sandwich and the table and Von Gerhard’s face were +very indistinct and uncertain to my eyes, but I managed to say: “So +glad—congratulate you—very happy—no doubt fortunate—” + +Two strong hands grasped my wrists. “Drop that absurd mustard spoon and +sandwich. Na, I did not mean to frighten you, Dawn. How your hands +tremble. So, look at me. You would like Vienna, Kindchen. You would +like the gayety, and the brightness of it, and the music, and the +pretty women, and the incomparable gowns. Your sense of humor would +discern the hollowness beneath all the pomp and ceremony and rigid +lines of caste, and military glory; and your writer’s instinct would +revel in the splendor, and color and romance and intrigue.” + +I shrugged my shoulders in assumed indifference. “Can’t you convey all +this to me without grasping my wrists like a villain in a melodrama? +Besides, it isn’t very generous or thoughtful of you to tell me all +this, knowing that it is not for me. Vienna for you, and Milwaukee and +cheese sandwiches for me. Please pass the mustard.” + +But the hold on my wrists grew firmer. Von Gerhard’s eyes were steady +as they gazed into mine. “Dawn, Vienna, and the whole world is waiting +for you, if you will but take it. Vienna—and happiness—with me—” + +I wrenched my wrists free with a dreadful effort and rose, sick, +bewildered, stunned. My world—my refuge of truth, and honor, and safety +and sanity that had lain in Ernst von Gerhard’s great, steady hands, +was slipping away from me. I think the horror that I felt within must +have leaped to my eyes, for in an instant Von Gerhard was beside me, +steadying me with his clear blue eyes. He did not touch the tips of my +fingers as he stood there very near me. From the look of pain on his +face I knew that I had misunderstood, somehow. + +“Kleine, I see that you know me not,” he said, in German, and the +saying it was as tender as is a mother when she reproves a child that +she loves. “This fight against the world, those years of unhappiness +and misery, they have made you suspicious and lacking in trust, is it +not so? You do not yet know the perfect love that casts out all doubt. +Dawn, I ask you in the name of all that is reasoning, and for the sake +of your happiness and mine, to divorce this man Peter Orme—this man who +for almost ten years has not been your husband—who never can be your +husband. I ask you to do something which will bring suffering to no +one, and which will mean happiness to many. Let me make you happy—you +were born to be happy—you who can laugh like a girl in spite of your +woman’s sorrows—” + +But I sank into a chair and hid my face in my hands so that I might be +spared the beauty and the tenderness of his eyes. I tried to think of +all the sane and commonplace things in life. Somewhere in my inner +consciousness a cool little voice was saying, over and over again: + +“Now, Dawn, careful! You’ve come to the crossroads at last. Right or +left? Choose! Now, Dawn, careful!” and the rest of it all over again. + +When I lifted my face from my hands at last it was to meet the +tenderness of Von Gerhard’s gaze with scarcely a tremor. + +“You ought to know,” I said, very slowly and evenly, “that a divorce, +under these circumstances, is almost impossible, even if I wished to do +what you suggest. There are certain state laws—” + +An exclamation of impatience broke from him. “Laws! In some states, +yes. In others, no. It is a mere technicality—a trifle! There is about +it a bit of that which you call red tape. It amounts to nothing—to +that!” He snapped his fingers. “A few months’ residence in another +state, perhaps. These American laws, they are made to break.” + +“Yes; you are quite right,” I said, and I knew in my heart that the +cool, insistent little voice within had not spoken in vain. “But there +are other laws—laws of honor and decency, and right living and +conscience—that cannot be broken with such ease. I cannot marry you. I +have a husband.” + +“You can call that unfortunate wretch your husband! He does not know +that he has a wife. He will not know that he has lost a wife. Come, +Dawn—small one—be not so foolish. You do not know how happy I will make +you. You have never seen me except when I was tortured with doubts and +fears. You do not know what our life will be together. There shall be +everything to make you forget—everything that thought and love and +money can give you. The man there in the barred room—” + +At that I took his dear hands in mine and held them close as I +miserably tried to make him hear what that small, still voice had told +me. + +“There! That is it! If he were free, if he were able to stand before +men that his actions might be judged fairly and justly, I should not +hesitate for one single, precious moment. If he could fight for his +rights, or relinquish them, as he saw fit, then this thing would not be +so monstrous. But, Ernst, can’t you see? He is there, alone, in that +dreadful place, quite helpless, quite incapable, quite at our mercy. I +should as soon think of hurting a little child, or snatching the +pennies from a blind man’s cup. The thing is inhuman! It is monstrous! +No state laws, no red tape can dissolve such a union.” + +“You still care for him!” + +“Ernst!” + +His face was very white with the pallor of repressed emotion, and his +eyes were like the blue flame that one sees flashing above a bed of +white-hot coals. + +“You do care for him still. But yes! You can stand there, quite +cool—but quite—and tell me that you would not hurt him, not for your +happiness, not for mine. But me you can hurt again and again, without +one twinge of regret.” + +There was silence for a moment in the little bare dining-room—a +miserable silence on my part, a bitter one for Ernst. Then Von Gerhard +seated himself again at the table opposite and smiled one of the rare +smiles that illumined his face with such sweetness. + +“Come, Dawn, almost we are quarreling—we who were to have been so +matter-of-fact and sensible. Let us make an end of this question. You +will think of what I have said, will you not? Perhaps I was too abrupt, +too brutal. Ach, Dawn, you know not how I—Very well, I will not.” + +With both hands I was clinging to my courage and praying for strength +to endure this until I should be alone in my room again. + +“As for that poor creature who is bereft of reason, he shall lack no +care, no attention. The burden you have borne so long I shall take now +upon my shoulders.” + +He seemed so confident, so sure. I could bear it no longer. “Ernst, if +you have any pity, any love for me, stop! I tell you I can never do +this. Why do you make it so terribly hard for me! So pitilessly hard! +You always have been so strong, so sure, such a staff of courage.” + +“I say again, and again, and again, you do not care.” + +It was then that I took my last vestige of strength and courage +together and going over to him, put my two hands on his great +shoulders, looking up into his drawn face as I spoke. + +“Ernst, look at me! You never can know how much I care. I care so much +that I could not bear to have the shadow of wrong fall upon our +happiness. There can be no lasting happiness upon a foundation of +shameful deceit. I should hate myself, and you would grow to hate me. +It always is so. Dear one, I care so much that I have the strength to +do as I would do if I had to face my mother, and Norah tonight. I don’t +ask you to understand. Men are not made to understand these things; not +even a man such as you, who are so beautifully understanding. I only +ask that you believe in me—and think of me sometimes—I shall feel it, +and be helped. Will you take me home now, Dr. von Gerhard?” + +The ride home was made in silence. The wind was colder, sharper. I was +chilled, miserable, sick. Von Gerhard’s face was quite expressionless +as he guided the little car over the smooth road. When we had stopped +before my door, still without a word, I thought that he was going to +leave me with that barrier of silence unbroken. But as I stepped +stiffly to the curbing his hands closed about mine with the old steady +grip. I looked up quickly, to find a smile in the corners of the tired +eyes. + +“You—you will let me see you—sometimes?” + +But wisdom came to my aid. “Not now. It is better that we go our +separate ways for a few weeks, until our work has served to adjust the +balance that has been disturbed. At the end of that time I shall write +you, and from that time until you sail in June we shall be just good +comrades again. And once in Vienna—who knows?—you may meet the plump +blond Fraulein, of excellent family—” + +“And no particular imagination—” + +And then we both laughed, a bit hysterically, because laughter is, +after all, akin to tears. And the little green car shot off with a whir +as I turned to enter my new world of loneliness. + + + + +CHAPTER XIV. +BENNIE AND THE CHARMING OLD MAID + + +There followed a blessed week of work—a “human warious” week, with +something piquant lurking at every turn. A week so busy, so +kaleidoscopic in its quick succession of events that my own troubles +and grievances were pushed into a neglected corner of my mind and made +to languish there, unfed by tears or sighs. + +News comes in cycles. There are weeks when a city editor tears his hair +in vain as he bellows for a first-page story. There follow days so +bristling with real, live copy that perfectly good stuff which, in the +ordinary course of events might be used to grace the front sheet, is +sandwiched away between the marine intelligence and the Elgin butter +reports. + +Such a week was this. I interviewed everything from a red-handed +murderer to an incubator baby. The town seemed to be running over with +celebrities. Norberg, the city editor, adores celebrities. He never +allows one to escape uninterviewed. On Friday there fell to my lot a +world-famous prima donna, an infamous prize-fighter, and a charming old +maid. Norberg cared not whether the celebrity in question was noted for +a magnificent high C, or a left half-scissors hook, so long as the +interview was dished up hot and juicy, with plenty of quotation marks, +a liberal sprinkling of adjectives and adverbs, and a cut of the victim +gracing the top of the column. + +It was long past the lunch hour when the prima donna and the +prize-fighter, properly embellished, were snapped on the copy hook. The +prima donna had chattered in French; the prize-fighter had jabbered in +slang; but the charming old maid, who spoke Milwaukee English, was to +make better copy than a whole chorus of prima donnas, or a ring full of +fighters. Copy! It was such wonderful stuff that I couldn’t use it. + +It was with the charming old maid in mind that Norberg summoned me. + +“Another special story for you,” he cheerfully announced. + +No answering cheer appeared upon my lunchless features. “A +prize-fighter at ten-thirty, and a prima donna at twelve. What’s the +next choice morsel? An aeronaut with another successful airship? or a +cash girl who has inherited a million?” + +Norberg’s plump cheeks dimpled. “Neither. This time it is a nice German +old maid.” + +“Eloped with the coachman, no doubt?” + +“I said a nice old maid. And she hasn’t done anything yet. You are to +find out how she’ll feel when she does it.” + +“Charmingly lucid,” commented I, made savage by the pangs of hunger. + +Norberg proceeded to outline the story with characteristic vigor, a +cigarette waggling from the corner of his mouth. + +“Name and address on this slip. Take a Greenfield car. Nice old maid +has lived in nice old cottage all her life. Grandfather built it +himself about a hundred years ago. Whole family was born in it, and +married in it, and died in it, see? It’s crammed full of +spinning-wheels and mahogany and stuff that’ll make your eyes stick +out. See? Well, there’s no one left now but the nice old maid, all +alone. She had a sister who ran away with a scamp some years ago. Nice +old maid has never heard of her since, but she leaves the gate ajar or +the latch-string open, or a lamp in the window, or something, so that +if ever she wanders back to the old home she’ll know she’s welcome, +see?” + +“Sounds like a moving picture play,” I remarked. + +“Wait a minute. Here’s the point. The city wants to build a branch +library or something on her property, and the nice old party is so +pinched for money that she’ll have to take their offer. So the time has +come when she’ll have to leave that old cottage, with its romance, and +its memories, and its lamp in the window, and go to live in a cheap +little flat, see? Where the old four-poster will choke up the bedroom—” + +“And the parlor will be done in red and green,” I put in, eagerly, “and +where there will be an ingrowing sideboard in the dining-room that +won’t fit in with the quaint old dinner-set at all, and a kitchenette +just off that, in which the great iron pots and kettles that used to +hold the family dinners will be monstrously out of place—” + +“You’re on,” said Norberg. + +Half an hour later I stood before the cottage, set primly in the center +of a great lot that extended for half a square on all sides. A +winter-sodden, bare enough sight it was in the gray of that March day. +But it was not long before Alma Pflugel, standing in the midst of it, +the March winds flapping her neat skirts about her ankles, filled it +with a blaze of color. As she talked, a row of stately hollyhocks, +pink, and scarlet, and saffron, reared their heads against the cottage +sides. The chill March air became sweet with the scent of heliotrope, +and Sweet William, and pansies, and bridal wreath. The naked twigs of +the rose bushes flowered into wondrous bloom so that they bent to the +ground with their weight of crimson and yellow glory. The bare brick +paths were overrun with the green of growing things. Gray mounds of +dirt grew vivid with the fire of poppies. Even the rain-soaked wood of +the pea-frames miraculously was hidden in a hedge of green, over which +ran riot the butterfly beauty of the lavender, and pink, and cerise +blossoms. Oh, she did marvelous things that dull March day, did plain +German Alma Pflugel! And still more marvelous were the things that were +to come. + +But of these things we knew nothing as the door was opened and Alma +Pflugel and I gazed curiously at one another. Surprise was writ large +on her honest face as I disclosed my errand. It was plain that the ways +of newspaper reporters were foreign to the life of this plain German +woman, but she bade me enter with a sweet graciousness of manner. + +Wondering, but silent, she led the way down the dim narrow hallway to +the sitting-room beyond. And there I saw that Norberg had known whereof +he spoke. + +A stout, red-faced stove glowed cheerfully in one corner of the room. +Back of the stove a sleepy cat opened one indolent eye, yawned +shamelessly, and rose to investigate, as is the way of cats. The +windows were aglow with the sturdy potted plants that flower-loving +German women coax into bloom. The low-ceilinged room twinkled and shone +as the polished surfaces of tables and chairs reflected the rosy glow +from the plethoric stove. I sank into the depths of a huge rocker that +must have been built for Grosspapa Pflugel’s generous curves. Alma +Pflugel, in a chair opposite, politely waited for this new process of +interviewing to begin, but relaxed in the embrace of that great +armchair I suddenly realized that I was very tired and hungry, and +talk-weary, and that here; was a great peace. The prima donna, with her +French, and her paint, and her pearls, and the prizefighter with his +slang, and his cauliflower ear, and his diamonds, seemed creatures of +another planet. My eyes closed. A delicious sensation of warmth and +drowsy contentment stole over me. + +“Do listen to the purring of that cat!” I murmured. “Oh, newspapers +have no place in this. This is peace and rest.” + +Alma Pflugel leaned forward in her chair. “You—you like it?” + +“Like it! This is home. I feel as though my mother were here in this +room, seated in one of those deep chairs, with a bit of sewing in her +hand; so near that I could touch her cheek with my fingers.” + +Alma Pflugel rose from her chair and came over to me. She timidly +placed her hand on my arm. “Ah, I am so glad you are like that. You do +not laugh at the low ceilings, and the sunken floors, and the +old-fashioned rooms. You do not raise your eyes in horror and say: ‘No +conveniences! And why don’t you try striped wall paper? It would make +those dreadful ceilings seem higher.’ How nice you are to understand +like that!” + +My hand crept over to cover her own that lay on my arm. “Indeed, indeed +I do understand,” I whispered. Which, as the veriest cub reporter can +testify, is no way to begin an interview. + +A hundred happy memories filled the little low room as Alma Pflugel +showed me her treasures. The cat purred in great content, and the stove +cast a rosy glow over the scene as the simple woman told the story of +each precious relic, from the battered candle-dipper on the shelf, to +the great mahogany folding table, and sewing stand, and carved bed. +Then there was the old horn lantern that Jacob Pflugel had used a +century before, and in one corner of the sitting-room stood Grossmutter +Pflugel’s spinning-wheel. Behind cupboard doors were ranged the +carefully preserved blue-and-white china dishes, and on the shelf below +stood the clumsy earthen set that Grosspapa Pflugel himself had modeled +for his young bride in those days of long ago. In the linen chest there +still lay, in neat, fragrant folds, piles of the linen that had been +spun on that time-yellowed spinning-wheel. And because of the tragedy +in the honest face bent over these dear treasures, and because she +tried so bravely to hide her tears, I knew in my heart that this could +never be a newspaper story. + +“So,” said Alma Pflugel at last, and rose and walked slowly to the +window and stood looking out at the wind-swept garden. That window, +with its many tiny panes, once had looked out across a wilderness, with +an Indian camp not far away. Grossmutter Pflugel had sat at that window +many a bitter winter night, with her baby in her arms, watching and +waiting for the young husband who was urging his ox-team across the ice +of Lake Michigan in the teeth of a raging blizzard. + +The little, low-ceilinged room was very still. I looked at Alma Pflugel +standing there at the window in her neat blue gown, and something about +the face and figure—or was it the pose of the sorrowful head?—seemed +strangely familiar. Somewhere in my mind the resemblance haunted me. +Resemblance to—what? Whom? + +“Would you like to see my garden?” asked Alma Pflugel, turning from the +window. For a moment I stared in wonderment. But the honest, kindly +face was unsmiling. “These things that I have shown you, I can take +with me when I—go. But there,” and she pointed out over the bare, +wind-swept lot, “there is something that I cannot take. My flowers! You +see that mound over there, covered so snug and warm with burlap and +sacking? There my tulips and hyacinths sleep. In a few weeks, when the +covering is whisked off—ah, you shall see! Then one can be quite sure +that the spring is here. Who can look at a great bed of red and pink +and lavender and yellow tulips and hyacinths, and doubt it? Come.” + +With a quick gesture she threw a shawl over her head, and beckoned me. +Together we stepped out into the chill of the raw March afternoon. She +stood a moment, silent, gazing over the sodden earth. Then she flitted +swiftly down the narrow path, and halted before a queer little +structure of brick, covered with the skeleton of a creeping vine. +Stooping, Alma Pflugel pulled open the rusty iron door and smiled up at +me. + +“This was my grandmother’s oven. All her bread she baked in this little +brick stove. Black bread it was, with a great thick crust, and a bitter +taste. But it was sweet, too. I have never tasted any so good. I like +to think of Grossmutter, when she was a bride, baking her first batch +of bread in this oven that Grossvater built for her. And because the +old oven was so very difficult to manage, and because she was such a +young thing—only sixteen!—I like to think that her first loaves were +perhaps not so successful, and that Grosspapa joked about them, and +that the little bride wept, so that the young husband had to kiss away +the tears.” + +She shut the rusty, sagging door very slowly and gently. “No doubt the +workmen who will come to prepare the ground for the new library will +laugh and joke among themselves when they see the oven, and they will +kick it with their heels, and wonder what the old brick mound could +have been.” + +There was a little twisted smile on her face as she rose—a smile that +brought a hot mist of tears to my eyes. There was tragedy itself in +that spare, homely figure standing there in the garden, the wind +twining her skirts about her. + +“You should but see the children peering over the fence to see my +flowers in the summer,” she said. The blue eyes wore a wistful, +far-away look. “All the children know my garden. It blooms from April +to October. There I have my sweet peas; and here my roses—thousands of +them! Some are as red as a drop of blood, and some as white as a bridal +wreath. When they are blossoming it makes the heart ache, it is so +beautiful.” + +She had quite forgotten me now. For her the garden was all abloom once +more. It was as though the Spirit of the Flowers had touched the naked +twigs with fairy fingers, waking them into glowing life for her who +never again was to shower her love and care upon them. + +“These are my poppies. Did you ever come out in the morning to find a +hundred poppy faces smiling at you, and swaying and glistening and +rippling in the breeze? There they are, scarlet and pink, side by side +as only God can place them. And near the poppies I planted my pansies, +because each is a lesson to the other. I call my pansies little +children with happy faces. See how this great purple one winks his +yellow eye, and laughs!” + +Her gray shawl had slipped back from her face and lay about her +shoulders, and the wind had tossed her hair into a soft fluff about her +head. + +“We used to come out here in the early morning, my little Schwester and +I, to see which rose had unfolded its petals overnight, or whether this +great peony that had held its white head so high only yesterday, was +humbled to the ground in a heap of ragged leaves. Oh, in the morning +she loved it best. And so every summer I have made the garden bloom +again, so that when she comes back she will see flowers greet her. + +“All the way up the path to the door she will walk in an aisle of +fragrance, and when she turns the handle of the old door she will find +it unlocked, summer and winter, day and night, so that she has only to +turn the knob and enter.” + +She stopped, abruptly. The light died out of her face. She glanced at +me, half defiantly, half timidly, as one who is not quite sure of what +she has said. At that I went over to her, and took her work-worn hands +in mine, and smiled down into the faded blue eyes grown dim with tears +and watching. + +“Perhaps—who knows?—the little sister may come yet. I feel it. She will +walk up the little path, and try the handle of the door, and it will +turn beneath her fingers, and she will enter.” + +With my arm about her we walked down the path toward the old-fashioned +arbor, bare now except for the tendrils that twined about the lattice. +The arbor was fitted with a wooden floor, and there were rustic chairs, +and a table. I could picture the sisters sitting there with their +sewing during the long, peaceful summer afternoons. Alma Pflugel would +be wearing one of her neat gingham gowns, very starched and stiff, with +perhaps a snowy apron edged with a border of heavy crochet done by the +wrinkled fingers of Grossmutter Pflugel. On the rustic table there +would be a bowl of flowers, and a pot of delicious Kaffee, and a plate +of German Kaffeekuchen, and through the leafy doorway the scent of the +wonderful garden would come stealing. + +I thought of the cheap little flat, with the ugly sideboard, and the +bit of weedy yard in the rear, and the alley beyond that, and the red +and green wall paper in the parlor. The next moment, to my horror, Alma +Pflugel had dropped to her knees before the table in the damp little +arbor, her face in her hands, her spare shoulders shaking. + +“Ich kann’s nicht thun!” she moaned. “Ich kann nicht! Ach, kleine +Schwester, wo bist du denn! Nachts und Morgens bete ich, aber doch +kommst du nicht.” + +A great dry sob shook her. Her hand went to her breast, to her throat, +to her lips, with an odd, stifled gesture. + +“Do that again!” I cried, and shook Alma Pflugel sharply by the +shoulder. “Do that again!” + +Her startled blue eyes looked into mine. “What do you mean?” she asked. + +“That—that gesture. I’ve seen it—somewhere—that trick of pressing the +hand to the breast, to the throat, to the lips—Oh!” + +Suddenly I knew. I lifted the drooping head and rumpled its neat +braids, and laughed down into the startled face. + +“She’s here!” I shouted, and started a dance of triumph on the shaky +floor of the old arbor. “I know her. From the moment I saw you the +resemblance haunted me.” And then as Alma Pflugel continued to stare, +while the stunned bewilderment grew in her eyes, “Why, I have +one-fourth interest in your own nephew this very minute. And his name +is Bennie!” + +Whereupon Alma Pflugel fainted quietly away in the chilly little grape +arbor, with her head on my shoulder. + +I called myself savage names as I chafed her hands and did all the +foolish, futile things that distracted humans think of at such times, +wondering, meanwhile, if I had been quite mad to discern a resemblance +between this simple, clear-eyed gentle German woman, and the battered, +ragged, swaying figure that had stood at the judge’s bench. + +Suddenly Alma Pflugel opened her eyes. Recognition dawned in them +slowly. Then, with a jerk, she sat upright, her trembling hands +clinging to me. + +“Where is she? Take me to her. Ach, you are sure—sure?” + +“Lordy, I hope so! Come, you must let me help you into the house. And +where is the nearest telephone? Never mind; I’ll find one.” + +When I had succeeded in finding the nearest drug store I spent a wild +ten minutes telephoning the surprised little probation officer, then +Frau Nirlanger, and finally Blackie, for no particular reason. I +shrieked my story over the wire in disconnected, incoherent sentences. +Then I rushed back to the little cottage where Alma Pflugel and I +waited with what patience we could summon. + +Blackie was the first to arrive. He required few explanations. That is +one of the nicest things about Blackie. He understands by leaps and +bounds, while others crawl to comprehension. But when Frau Nirlanger +came, with Bennie in tow, there were tears, and exclamations, followed +by a little stricken silence on the part of Frau Nirlanger when she saw +Bennie snatched to the breast of this weeping woman. So it was that in +the midst of the confusion we did not hear the approach of the +probation officer and her charge. They came up the path to the door, +and there the little sister turned the knob, and it yielded under her +fingers, and the old door swung open; and so she entered the house +quite as Alma Pflugel had planned she should, except that the roses +were not blooming along the edge of the sunken brick walk. + +She entered the room in silence, and no one could have recognized in +this pretty, fragile creature the pitiful wreck of the juvenile court. +And when Alma Pflugel saw the face of the little sister—the poor, +marred, stricken face—her own face became terrible in its agony. She +put Bennie down very gently, rose, and took the shaking little figure +in her strong arms, and held it as though never to let it go again. +There were little broken words of love and pity. She called her +“Lammchen” and “little one,” and so Frau Nirlanger and Blackie and I +stole away, after a whispered consultation with the little probation +officer. + +Blackie had come in his red runabout, and now he tucked us into it, +feigning a deep disgust. + +“I’d like to know where I enter into this little drayma,” he growled. +“Ain’t I got nothin’ t’ do but run around town unitin’ long lost +sisters an’ orphans!” + +“Now, Blackie, you know you would never have forgiven me if I had left +you out of this. Besides, you must hustle around and see that they need +not move out of that dear little cottage. Now don’t say a word! You’ll +never have a greater chance to act the fairy godmother.” + +Frau Nirlanger’s hand sought mine and I squeezed it in silent sympathy. +Poor little Frau Nirlanger, the happiness of another had brought her +only sorrow. And she had kissed Bennie good-by with the knowledge that +the little blue-painted bed, with its faded red roses, would again +stand empty in the gloom of the Knapf attic. + +Norberg glanced up quickly as I entered the city room. “Get something +good on that south side story?” he asked. + +“Why, no,” I answered. “You were mistaken about that. The—the nice old +maid is not going to move, after all.” + + + + +CHAPTER XV. +FAREWELL TO KNAPFS + + +Consternation has corrugated the brows of the aborigines. Consternation +twice confounded had added a wrinkle or two to my collection. We are +homeless. That is, we are Knapfless—we, to whom the Knapfs spelled +home. + +Herr Knapf, mustache aquiver, and Frau Knapf, cheek bones glistening, +broke the news to us one evening just a week after the exciting day +which so changed Bennie’s life. “Es thut uns sehr, sehr leid,” Herr +Knapf had begun. And before he had finished, protesting German groans +mingled with voluble German explanations. The aborigines were stricken +down. They clapped pudgy fists to knobby foreheads; they smote their +breasts, and made wild gestures with their arms. If my protests were +less frenzied than theirs, it was only because my knowledge of German +stops at words of six syllables. + +Out of the chaos of ejaculations and interrogation the reason for our +expulsion at last was made clear. The little German hotel had not been +remunerative. Our host and hostess were too hospitable and too polite +to state the true reason for this state of affairs. Perhaps rents were +too high. Perhaps, thought I, Frau Knapf had been too liberal with the +butter in the stewed chicken. Perhaps there had been too many golden +Pfannkuchen with real eggs and milk stirred into them, and with +toothsome little islands of ruddy currant jelly on top. Perhaps there +had been too much honest, nourishing food, and not enough +boarding-house victuals. At any rate, the enterprise would have to be +abandoned. + +It was then that the bare, bright little dining room, with its queer +prints of chin-chucking lieutenants, and its queerer faces, and its +German cookery became very dear to me. I had grown to like Frau Knapf, +of the shining cheek bones, and Herr Knapf, of the heavy geniality. A +close bond of friendship had sprung up between Frau Nirlanger and me. I +would miss her friendly visits, and her pretty ways, and her sparkling +conversation. She and I had held many kimonoed pow-wows, and +sometimes—not often—she had given me wonderful glimpses of that which +she had left—of Vienna, the opera, the court, the life which had been +hers. She talked marvelously well, for she had all the charm and +vivacity of the true Viennese. Even the aborigines, bristling +pompadours, thick spectacles, terrifying manner, and all, became as +dear as old friends, now that I knew I must lose them. + +The great, high-ceilinged room upstairs had taken on the look of home. +The Blue-beard closet no longer appalled me. The very purpleness of the +purple roses in the rug had grown beautiful in my eyes because they +were part of that little domain which spelled peace and comfort and +kindness. How could I live without the stout yellow brocade armchair! +Its plethoric curves were balm for my tired bones. Its great lap +admitted of sitting with knees crossed, Turk-fashion. Its cushioned +back stopped just at the point where the head found needed support. Its +pudgy arms offered rest for tired elbows; its yielding bosom was made +for tired backs. Given the padded comfort of that stout old chair—a +friendly, time-tried book between my fingers—a dish of ruddy apples +twinkling in the fire-light; my mundane soul snuggled in content. And +then, too, the book-in-the-making had grown in that room. It had +developed from a weak, wobbling uncertainty into a lusty full-blooded +thing that grew and grew until it promised soon to become mansize. + +Now all this was to be changed. And I knew that I would miss the easy +German atmosphere of the place; the kindness they had shown me; the +chattering, admiring Minna; the taffy-colored dachshund; the aborigines +with their ill-smelling pipes and flappy slippers; the Wienerschnitzel; +the crushed-looking wives and the masterful German husbands; the very +darns in the table-cloths and the very nicks in the china. + +We had a last family gathering in token of our appreciation of Herr and +Frau Knapf. And because I had not seen him for almost three weeks; and +because the time for his going was drawing so sickeningly near; and +because I was quite sure that I had myself in hand; and because he knew +the Knapfs, and was fond of them; and because-well, I invited Von +Gerhard. He came, and I found myself dangerously glad to see him, so +that I made my greeting as airy and frivolous as possible. Perhaps I +overdid the airy business, for Von Gerhard looked at me for a long, +silent minute, until the nonsense I had been chattering died on my +lips, and I found myself staring up at him like a child that is +apprehensive of being scolded for some naughtiness. + +“Not so much chatter, small one,” he said, unsmilingly. “This pretense, +it is not necessary between you and me. So. You are ein bischen blasz, +nicht? A little pale? You have not been ill, Dawn?” + +“Ill? Never felt more chipper in my life,” I made flippant answer, “and +I adore these people who are forever telling one how unusually thin, or +pale, or scrawny one is looking.” + +“Na, they are not to be satisfied, these women! If I were to tell you +how lovely you look to me to-night you would draw yourself up with +chill dignity and remind me that I am not privileged to say these +things to you. So I discreetly mention that you are looking, +interestingly pale, taking care to keep all tenderness out of my tones, +and still you are not pleased.” He shrugged despairing shoulders. + +“Can’t you strike a happy medium between rudeness and tenderness? After +all, I haven’t had a glimpse of your blond beauty for three weeks. And +while I don’t ask you to whisper sweet nothings, still, after +twenty-one days—” + +“You have been lonely? If only I thought that those weeks have been as +wearisome to you—” + +“Not lonely exactly,” I hurriedly interrupted, “but sort of wishing +that some one would pat me on the head and tell me that I was a good +doggie. You know what I mean. It is so easy to become accustomed to +thoughtfulness and devotion, and so dreadfully hard to be happy without +it, once one has had it. This has been a sort of training for what I +may expect when Vienna has swallowed you up.” + +“You are still obstinate? These three weeks have not changed you? Ach, +Dawn! Kindchen!—” + +But I knew that these were thin spots marked “Danger!” in our +conversational pond. So, “Come,” said I. “I have two new aborigines for +you to meet. They are the very shiniest and wildest of all our +shiny-faced and wild aborigines. And you should see their trousers and +neckties! If you dare to come back from Vienna wearing trousers like +these!—” + +“And is the party in honor of these new aborigines?” laughed Von +Gerhard. “You did not explain in your note. Merely you asked me to +come, knowing that I cared not if it were a lawn fete or a ball, so +long as I might again be with you.” + +We were on our way to the dining room, where the festivities were to be +held. I stopped and turned a look of surprise upon him. + +“Don’t you know that the Knapfs are leaving? Did I neglect to mention +that this is a farewell party for Herr and Frau Knapf? We are losing +our home, and we have just one week in which to find another.” + +“But where will you go? And why did you not tell me this before?” + +“I haven’t an idea where I shall lay my poor old head. In the lap of +the gods, probably, for I don’t know how I shall find the time to +interview landladies and pack my belongings in seven short days. The +book will have to suffer for it. Just when it was getting along so +beautifully, too.” + +There was a dangerous tenderness in Von Gerhard’s eyes as he said: +“Again you are a wanderer, eh—small one? That you, with your love of +beautiful things, and your fastidiousness, should have to live in this +way—in these boarding-houses, alone, with not even the comforts that +should be yours. Ach, Kindchen, you were not made for that. You were +intended for the home, with a husband, and kinder, and all that is +truly worth while.” + +I swallowed a lump in my throat as I shrugged my shoulders. “Pooh! Any +woman can have a husband and babies,” I retorted, wickedly. “But mighty +few women can write a book. It’s a special curse.” + +“And you prefer this life—this existence, to the things that I offer +you! You would endure these hardships rather than give up the +nonsensical views which you entertain toward your—” + +“Please. We were not to talk of that. I am enduring no hardships. Since +I have lived in this pretty town I have become a worshiper of the +goddess Gemutlichkeit. Perhaps I shan’t find another home as dear to my +heart as this has been, but at least I shan’t have to sleep on a park +bench, and any one can tell you that park benches have long been the +favored resting place of genius. There is Frau Nirlanger beckoning us. +Now do stop scowling, and smile for the lady. I know you will get on +beautifully with the aborigines.” + +He did get on with them so beautifully that in less than half an hour +they were swapping stories of Germany, of Austria, of the universities, +of student life. Frau Knapf served a late supper, at which some one led +in singing Auld Lang Syne, although the sounds emanating from the +aborigines’ end of the table sounded suspiciously like Die Wacht am +Rhein. Following that the aborigines rose en masse and roared out their +German university songs, banging their glasses on the table when they +came to the chorus until we all caught the spirit of it and banged our +glasses like rathskeller veterans. Then the red-faced and amorous +Fritz, he of the absent Lena, announced his intention of entertaining +the company. Made bold by an injudicious mixture of Herr Knapf’s +excellent beer, and a wonderful punch which Von Gerhard had concocted, +Fritz mounted his chair, placed his plump hand over the spot where he +supposed his heart to be, fastened his watery blue eyes upon my +surprised and blushing countenance, and sang “Weh! Dass Wir Scheiden +Mussen!” in an astonishingly beautiful barytone. I dared not look at +Von Gerhard, for I knew that he was purple with suppressed mirth, so I +stared stonily at the sardine sandwich and dill pickle on my plate, and +felt myself growing hot and hysterical, and cold and tearful by turns. + +At the end of the last verse I rose hastily and brought from their +hiding-place the gifts which we of Knapfs’ had purchased as +remembrances for Herr and Frau Knapf. I had been delegated to make the +presentation speech, so I grasped in one hand the too elaborate pipe +that was to make Herr Knapf unhappy, and the too fashionable silk +umbrella that was to appall Frau Knapf, and ascended the little +platform at the end of the dining room, and began to speak in what I +fondly thought to be fluent and highsounding German. Immediately the +aborigines went off into paroxysms of laughter. They threw back their +heads and roared, and slapped their thighs, and spluttered. It appeared +that they thought I was making a humorous speech. At that discovery I +cast dignity aside and continued my speech in the language of a German +vaudeville comedian, with a dash of Weber and Field here and there. +With the presentation of the silk umbrella Frau Knapf burst into tears, +groped about helplessly for her apron, realized that it was missing +from its accustomed place, and wiped her tears upon her cherished blue +silk sleeve in the utter abandon of her sorrow. We drank to the future +health and prosperity of our tearful host and hostess, and some one +suggested drei mal drei, to which we responded in a manner to make the +chin-chucking lieutenant tremble in his frame on the wall. + +When it was all over Frau Nirlanger beckoned me, and she, Dr. von +Gerhard and I stole out into the hall and stood at the foot of the +stairway, discussing our plans for the future, and trying to smile as +we talked of this plan and that. Frau Nirlanger, in the pretty white +gown, was looking haggard and distrait. The oogly husband was still in +the dining room, finishing the beer and punch, of which he had already +taken too much. + +“A tiny apartment we have taken,” said Frau Nirlanger, softly. “It is +better so. Then I shall have a little housework, a little cooking, a +little marketing to keep me busy and perhaps happy.” Her hand closed +over mine. “But that shall us not separate,” she pleaded. “Without you +to make me sometimes laugh what should I then do? You will bring her +often to our little apartment, not?” she went on, turning appealingly +to Von Gerhard. + +“As often as Mrs. Orme will allow me,” he answered. + +“Ach, yes. So lonely I shall be. You do not know what she has been to +me, this Dawn. She is brave for two. Always laughing she is, and merry, +nicht wahr? Meine kleine Soldatin, I call her. + +“Soldatin, eh?” mused Von Gerhard. “Our little soldier. She is well +named. And her battles she fights alone. But quite alone.” His eyes, as +they looked down on me from his great height had that in them which +sent the blood rushing and tingling to my finger-tips. I brought my +hand to my head in stiff military salute. + +“Inspection satisfactory, sir?” + +He laughed a rueful little laugh. “Eminently. Aber ganz befriedigend.” + +He was very tall, and straight and good to look at as he stood there in +the hall with the light from the newel-post illuminating his features +and emphasizing his blondness. Frau Nirlanger’s face wore a drawn +little look of pain as she gazed at him, and from him to the figure of +her husband who had just emerged from the dining room, and was making +unsteady progress toward us. Herr Nirlanger’s face was flushed and his +damp, dark hair was awry so that one lock straggled limply down over +his forehead. As he approached he surveyed us with a surly frown that +changed slowly into a leering grin. He lurched over and placed a hand +familiarly on my shoulder. + +“We mus’ part,” he announced, dramatically. “O, weh! The bes’ of +frien’s m’z part. Well, g’by, li’l interfering Teufel. F’give you, +though, b’cause you’re such a pretty li’l Teufel.” He raised one hand +as though to pat my check and because of the horror which I saw on the +face of the woman beside me I tried to smile, and did not shrink from +him. But with a quick movement Von Gerhard clutched the swaying figure +and turned it so that it faced the stairs. + +“Come Nirlanger! Time for hard-working men like you and me to be in +bed. Mrs. Orme must not nod over her desk to-morrow, either. So +good-night. Schlafen Sie wohl.” + +Konrad Nirlanger turned a scowling face over his shoulder. Then he +forgot what he was scowling for, and smiled a leering smile. + +“Pretty good frien’s, you an’ the li’l Teufel, yes? Guess we’ll have to +watch you, huh, Anna? We’ll watch ’em, won’t we?” + +He began to climb the stairs laboriously, with Frau Nirlanger’s light +figure flitting just ahead of him. At the bend in the stairway she +turned and looked down on us a moment, her eyes very bright and big. +She pressed her fingers to her lips and wafted a little kiss toward us +with a gesture indescribably graceful and pathetic. She viewed her +husband’s laborious progress, not daring to offer help. Then the turn +in the stair hid her from sight. + +In the dim quiet of the little hallway Von Gerhard held out his +hands—those deft, manual hands—those steady, sure, surgeonly +hands—hands to cling to, to steady oneself by, and because I needed +them most just then, and because I longed with my whole soul to place +both my weary hands in those strong capable ones and to bring those +dear, cool, sane fingers up to my burning cheeks, I put one foot on the +first stair and held out two chilly fingertips. “Good-night, Herr +Doktor,” I said, “and thank you, not only for myself, but for her. I +have felt what she feels to-night. It is not a pleasant thing to be +ashamed of one’s husband.” + +Von Gerhard’s two hands closed over that one of mine. “Dawn, you will +let me help you to find comfortable quarters? You cannot tramp about +from place to place all the week. Let us get a list of addresses, and +then, with the machine, we can drive from one to the other in an hour. +It will at least save you time and strength.” + +“Go boarding-house hunting in a stunning green automobile!” I +exclaimed. From my vantage point on the steps I could look down on him, +and there came over me a great longing to run my fingers gently through +that crisp blond hair, and to bring his head down close against my +breast for one exquisite moment. So—“Landladies and oitermobiles!” I +laughed. “Never! Don’t you know that if they got one glimpse, through +the front parlor windows, of me stepping grand-like out of your green +motor car, they would promptly over-charge me for any room in the +house? I shall go room-hunting in my oldest hat, with one finger +sticking out of my glove.” + +Von Gerhard shrugged despairing shoulders. + +“Na, of what use is it to plead with you. Sometimes I wonder if, after +all, you are not merely amusing yourself. Getting copy, perhaps, for +the book, or a new experience to add to your already varied store.” + +Abruptly I turned to hide my pain, and began to ascend the stairs. With +a bound Von Gerhard was beside me, his face drawn and contrite. + +“Forgive me, Dawn! I know that you are wisest. It is only that I become +a little mad, I think, when I see you battling alone like this, among +strangers, and know that I have not the right to help you. I knew not +what I was saying. Come, raise your eyes and smile, like the little +Soldatin that you are. So. Now I am forgiven, yes?” + +I smiled cheerily enough into his blue eyes. “Quite forgiven. And now +you must run along. This is scandalously late. The aborigines will be +along saying ‘Morgen!’ instead of ‘Nabben’!’ if we stay here much +longer. Good-night.” + +“You will give me your new address as soon as you have found a +satisfactory home?” + +“Never fear! I probably shall be pestering you with telephone calls, +urging you to have pity upon me in my loneliness. Now goodnight again. +I’m as full of farewells as a Bernhardt.” And to end it I ran up the +stairs. At the bend, just where Frau Nirlanger had turned, I too +stopped and looked over my shoulder. Von Gerhard was standing as I had +left him, looking up at me. And like Frau Nirlanger, I wafted a little +kiss in his direction, before I allowed the bend in the stairs to cut +off my view. But Von Gerhard did not signify by look or word that he +had seen it, as he stood looking up at me, one strong white hand +resting on the broad baluster. + + + + +CHAPTER XVI. +JUNE MOONLIGHT, AND A NEW BOARDINGHOUSE + + +There was a week in which to scurry about for a new home. The days +scampered by, tripping over one another in their haste. My sleeping +hours were haunted by nightmares of landladies and impossible +boarding-house bedrooms. Columns of “To Let, Furnished or Unfurnished” +ads filed, advanced, and retreated before my dizzy eyes. My time after +office hours was spent in climbing dim stairways, interviewing +unenthusiastic females in kimonos, and peering into ugly bedrooms +papered with sprawly and impossible patterns and filled with the odors +of dead-and-gone dinners. I found one room less impossible than the +rest, only to be told that the preference was to be given to a man who +had “looked” the day before. + +“I d’ruther take gents only,” explained the ample person who carried +the keys to the mansion. “Gents goes early in the morning and comes in +late at night, and that’s all you ever see of ’em, half the time. I’ve +tried ladies, an’ they get me wild, always yellin’ for hot water to +wash their hair, or pastin’ handkerchiefs up on the mirr’r or wantin’ +to butt into the kitchen to press this or that. I’ll let you know if +the gent don’t take it, but I got an idea he will.” + +He did. At any rate, no voice summoned me to that haven for gents only. +There were other landladies—landladies fat and German; landladies lean +and Irish; landladies loquacious (regardless of nationality); +landladies reserved; landladies husbandless, wedded, widowed, divorced, +and willing; landladies slatternly; landladies prim; and all hinting of +past estates wherein there had been much grandeur. + +At last, when despair gripped me, and I had horrid visions of my trunk, +hat-box and typewriter reposing on the sidewalk while I, homeless, sat +perched in the midst of them, I chanced upon a room which commanded a +glorious view of the lake. True, it was too expensive for my slim +purse; true, the owner of it was sour of feature; true, the room itself +was cavernous and unfriendly and cold-looking, but the view of the +great, blue lake triumphed over all these, although a cautious inner +voice warned me that that lake view would cover a multitude of sins. I +remembered, later, how she of the sour visage had dilated upon the +subject of the sunrise over the water. I told her at the time that +while I was passionately fond of sunrises myself, still I should like +them just as well did they not occur so early in the morning. Whereupon +she of the vinegar countenance had sniffed. I loathe landladies who +sniff. + +My trunk and trusty typewriter were sent on to my new home at noon, +unchaperoned, for I had no time to spare at that hour of the day. Later +I followed them, laden with umbrella, boxes, brown-paper parcels, and +other unfashionable moving-day paraphernalia. I bumped and banged my +way up the two flights of stairs that led to my lake view and my bed, +and my heart went down as my feet went up. By the time the cavernous +bedroom was gained I felt decidedly quivery-mouthed, so that I dumped +my belongings on the floor in a heap and went to the window to gaze on +the lake until my spirits should rise. But it was a gray day, and the +lake looked large, and wet and unsociable. You couldn’t get chummy with +it. I turned to my great barn of a room. You couldn’t get chummy with +that, either. I began to unpack, with furious energy. In vain I turned +every gas jet blazing high. They only cast dim shadows in the murky +vastness of that awful chamber. A whole Fourth of July fireworks +display, Roman candles, sky-rockets, pin-wheels, set pieces and all, +could not have made that room take on a festive air. + +As I unpacked I thought of my cosy room at Knapfs’, and as I thought I +took my head out of my trunk and sank down on the floor with a satin +blouse in one hand, and a walking boot in the other, and wanted to +bellow with loneliness. There came to me dear visions of the friendly +old yellow brocade chair, and the lamplight, and the fireplace, and +Frau Nirlanger, and the Pfannkuchen. I thought of the aborigines. In my +homesick mind their bumpy faces became things of transcendent beauty. I +could have put my head on their combined shoulders and wept down their +blue satin neckties. In my memory of Frau Knapf it seemed to me that I +could discern a dim, misty halo hovering above her tightly wadded hair. +My soul went out to her as I recalled the shining cheek-bones, and the +apron, and the chickens stewed in butter. I would have given a year out +of my life to have heard that good-natured, “Nabben’.” One aborigine +had been wont to emphasize his after-dinner arguments with a toothpick +brandished fiercely between thumb and finger. The brandisher had always +annoyed me. Now I thought of him with tenderness in my heart and +reproached myself for my fastidiousness. I should have wept if I had +not had a walking boot in one hand, and a satin blouse in the other. A +walking boot is but a cold comfort. And my thriftiness denied my tears +the soiling of the blouse. So I sat up on my knees and finished the +unpacking. + +Just before dinner time I donned a becoming gown to chirk up my +courage, groped my way down the long, dim stairs, and telephoned to Von +Gerhard. It seemed to me that just to hear his voice would instill in +me new courage and hope. I gave the number, and waited. + +“Dr. von Gerhard?” repeated a woman’s voice at the other end of the +wire. “He is very busy. Will you leave your name?” + +“No,” I snapped. “I’ll hold the wire. Tell him that Mrs. Orme is +waiting to speak to him.” + +“I’ll see.” The voice was grudging. + +Another wait; then—“Dawn!” came his voice in glad surprise. + +“Hello!” I cried, hysterically. “Hello! Oh, talk! Say something nice, +for pity’s sake! I’m sorry that I’ve taken you away from whatever you +were doing, but I couldn’t help it. Just talk please! I’m dying of +loneliness.” + +“Child, are you ill?” Von Gerhard’s voice was so satisfyingly +solicitous. “Is anything wrong? Your voice is trembling. I can hear it +quite plainly. What has happened? Has Norah written—” + +“Norah? No. There was nothing in her letter to upset me. It is only the +strangeness of this place. I shall be all right in a day or so.” + +“The new home—it is satisfactory? You have found what you wanted? Your +room is comfortable?” + +“It’s—it’s a large room,” I faltered. “And there’s a—a large view of +the lake, too.” + +There was a smothered sound at the other end of the wire. Then—“I want +you to meet me down-town at seven o’clock. We will have dinner +together,” Von Gerhard said, “I cannot have you moping up there all +alone all evening.” + +“I can’t come.” + +“Why?” + +“Because I want to so very much. And anyway, I’m much more cheerful +now. I am going in to dinner. And after dinner I shall get acquainted +with my room. There are six corners and all the space under the bed +that I haven’t explored yet.” + +“Dawn!” + +“Yes?” + +“If you were free to-night, would you marry me? If you knew that the +next month would find you mistress of yourself would you—” + +“Ernst!” + +“Yes?” + +“If the gates of Heaven were opened wide to you, and they had +‘Welcome!’ done in diamonds over the door, and all the loveliest angel +ladies grouped about the doorway to receive you, and just beyond you +could see awaiting you all that was beautiful, and most exquisite, and +most desirable, would you enter?” + +And then I hung up the receiver and went in to dinner. I went in to +dinner, but not to dine. Oh, shades of those who have suffered in +boarding-houses—that dining room! It must have been patterned after the +dining room at Dotheboys’ hall. It was bare, and cheerless, and +fearfully undressed looking. The diners were seated at two long, +unsociable, boarding-housey tables that ran the length of the room, and +all the women folks came down to dine with white wool shawls wrapped +snugly about their susceptible black silk shoulders. The general effect +was that of an Old People’s Home. I found seat after seat at table was +filled, and myself the youngest thing present. I felt so criminally +young that I wondered they did not strap me in a high chair and ram +bread and milk down my throat. Now and then the door would open to +admit another snuffly, ancient, and be-shawled member of the company. I +learned that Mrs. Schwartz, on my right, did not care mooch for shteak +for breakfast, aber a leedle l’mb ch’p she likes. Also that the elderly +party on my left and the elderly party on my right resented being +separated by my person. Conversation between E. P. on right, and E. P. +on left scintillated across my soup, thus: + +“How you feel this evening Mis’ Maurer, h’m?” + +“Don’t ask me.” + +“No wonder you got rheumatism. My room was like a ice-house all day. +Yours too?” + +“I don’t complain any more. Much good it does. Barley soup again? In my +own home I never ate it, and here I pay my good money and get four time +a week barley soup. Are those fresh cucumbers? M-m-m-m. They haven’t +stood long enough. Look at Mis’ Miller. She feels good this evening. +She should feel good. Twenty-five cents she won at bridge. I never seen +how that woman is got luck.” + +I choked, gasped, and fled. + +Back in my own mausoleum once more I put things in order, dragged my +typewriter stand into the least murky corner under the bravest gas jet +and rescued my tottering reason by turning out a long letter to Norah. +That finished, my spirits rose. I dived into the bottom of my trunk for +the loose sheets of the book-in-the-making, glanced over the last three +or four, discovered that they did not sound so maudlin as I had feared, +and straightway forgot my gloomy surroundings in the fascination of +weaving the tale. + +In the midst of my fine frenzy there came a knock at the door. In the +hall stood the anemic little serving maid who had attended me at +dinner. She was almost eclipsed by a huge green pasteboard box. + +“You’re Mis’ Orme, ain’t you? This here’s for you.” + +The little white-cheeked maid hovered at the threshold while I lifted +the box cover and revealed the perfection of the American beauty buds +that lay there, all dewy and fragrant. The eyes of the little maid were +wide with wonder as she gazed, and because I had known flower-hunger I +separated two stately blossoms from the glowing cluster and held them +out to her. + +“For me!” she gasped, and brought her lips down to them, gently. +Then—“There’s a high green jar downstairs you can have to stick your +flowers in. You ain’t got nothin’ big enough in here, except your water +pitcher. An’ putting these grand flowers in a water pitcher—why, it’d +be like wearing a silk dress over a flannel petticoat, wouldn’t it?” + +When the anemic little boarding-house slavey with the beauty-loving +soul had fetched the green jar, I placed the shining stems in it with +gentle fingers. At the bottom of the box I found a card that read: “For +it is impossible to live in a room with red roses and still be +traurig.” + +How well he knew! And how truly impossible to be sad when red roses are +glowing for one, and filling the air with their fragrance! + +The interruption was fatal to book-writing. My thoughts were a chaos of +red roses, and anemic little maids with glowing eyes, and thoughtful +young doctors with a marvelous understanding of feminine moods. So I +turned out all the lights, undressed by moonlight, and, throwing a +kimono about me, carried my jar of roses to the window and sat down +beside them so that their exquisite scent caressed me. + +The moonlight had put a spell of white magic upon the lake. It was a +light-flooded world that lay below my window. Summer, finger on lip, +had stolen in upon the heels of spring. Dim, shadowy figures dotted the +benches of the park across the way. Just beyond lay the silver lake, a +dazzling bar of moonlight on its breast. Motors rushed along the +roadway with a roar and a whir and were gone, leaving a trail of +laughter behind them. From the open window of the room below came the +slip-slap of cards on the polished table surface, and the low buzz of +occasional conversation as the players held postmortems. Under the +street light the popcorn vender’s cart made a blot on the mystic beauty +of the scene below. But the perfume of my red roses came to me, and +their velvet caressed my check, and beyond the noise and lights of the +street lay that glorious lake with the bar of moonlight on its soft +breast. I gazed and forgave the sour-faced landlady her dining room; +forgave the elderly parties their shawls and barley soup; forgot for a +moment my weary thoughts of Peter Orme; forgot everything except that +it was June, and moonlight and good to be alive. + +All the changes and events of that strange, eventful year came crowding +to my mind as I crouched there at the window. Four new friends, tried +and true! I conned them over joyously in my heart. What a strange +contrast they made! Blackie, of the elastic morals, and the still more +elastic heart; Frau Nirlanger, of the smiling lips and the lilting +voice and the tragic eyes—she who had stooped from a great height to +pluck the flower of love blooming below, only to find a worthless weed +sullying her hand; Alma Pflugel, with the unquenchable light of +gratefulness in her honest face; Von Gerhard, ready to act as buffer +between myself and the world, tender as a woman, gravely thoughtful, +with the light of devotion glowing in his steady eyes. + +“Here’s richness,” said I, like the fat boy in Pickwick Papers. And I +thanked God for the new energy which had sent me to this lovely city by +the lake. I thanked Him that I had not been content to remain a burden +to Max and Norah, growing sour and crabbed with the years. Those years +of work and buffeting had made of me a broader, finer, truer type of +womanhood—had caused me to forget my own little tragedy in +contemplating the great human comedy. And so I made a little prayer +there in the moon-flooded room. + +“O dear Lord,” I prayed, and I did not mean that it should sound +irreverent. “O dear Lord, don’t bother about my ambitions! Just let me +remain strong and well enough to do the work that is my portion from +day to day. Keep me faithful to my standards of right and wrong. Let +this new and wonderful love which has come into my life be a staff of +strength and comfort instead of a burden of weariness. Let me not grow +careless and slangy as the years go by. Let me keep my hair and +complexion and teeth, and deliver me from wearing soiled blouses and +doing my hair in a knob. Amen.” + +I felt quite cheerful after that—so cheerful that the strange bumps in +the new bed did not bother me as unfamiliar beds usually did. The roses +I put to sleep in their jar of green, keeping one to hold against my +cheek as I slipped into dreamland. I thought drowsily, just before +sleep claimed me: + +“To-morrow, after office hours, I’ll tuck up my skirt, and wrap my head +in a towel and have a housecleaning bee. I’ll move the bed where the +wash-stand is now, and I’ll make the chiffonnier swap places with the +couch. One feels on friendlier terms with furniture that one has shoved +about a little. How brilliant the moonlight is! The room is flooded +with it. Those roses—sweet!—sweet!—” + +When I awoke it was morning. During the days that followed I looked +back gratefully upon that night, with its moonlight, and its roses, and +its great peace. + + + + +CHAPTER XVII. +THE SHADOW OF TERROR + + +Two days before the date set for Von Gerhard’s departure the book was +finished, typed, re-read, packed, and sent away. Half an hour after it +was gone all its most glaring faults seemed to marshall themselves +before my mind’s eye. Whole paragraphs, that had read quite reasonably +before, now loomed ludicrous in perspective. I longed to snatch it +back; to tidy it here, to take it in there, to smooth certain rough +places neglected in my haste. For almost a year I had lived with this +thing, so close that its faults and its virtues had become +indistinguishable to me. Day and night, for many months, it had been in +my mind. Of late some instinct had prompted me to finish it. I had +worked at it far into the night, until I marveled that the ancient +occupants of the surrounding rooms did not enter a combined protest +against the clack-clacking of my typewriter keys. And now that it was +gone I wondered, dully, if I could feel Von Gerhard’s departure more +keenly. + +No one knew of the existence of the book except Norah, Von Gerhard, +Blackie and me. Blackie had a way of inquiring after its progress in +hushed tones of mock awe. Also he delighted in getting down on hands +and knees and guiding a yard-stick carefully about my desk with a view +to having a fence built around it, bearing an inscription which would +inform admiring tourists that here was the desk at which the brilliant +author had been wont to sit when grinding out heart-throb stories for +the humble Post. He took an impish delight in my struggles with my hero +and heroine, and his inquiries after the health of both were of such a +nature as to make any earnest writer person rise in wrath and slay him. +I had seen little of Blackie of late. My spare hours had been devoted +to the work in hand. On the day after the book was sent away I was +conscious of a little shock as I strolled into Blackie’s sanctum and +took my accustomed seat beside his big desk. There was an oddly pinched +look about Blackie’s nostrils and lips, I thought. And the deep-set +black eyes appeared deeper and blacker than ever in his thin little +face. + +A week of unseasonable weather had come upon the city. June was going +out in a wave of torrid heat such as August might have boasted. The day +had seemed endless and intolerably close. I was feeling very limp and +languid. Perhaps, thought I, it was the heat which had wilted Blackie’s +debonair spirits. + +“It has been a long time since we’ve had a talk-talk, Blackie. I’ve +missed you. Also you look just a wee bit green around the edges. I’m +thinking a vacation wouldn’t hurt you.” + +Blackie’s lean brown forefinger caressed the bowl of his favorite pipe. +His eyes, that had been gazing out across the roofs beyond his window, +came back to me, and there was in them a curious and quizzical +expression as of one who is inwardly amused. + +“I’ve been thinkin’ about a vacation. None of your measly little two +weeks’ affairs, with one week on salary, and th’ other without. I ain’t +goin’ t’ take my vacation for a while—not till fall, p’raps, or maybe +winter. But w’en I do take it, sa-a-ay, girl, it’s goin’ t’ be a real +one.” + +“But why wait so long?” I asked. “You need it now. Who ever heard of +putting off a vacation until winter!” + +“Well, I dunno,” mused Blackie. “I just made my arrangements for that +time, and I hate t’ muss ’em up. You’ll say, w’en the time comes, that +my plans are reasonable.” + +There was a sharp ring from the telephone at Blackie’s elbow. He +answered it, then thrust the receiver into my hand. “For you,” he said. + +It was Von Gerhard’s voice that came to me. “I have something to tell +you,” he said. “Something most important. If I call for you at six we +can drive out to the bay for supper, yes? I must talk to you.” + +“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. “They 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 road-side. + +“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 to-night. 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?” + +I looked up for a moment. “He could make you think that it was a +concert grand, couldn’t he? He hasn’t forgotten even that?” + +“Forgotten? Girl, I don’t know what his accomplishments was when you +knew him, but if he was any more fascinatin’ than he is now, then I’m +glad I didn’t know him. He could charm the pay envelope away from a +reporter that was Saturday broke. Somethin’ seemed t’ urge me t’ go up +t’ him an’ say: ‘Have a game of billiards?’ + +“‘Don’t care if I do,’ says he, and swung his long legs off the piano +stool and we made for the billiard room, with the whole gang after us. +Sa-a-ay, girl, I’m a modest violet, I am, but I don’t mind mentionin’ +that the general opinion up at the club is that I’m a little wizard +with the cue. Well, w’en he got through with me I looked like little +sister when big brother is tryin’ t’ teach her how to hold the cue in +her fingers. He just sent them balls wherever he thought they’d look +pretty. I bet if he’d held up his thumb and finger an’ said, ‘jump +through this!’ them balls would of jumped.” + +Von Gerhard took a couple of quick steps in Blackie’s direction. His +eyes were blue steel. + +“Is this then necessary?” he asked. “All this leads to what? Has not +Mrs. Orme suffered enough, that she should undergo this idle chatter? +It is sufficient that she knows this—this man is here. It is a time for +action, not for words.” + +“Action’s comin’ later, Doc,” drawled Blackie, looking impish. +“Monologuin’ ain’t my specialty. I gener’ly let the other gink talk. +You never can learn nothin’ by talkin’. But I got somethin’ t’ say t’ +Dawn here. Now, in case you’re bored the least bit, w’y don’t hesitate +one minnit t’—” + +“Na, you are quite right, and I was hasty,” said Von Gerhard, and his +eyes, with the kindly gleam in them, smiled down upon the little man. +“It is only that both you and I are over-anxious to be of assistance to +this unhappy lady. Well, we shall see. You talked with this man at the +Press Club?” + +“He talked. I listened.” + +“That would be Peter’s way,” I said, bitterly. “How he used to love to +hold forth, and how I grew to long for blessed silence—for fewer words, +and more of that reserve which means strength!” + +“All this time,” continued Blackie, “I didn’t know his name. When we’d +finished our game of billiards he hung up his cue, and then he turned +around like lightning, and faced the boys that were standing around +with their hands in their pockets. He had a odd little smile on his +face—a smile with no fun it, if you know what I mean. Guess you do, +maybe, if you’ve seen it. + +“‘Boys,’ says he, smilin’ that twisted kind of smile, ‘boys, I’m +lookin’ for a job. I’m not much of a talker, an’ I’m only a amateur at +music, and my game of billiards is ragged. But there’s one thing I can +do, fellows, from abc up to xyz, and that’s write. I can write, boys, +in a way to make your pet little political scribe sound like a high +school paper. I don’t promise to stick. As soon as I get on my feet +again I’m going back to New York. But not just yet. Meanwhile, I’m +going to the highest bidder.’ + +“Well, you know since Merkle left us we haven’t had a day when we +wasn’t scooped on some political guff. ‘I guess we can use you—some +place,’ I says, tryin’ not t’ look too anxious. If your ideas on salary +can take a slump be tween New York and Milwaukee. Our salaries around +here is more what is elegantly known as a stipend. What’s your name, +Bo?’ + +“‘Name?’ says he, smiling again, ‘Maybe it’ll be familiar t’ you. That +is, it will if my wife is usin’ it. Orme’s my name—Peter Orme. Know a +lady of that name? Good.’ + +“I hadn’t said I did, but those eyes of his had seen the look on my +face. + +“‘Friends in New York told me she was here,’ he says. ‘Where is she +now? Got her address?’ he says. + +“‘She expectin’ you?’ I asked. + +“‘N-not exactly,’ he says, with that crooked grin. + +“‘Thought not,’ I answered, before I knew what I was sayin’. ‘She’s up +north with her folks on a vacation.’ + +“‘The devil she is!’ he says. ‘Well, in that case can you let me have +ten until Monday?’” + +Blackie came over to me as I sat cowering in my chair. He patted my +shoulder with one lean brown hand. “Now kid, you dig, see? Beat it. Go +home for a week. I’ll fix it up with Norberg. No tellin’ what a guy +like that’s goin’ t’ do. Send your brother-in-law down here if you want +to make it a family affair, and between us, we’ll see this thing +through.” + +I looked up at Von Gerhard. He was nodding approval. It all seemed so +easy, so temptingly easy. To run away! Not to face him until I was safe +in the shelter of Norah’s arms! I stood up, resolve lending me new +strength and courage. + +“I am going. I know it isn’t brave, but I can’t be brave any longer. +I’m too tired—too old—” + +I grasped the hand of each of those men who had stood by me so +staunchly in the year that was past. The words of thanks that I had on +my lips ended in dry, helpless sobs. And because Blackie and Von +Gerhard looked so pathetically concerned and so unhappy in my +unhappiness my sobs changed to hysterical laughter, in which the two +men joined, after one moment’s bewildered staring. + +So it was that we did not hear the front door slam, or the sound of +footsteps in the hall. Our overstrained nerves found relief in +laughter, so that Peter Orme, a lean, ominous figure in the doorway +looked in upon a merry scene. + +I was the first to see him. And at the sight of the emaciated figure, +with its hollow cheeks and its sunken eyes all terror and hatred left +me, and I felt only a great pity for this wreck of manhood. Slowly I +went up to him there in the doorway. + +“Well, Peter?” I said. + +“Well, Dawn old girl,” said he “you’re looking wonderfully fit. Grass +widowhood seems to agree with you, eh?” + +And I knew then that my dread dream had come true. + +Peter advanced into the room with his old easy grace of manner. His +eyes glowed as he looked at Blackie. Then he laughed, showing his even, +white teeth. “Why, you little liar!” he said, in his crisp, clear +English. “I’ve a notion to thwack you. What d’ you mean by telling me +my wife’s gone? You’re not sweet on her yourself, eh?” + +Von Gerhard stifled an exclamation, and Orme turned quickly in his +direction. “Who are you?” he asked. “Still another admirer? Jolly time +you were having when I interrupted.” He stared at Von Gerhard +deliberately and coolly. A little frown of dislike came into his face. +“You’re a doctor, aren’t you? I knew it. I can tell by the hands, and +the eyes, and the skin, and the smell. Lived with ’em for ten years, +damn them! Dawn, tell these fellows they’re excused, will you? And by +the way, you don’t seem very happy to see me?” + +I went up to him then, and laid my hand on his arm. “Peter, you don’t +understand. These two gentlemen have been all that is kind to me. I am +happy to know that you are well again. Surely you do not expect me to +be joyful at seeing you. All that pretense was left out of our lives +long before your—illness. It hasn’t been all roses for me since then, +Peter. I’ve worked until I wanted to die with weariness. You know what +this newspaper game is for a woman. It doesn’t grow easier as she grows +older and tireder.” + +“Oh, cut out the melodrama, Dawn,” sneered Peter. “Have either of you +fellows the makin’s about you? Thanks. I’m famished for a smoke.” + +The worrying words of ten years ago rose automatically to my lips. +“Aren’t you smoking too much, Peter?” The tone was that of a harassed +wife. + +Peter stared. Then he laughed his short, mirthless little laugh. “By +Jove! Dawn, I believe you’re as much my wife now as you were ten years +ago. I always said, you know, that you would have become a first-class +nagger if you hadn’t had such a keen sense of humor. That saved you.” +He turned his mocking eyes to Von Gerhard. “Doesn’t it beat the devil, +how these good women stick to a man, once they’re married! There’s a +certain dog-like devotion about it that’s touching.” + +There was a dreadful little silence. For the first time in my knowledge +of him I saw a hot, painful red dyeing Blackie’s sallow face. His eyes +had a menace in their depths. Then, very quietly, Von Gerhard stepped +forward and stopped directly before me. + +“Dawn,” he said, very softly and gently, “I retract my statement of an +hour ago. If you will give me another chance to do as you asked me, I +shall thank God for it all my life. There is no degradation in that. To +live with this man—that is degradation. And I say you shall not suffer +it.” + +I looked up into his face, and it had never seemed so dear to me. “The +time for that is past,” I said, my tone as calm and even as his own. “A +man like you cannot burden himself with a derelict like me—mast gone, +sails gone, water-logged, drifting. Five years from now you’ll thank me +for what I am saying now. My place is with this other wreck—tossed +about by wind and weather until we both go down together.” There came a +sharp, insistent ring at the door-bell. No answering sound came from +the regions above stairs. The ringing sounded again, louder than +before. + +“I’ll be the Buttons,” said Blackie, and disappeared into the hallway. + +“Oh, yes, I’ve heard about you,” came to our ears a moment later, in a +high, clear voice—a dear, beloved voice that sent me flying to the door +in an agony of hope. + +“Norah!” I cried, “Norah! Norah! Norah!” And as her blessed arms closed +about me the tears that had been denied me before came in a torrent of +joy. + +“There, there!” murmured she, patting my shoulder with those comforting +mother-pats. “What’s all this about? And why didn’t somebody meet me? I +telegraphed. You didn’t get it? Well, I forgive you. Howdy-do, Peter? I +suppose you are Peter. I hope you haven’t been acting devilish again. +That seems to be your specialty. Now don’t smile that Mephistophelian +smile at me. It doesn’t frighten me. Von Gerhard, take him down to his +hotel. I’m dying for my kimono and bed. And this child is trembling +like a race-horse. Now run along, all of you. Things that look +greenery-yallery at night always turn pink in the morning. Great +Heavens! There’s somebody calling down from the second-floor landing. +It sounds like a landlady. Run, Dawn, and tell her your perfectly +respectable sister has come. Peter! Von Gerhard! Mr. Blackie! Shoo!” + + + + +CHAPTER XIX. +A TURN OF THE WHEEL + + +“You who were ever alert to befriend a man +You who were ever the first to defend a man, +You who had always the money to lend a man +Down on his luck and hard up for a V, +Sure you’ll be playing a harp in beatitude +(And a quare sight you will be in that attitude) +Some day, where gratitude seems but a platitude, +You’ll find your latitude.” + + +From my desk I could see Peter standing in the doorway of the news +editor’s room. I shut my eyes for a moment. Then I opened them again, +quickly. No, it was not a dream. He was there, a slender, graceful, +hateful figure, with the inevitable cigarette in his unsteady +fingers—the expensive-looking, gold-tipped cigarette of the old days. +Peter was Peter. Ten years had made little difference. There were queer +little hollow places in his cheeks, and under the jaw-bone, and at the +base of the head, and a flabby, parchment-like appearance about the +skin. That was all that made him different from the Peter of the old +days. + +The thing had adjusted itself, as Norah had said it would. The +situation that had filled me with loathing and terror the night of +Peter’s return had been transformed into quite a matter-of-fact and +commonplace affair under Norah’s deft management. And now I was back in +harness again, and Peter was turning out brilliant political stuff at +spasmodic intervals. He was not capable of any sustained effort. He +never would be again; that was plain. He was growing restless and +dissatisfied. He spoke of New York as though it were Valhalla. He said +that he hadn’t seen a pretty girl since he left Forty-second street. He +laughed at Milwaukee’s quaint German atmosphere. He sneered at our +journalistic methods, and called the newspapers “country sheets,” and +was forever talking of the World, and the Herald, and the Sun, until +the men at the Press Club fought shy of him. Norah had found quiet and +comfortable quarters for Peter in a boarding-house near the lake, and +just a square or two distant from my own boarding-house. He hated it +cordially, as only the luxury-loving can hate a boarding-house, and +threatened to leave daily. + +“Let’s go back to the big town, Dawn, old girl,” he would say. “We’re +buried alive in this overgrown Dutch village. I came here in the first +place on your account. Now it’s up to you to get me out of it. Think of +what New York means! Think of what I’ve been! And I can write as well +as ever.” + +But I always shook my head. “We would not last a month in New York, +Peter. New York has hurried on and left us behind. We’re just two +pieces of discard. We’ll have to be content where we are.” + +“Content! In this silly hole! You must be mad!” Then, with one of his +unaccountable changes of tone and topic, “Dawn, let me have some money. +I’m strapped. If I had the time I’d get out some magazine stuff. +Anything to get a little extra coin. Tell me, how does that little +sport you call Blackie happen to have so much ready cash? I’ve never +yet struck him for a loan that he hasn’t obliged me. I think he’s sweet +on you, perhaps, and thinks he’s doing you a sort of second-hand +favor.” + +At times such as these all the old spirit that I had thought dead +within me would rise up in revolt against this creature who was taking +from me my pride, my sense of honor, my friends. I never saw Von +Gerhard now. Peter had refused outright to go to him for treatment, +saying that he wasn’t going to be poisoned by any cursed doctor, +particularly not by one who had wanted to run away with his wife before +his very eyes. + +Sometimes I wondered how long this could go on. I thought of the old +days with the Nirlangers; of Alma Pflugel’s rose-encircled cottage; of +Bennie; of the Knapfs; of the good-natured, uncouth aborigines, and +their many kindnesses. I saw these dear people rarely now. Frau +Nirlanger’s resignation to her unhappiness only made me rebel more +keenly against my own. + +If only Peter could become well and strong again, I told myself, +bitterly. If it were not for those blue shadows under his eyes, and the +shrunken muscles, and the withered skin, I could leave him to live his +life as he saw fit. But he was as dependent as a child, and as +capricious. What was the end to be? I asked myself. Where was it all +leading me? + +And then, in a fearful and wonderful manner, my question was answered. + +There came to my desk one day an envelope bearing the letter-head of +the publishing house to which I had sent my story. I balanced it for a +moment in my fingers, woman-fashion, wondering, hoping, surmising. + +“Of course they can’t want it,” I told myself, in preparation for any +disappointment that was in store for me. “They’re sending it back. This +is the letter that will tell me so.” + +And then I opened it. The words jumped out at me from the typewritten +page. I crushed the paper in my hands, and rushed into Blackie’s little +office as I had been used to doing in the old days. He was at his desk, +pipe in mouth. I shook his shoulder and flourished the letter wildly, +and did a crazy little dance about his chair. + +“They want it! They like it! Not only that, they want another, as soon +as I can get it out. Think of it!” + +Blackie removed his pipe from between his teeth and wiped his lips with +the back of his hand. “I’m thinkin’,” he said. “Anything t’ oblige you. +When you’re through shovin’ that paper into my face would you mind +explainin’ who wants what?” + +“Oh, you’re so stupid! So slow! Can’t you see that I’ve written a real +live book, and had it accepted, and that I am going to write another if +I have to run away from a whole regiment of husbands to do it properly? +Blackie, can’t you see what it means! Oh, Blackie, I know I’m maudlin +in my joy, but forgive me. It’s been so long since I’ve had the taste +of it.” + +“Well, take a good chew while you got th’chance an’ don’t count too +high on this first book business. I knew a guy who wrote a book once, +an’ he planned to take a trip to Europe on it, and build a house when +he got home, and maybe a yacht or so, if he wasn’t too rushed. Sa-a-ay, +girl, w’en he got through gettin’ those royalties for that book they’d +dwindled down to fresh wall paper for the dinin’-room, and a new gas +stove for his wife, an’ not enough left over to take a trolley trip to +Oshkosh on. Don’t count too high.” + +“I’m not counting at all, Blackie, and you can’t discourage me.” + +“Don’t want to. But I’d hate to see you come down with a thud.” +Suddenly he sat up and a grin overspread his thin face. “Tell you what +we’ll do, girlie. We’ll celebrate. Maybe it’ll be the last time. Let’s +pretend this is six months ago, and everything’s serene. You get your +bonnet. I’ll get the machine. It’s too hot to work, anyway. We’ll take +a spin out to somewhere that’s cool, and we’ll order cold things to +eat, and cold things to drink, and you can talk about yourself till +you’re tired. You’ll have to take it out on somebody, an’ it might as +well be me.” + +Five minutes later, with my hat in my hand, I turned to find Peter at +my elbow. + +“Want to talk to you,” he said, frowning. + +“Sorry, Peter, but I can’t stop. Won’t it do later?” + +“No. Got an assignment? I’ll go with you.” + +“N-not exactly, Peter. The truth is, Blackie has taken pity on me and +has promised to take me out for a spin, just to cool off. It has been +so insufferably hot.” + +Peter turned away. “Count me in on that,” he said, over his shoulder. + +“But I can’t, Peter,” I cried. “It isn’t my party. And anyway—” + +Peter turned around, and there was an ugly glow in his eyes and an ugly +look on his face, and a little red ridge that I had not noticed before +seemed to burn itself across his forehead. “And anyway, you don’t want +me, eh? Well, I’m going. I’m not going to have my wife chasing all over +the country with strange men. Remember, you’re not the giddy grass +widdy you used to be. You can take me, or stay at home, understand?” + +His voice was high-pitched and quavering. Something in his manner +struck a vague terror to my heart. “Why, Peter, if you care that much I +shall be glad to have you go. So will Blackie, I am sure. Come, we’ll +go down now. He’ll be waiting for us.” + +Blackie’s keen, clever mind grasped the situation as soon as he saw us +together. His dark face was illumined by one of his rare smiles. +“Coming with us, Orme? Do you good. Pile into the tonneau, you two, and +hang on to your hair. I’m going to smash the law.” + +Peter sauntered up to the steering-wheel. “Let me drive,” he said. “I’m +not bad at it.” + +“Nix with the artless amateur,” returned Blackie. “This ain’t no +demonstration car. I drive my own little wagon when I go riding, and I +intend to until I take my last ride, feet first.” + +Peter muttered something surly and climbed into the front seat next to +Blackie, leaving me to occupy the tonneau in solitary state. + +Peter began to ask questions—dozens of them, which Blackie answered, +patiently and fully. I could not hear all that they said, but I saw +that Peter was urging Blackie to greater speed, and that Blackie was +explaining that he must first leave the crowded streets behind. +Suddenly Peter made a gesture in the direction of the wheel, and said +something in a high, sharp voice. Blackie’s answer was quick and +decidedly in the negative. The next instant Peter Orme rose in his +place and leaning forward and upward, grasped the wheel that was in +Blackie’s hands. The car swerved sickeningly. I noticed, dully, that +Blackie did not go white as novelists say men do in moments of horror. +A dull red flush crept to the very base of his neck. With a twist of +his frail body he tried to throw off Peter’s hands. I remember leaning +over the back of the seat and trying to pull Peter back as I realized +that it was a madman with whom we were dealing. Nothing seemed real. It +was ridiculously like the things one sees in the moving picture +theaters. I felt no fear. + +“Sit down, Orme!” Blackie yelled. “You’ll ditch us! Dawn! God!—” + +We shot down a little hill. Two wheels were lifted from the ground. The +machine was poised in the air for a second before it crashed into the +ditch and turned over completely, throwing me clear, but burying +Blackie and Peter under its weight of steel and wood and whirring +wheels. + +I remember rising from the ground, and sinking back again and rising +once more to run forward to where the car lay in the ditch, and tugging +at that great frame of steel with crazy, futile fingers. Then I ran +screaming down the road toward a man who was tranquilly working in a +field nearby. + + + + +CHAPTER XX. +BLACKIE’S VACATION COMES + + +The shabby blue office coat hangs on the hook in the little sporting +room where Blackie placed it. No one dreams of moving it. There it +dangles, out at elbows, disreputable, its pockets burned from many a +hot pipe thrust carelessly into them, its cuffs frayed, its lapels +bearing the marks of cigarette, paste-pot and pen. + +It is that faded old garment, more than anything else, which makes us +fail to realize that its owner will never again slip into its +comfortable folds. We cannot believe that a lifeless rag like that can +triumph over the man of flesh and blood and nerves and sympathies. With +what contempt do we look upon those garments during our lifetime! And +how they live on, defying time, long, long after we have been gathered +to our last rest. + +In some miraculous manner Blackie had lived on for two days after that +ghastly ride. Peter had been killed instantly, the doctors said. They +gave no hope for Blackie. My escape with but a few ridiculous bruises +and scratches was due, they said, to the fact that I had sat in the +tonneau. I heard them all, in a stupor of horror and grief, and +wondered what plan Fate had in store for me, that I alone should have +been spared. Norah and Max came, and took things in charge, and I saw +Von Gerhard, but all three appeared dim and shadowy, like figures in a +mist. When I closed my eyes I could see Peter’s tense figure bending +over Blackie at the wheel, and heard his labored breathing as he +struggled in his mad fury, and felt again the helpless horror that had +come to me as we swerved off the road and into the ditch below, with +Blackie, rigid and desperate, still clinging to the wheel. I lived it +all over and over in my mind. In the midst of the blackness I heard a +sentence that cleared the fog from my mind, and caused me to raise +myself from my pillows. + +Some one—Norah, I think—had said that Blackie was conscious, and that +he was asking for some of the men at the office, and for me. For me! I +rose and dressed, in spite of Norah’s protests. I was quite well, I +told them. I must see him. I shook them off with trembling fingers and +when they saw that I was quite determined they gave in, and Von Gerhard +telephoned to the hospital to learn the hour at which I might meet the +others who were to see Blackie for a brief moment. + +I met them in the stiff little waiting room of he hospital—Norberg, +Deming, Schmidt, Holt—men who had known him from the time when they had +yelled, “Heh, boy!” at him when they wanted their pencils sharpened. +Awkwardly we followed the fleet-footed nurse who glided ahead of us +down the wide hospital corridors, past doorways through which we caught +glimpses of white beds that were no whiter than the faces that lay on +the pillows. We came at last into a very still and bright little room +where Blackie lay. + +Had years passed over his head since I saw him last? The face that +tried to smile at us from the pillow was strangely wizened and old. It +was as though a withering blight had touched it. Only the eyes were the +same. They glowed in the sunken face, beneath the shock of black hair, +with a startling luster and brilliancy. + +I do not know what pain he suffered. I do not know what magic medicine +gave him the strength to smile at us, dying as he was even then. + +“Well, what do you know about little Paul Dombey?” he piped in a high, +thin voice. The shock of relief was too much. We giggled hysterically, +then stopped short and looked at each other, like scared and naughty +children. + +“Sa-a-ay, boys and girls, cut out the heavy thinking parts. Don’t make +me do all the social stunts. What’s the news? What kind of a rotten +cotton sportin’ sheet is that dub Callahan gettin’ out? Who won +to-day—Cubs or Pirates? Norberg, you goat, who pinned that purple tie +on you?” + +He was so like the Blackie we had always known that we were at our ease +immediately. The sun shone in at the window, and some one laughed a +little laugh somewhere down the corridor, and Deming, who is Irish, +plunged into a droll description of a brand-new office boy who had +arrived that day. + +“S’elp me, Black, the kid wears spectacles and a Norfolk suit, and +low-cut shoes with bows on ’em. On the square he does. Looks like one +of those Boston infants you see in the comic papers. I don’t believe +he’s real. We’re saving him until you get back, if the kids in the +alley don’t chew him up before that time.” + +An almost imperceptible shade passed over Blackie’s face. He closed his +eyes for a moment. Without their light his countenance was ashen, and +awful. + +A nurse in stripes and cap appeared in the doorway. She looked keenly +at the little figure in the bed. Then she turned to us. + +“You must go now,” she said. “You were just to see him for a minute or +two, you know.” + +Blackie summoned the wan ghost of a smile to his lips. “Guess you guys +ain’t got th’ stimulatin’ effect that a bunch of live wires ought to +have. Say, Norberg, tell that fathead, Callahan, if he don’t keep the +third drawer t’ the right in my desk locked, th’ office kids’ll swipe +all the roller rink passes surest thing you know.” + +“I’ll—tell him, Black,” stammered Norberg, and turned away. + +They said good-by, awkwardly enough. Not one of them that did not owe +him an unpayable debt of gratitude. Not one that had not the memory of +some secret kindness stored away in his heart. It was Blackie who had +furnished the money that had sent Deming’s sick wife west. It had been +Blackie who had rescued Schmidt time and again when drink got a +strangle-hold. Blackie had always said: “Fire Schmidt! Not much! Why, +Schmidt writes better stuff drunk than all the rest of the bunch +sober.” And Schmidt would be granted another reprieve by the Powers +that Were. + +Suddenly Blackie beckoned the nurse in the doorway. She came swiftly +and bent over him. + +“Gimme two minutes more, that’s a good nursie. There’s something I want +to say t’ this dame. It’s de rigger t’ hand out last messages, ain’t +it?” + +The nurse looked at me, doubtfully. “But you’re not to excite +yourself.” + +“Sa-a-ay, girl, this ain’t goin’ t’ be no scene from East Lynne. Be a +good kid. The rest of the bunch can go.” + +And so, when the others had gone, I found myself seated at the side of +his bed, trying to smile down at him. I knew that there must be nothing +to excite him. But the words on my lips would come. + +“Blackie,” I said, and I struggled to keep my voice calm and +emotionless, “Blackie, forgive me. It is all my fault—my wretched +fault.” + +“Now, cut that,” interrupted Blackie. “I thought that was your game. +That’s why I said I wanted t’ talk t’ you. Now, listen. Remember my +tellin’ you, a few weeks ago, ’bout that vacation I was plannin’? This +is it, only it’s come sooner than I expected, that’s all. I seen two +three doctor guys about it. Your friend Von Gerhard was one of ’em. +They didn’t tell me t’ take no ocean trip this time. Between ’em, they +decided my vacation would come along about November, maybe. Well, I +beat ’em to it, that’s all. Sa-a-ay, girl, I ain’t kickin’. You can’t +live on your nerves and expect t’ keep goin’. Sooner or later you’ll be +suein’ those same nerves for non-support. But, kid, ain’t it a shame +that I got to go out in a auto smashup, in these days when even a +airship exit don’t make a splash on the front page!” + +The nervous brown hand was moving restlessly over the covers. Finally +it met my hand, and held it in a tense little grip. + +“We’ve been good pals, you and me, ain’t we, kid?” + +“Yes, Blackie.” + +“Ain’t regretted it none?” + +“Regretted it! I am a finer, truer, better woman for having known you, +Blackie.” + +He gave a little contented sigh at that, and his eyes closed. When he +opened them the old, whimsical smile wrinkled his face. + +“This is where I get off at. It ain’t been no long trip, but sa-a-ay, +girl, I’ve enjoyed every mile of the road. All kinds of scenery—all +kinds of lan’scape—plain—fancy—uphill—downhill—” + +I leaned forward, fearfully. + +“Not—yet,” whispered Blackie. “Say Dawn—in the story +books—they—always—are strong on the—good-by kiss, what?” + +And as the nurse appeared in the doorway again, disapproval on her +face, I stooped and gently pressed my lips to the pain-lined cheek. + + + + +CHAPTER XXI. +HAPPINESS + + +We laid Peter to rest in that noisy, careless, busy city that he had +loved so well, and I think his cynical lips would have curled in a +bitterly amused smile, and his somber eyes would have flamed into +sudden wrath if he could have seen how utterly and completely New York +had forgotten Peter Orme. He had been buried alive ten years before—and +Newspaper Row has no faith in resurrections. Peter Orme was not even a +memory. Ten years is an age in a city where epochs are counted by +hours. + +Now, after two weeks of Norah’s loving care, I was back in the pretty +little city by the lake. I had come to say farewell to all those who +had filled my life so completely in that year. My days of newspaper +work were over. The autumn and winter would be spent at Norah’s, +occupied with hours of delightful, congenial work, for the second book +was to be written in the quiet peace of my own little Michigan town. +Von Gerhard was to take his deferred trip to Vienna in the spring, and +I knew that I was to go with him. The thought filled my heart with a +great flood of happiness. + +Together Von Gerhard and I had visited Alma Pflugel’s cottage, and the +garden was blooming in all its wonder of color and scent as we opened +the little gate and walked up the worn path. We found them in the cool +shade of the arbor, the two women sewing, Bennie playing with the last +wonderful toy that Blackie had given him. They made a serene and +beautiful picture there against the green canopy of the leaves. We +spoke of Frau Nirlanger, and of Blackie, and of the strange snarl of +events which had at last been unwound to knit a close friendship +between us. And when I had kissed them and walked for the last time in +many months up the flower-bordered path, the scarlet and pink, and +green and gold of that wonderful garden swam in a mist before my eyes. + +Frau Nirlanger was next. When we spoke of Vienna she caught her breath +sharply. + +“Vienna!” she repeated, and the longing in her voice was an actual +pain. “Vienna! Gott! Shall I ever see it again? Vienna! My boy is +there. Perhaps—” + +“Perhaps,” I said, gently. “Stranger things have happened. Perhaps if I +could see them, and talk to them—if I could tell them—they might be +made to understand. I haven’t been a newspaper reporter all these years +without acquiring a golden gift of persuasiveness. Perhaps—who +knows?—we may meet again in Vienna. Stranger things have happened.” + +Frau Nirlanger shook her head with a little hopeless sigh. “You do not +know Vienna; you do not know the iron strength of caste, and custom and +stiff-necked pride. I am dead in Vienna. And the dead should rest in +peace.” + +It was late in the afternoon when Von Gerhard and I turned the corner +which led to the building that held the Post. I had saved that for the +last. + +“I hope that heaven is not a place of golden streets, and twanging +harps and angel choruses,” I said, softly. “Little, nervous, slangy, +restless Blackie, how bored and ill at ease he would be in such a +heaven! How lonely, without his old black pipe, and his checked +waistcoats, and his diamonds, and his sporting extra. Oh, I hope they +have all those comforting, everyday things up there, for Blackie’s +sake.” + +“How you grew to understand him in that short year,” mused Von Gerhard. +“I sometimes used to resent the bond between you and this little +Blackie whose name was always on your tongue.” + +“Ah, that was because you did not comprehend. It is given to very few +women to know the beauty of a man’s real friendship. That was the bond +between Blackie and me. To me he was a comrade, and to him I was a +good-fellow girl—one to whom he could talk without excusing his pipe or +cigarette. Love and love-making were things to bring a kindly, amused +chuckle from Blackie.” + +Von Gerhard was silent. Something in his silence held a vague +irritation for me. I extracted a penny from my purse, and placed it in +his hand. + +“I was thinking,” he said, “that none are so blind as those who will +not see.” + +“I don’t understand,” I said, puzzled. + +“That is well,” answered Von Gerhard, as we entered the building. “That +is as it should be.” And he would say nothing more. + +The last edition of the paper had been run off for the day. I had +purposely waited until the footfalls of the last departing reporter +should have ceased to echo down the long corridor. The city room was +deserted except for one figure bent over a pile of papers and proofs. +Norberg, the city editor, was the last to leave, as always. His desk +light glowed in the darkness of the big room, and his typewriter alone +awoke the echoes. + +As I stood in the doorway he peered up from beneath his green +eye-shade, and waved a cloud of smoke away with the palm of his hand. + +“That you, Mrs. Orme?” he called out. “Lord, we’ve missed you! That new +woman can’t write an obituary, and her teary tales sound like they were +carved with a cold chisel. When are you coming back?” + +“I’m not coming back,” I replied. “I’ve come to say good-by to you +and—Blackie.” + +Norberg looked up quickly. “You feel that way, too? Funny. So do the +rest of us. Sometimes I think we are all half sure that it is only +another of his impish tricks, and that some morning he will pop open +the door of the city room here and call out, ‘Hello, slaves! Been +keepin’ m’ memory green?’” + +I held out my hand to him, gratefully. He took it in his great palm, +and a smile dimpled his plump cheeks. “Going to blossom into a regular +little writer, h’m? Well, they say it’s a paying game when you get the +hang of it. And I guess you’ve got it. But if ever you feel that you +want a real thrill—a touch of the old satisfying newspaper feeling—a +sniff of wet ink—the music of some editorial cussing—why come up here +and I’ll give you the hottest assignment on my list, if I have to take +it away from Deming’s very notebook.” + +When I had thanked him I crossed the hall and tried the door of the +sporting editor’s room. Von Gerhard was waiting for me far down at the +other end of the corridor. The door opened and I softly entered and +shut it again. The little room was dim, but in the half-light I could +see that Callahan had changed something—had shoved a desk nearer the +window, or swung the typewriter over to the other side. I resented it. +I glanced up at the corner where the shabby old office coat had been +wont to hang. There it dangled, untouched, just as he had left it. +Callahan had not dared to change that. I tip-toed over to the corner +and touched it gently with my fingers. A light pall of dust had settled +over the worn little garment, but I knew each worn place, each +ink-spot, each scorch or burn from pipe or cigarette. I passed my hands +over it reverently and gently, and then, in the dimness of that quiet +little room I laid my cheek against the rough cloth, so that the scent +of the old black pipe came back to me once more, and a new spot +appeared on the coat sleeve—a damp, salt spot. Blackie would have hated +my doing that. But he was not there to see, and one spot more or less +did not matter; it was such a grimy, disreputable old coat. + +“Dawn!” called Von Gerhard softly, outside the door. “Dawn! Coming, +Kindchen?” + +I gave the little coat a parting pat. “Goodby,” I whispered, under my +breath, and turned toward the door. + +“Coming!” I called, aloud. + + + + +*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK DAWN O’HARA *** + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions will +be renamed. + +Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright +law means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works, +so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the +United States without permission and without paying copyright +royalties. Special rules, set forth in the General Terms of Use part +of this license, apply to copying and distributing Project +Gutenberg™ electronic works to protect the PROJECT GUTENBERG™ +concept and trademark. 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You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms +of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online +at <a href="https://www.gutenberg.org">www.gutenberg.org</a>. If you +are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the +country where you are located before using this eBook. +</div> +<div style='display:block; margin-top:1em; margin-bottom:1em; margin-left:2em; text-indent:-2em'>Title: Dawn O’Hara<br/> + The Girl Who Laughed</div> +<div style='display:block; margin-top:1em; margin-bottom:1em; margin-left:2em; text-indent:-2em'>Author: Edna Ferber</div> +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'>Release Date: January, 1999 [eBook #1602]<br /> +[Most recently updated: April 20, 2023]</div> +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'>Language: English</div> +<div style='margin-top:2em; margin-bottom:4em'>*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK DAWN O’HARA ***</div> + +<h1>Dawn O’Hara</h1> + +<h3>THE GIRL WHO LAUGHED</h3> + +<h2 class="no-break">By Edna Ferber</h2> + +<hr /> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<p class="center"> +TO MY DEAR MOTHER<br/> +WHO FREQUENTLY INTERRUPTS<br/> +AND TO<br/> +MY SISTER FANNIE<br/> +WHO SAYS “SH-SH-SH!” OUTSIDE MY DOOR<br/> +</p> + +<hr /> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2>CONTENTS</h2> + +<table summary="" style=""> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap01">CHAPTER I. THE SMASH-UP</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap02">CHAPTER II. MOSTLY EGGS</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap03">CHAPTER III. GOOD AS NEW</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap04">CHAPTER IV. DAWN DEVELOPS A HEIMWEH</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap05">CHAPTER V. THE ABSURD BECOMES SERIOUS</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap06">CHAPTER VI. STEEPED IN GERMAN</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap07">CHAPTER VII. BLACKIE’S PHILOSOPHY</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap08">CHAPTER VIII. KAFFEE AND KAFFEEKUCHEN</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap09">CHAPTER IX. THE LADY FROM VIENNA</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap10">CHAPTER X. A TRAGEDY OF GOWNS</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap11">CHAPTER XI. VON GERHARD SPEAKS</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap12">CHAPTER XII. BENNIE THE CONSOLER</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap13">CHAPTER XIII. THE TEST</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap14">CHAPTER XIV. BENNIE AND THE CHARMING OLD MAID</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap15">CHAPTER XV. FAREWELL TO KNAPFS</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap16">CHAPTER XVI. JUNE MOONLIGHT, AND A NEW BOARDINGHOUSE</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap17">CHAPTER XVII. THE SHADOW OF TERROR</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap18">CHAPTER XVIII. PETER ORME</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap19">CHAPTER XIX. A TURN OF THE WHEEL</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap20">CHAPTER XX. BLACKIE’S VACATION COMES</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap21">CHAPTER XXI. HAPPINESS</a></td> +</tr> + +</table> + +<hr /> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2>DAWN O’HARA</h2> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap01"></a>CHAPTER I.<br/> +THE SMASH-UP</h2> + +<p> +There are a number of things that are pleasanter than being sick in a New York +boarding-house when one’s nearest dearest is a married sister up in far-away +Michigan. +</p> + +<p> +Some one must have been very kind, for there were doctors, and a blue-and-white +striped nurse, and bottles and things. There was even a vase of perky +carnations—scarlet ones. I discovered that they had a trick of nodding their +heads, saucily. The discovery did not appear to surprise me. +</p> + +<p> +“Howdy-do!” said I aloud to the fattest and reddest carnation that overtopped +all the rest. “How in the world did you get in here?” +</p> + +<p> +The striped nurse (I hadn’t noticed her before) rose from some corner and came +swiftly over to my bedside, taking my wrist between her fingers. +</p> + +<p> +“I’m very well, thank you,” she said, smiling, “and I came in at the door, of +course.” +</p> + +<p> +“I wasn’t talking to you,” I snapped, crossly, “I was speaking to the +carnations; particularly to that elderly one at the top—the fat one who keeps +bowing and wagging his head at me.” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, yes,” answered the striped nurse, politely, “of course. That one is very +lively, isn’t he? But suppose we take them out for a little while now.” +</p> + +<p> +She picked up the vase and carried it into the corridor, and the carnations +nodded their heads more vigorously than ever over her shoulder. +</p> + +<p> +I heard her call softly to some one. The some one answered with a sharp little +cry that sounded like, “Conscious!” +</p> + +<p> +The next moment my own sister Norah came quietly into the room, and knelt at +the side of my bed and took me in her arms. It did not seem at all surprising +that she should be there, patting me with reassuring little love pats, +murmuring over me with her lips against my cheek, calling me a hundred +half-forgotten pet names that I had not heard for years. But then, nothing +seemed to surprise me that surprising day. Not even the sight of a great, +red-haired, red-faced, scrubbed looking man who strolled into the room just as +Norah was in the midst of denouncing newspapers in general, and my newspaper in +particular, and calling the city editor a slave-driver and a beast. The big, +red-haired man stood regarding us tolerantly. +</p> + +<p> +“Better, eh?” said he, not as one who asks a question, but as though in +confirmation of a thought. Then he too took my wrist between his fingers. His +touch was very firm and cool. After that he pulled down my eyelids and said, +“H’m.” Then he patted my cheek smartly once or twice. “You’ll do,” he +pronounced. He picked up a sheet of paper from the table and looked it over, +keen-eyed. There followed a clinking of bottles and glasses, a few low-spoken +words to the nurse, and then, as she left the room the big red-haired man +seated himself heavily in the chair near the bedside and rested his great hands +on his fat knees. He stared down at me in much the same way that a huge mastiff +looks at a terrier. Finally his glance rested on my limp left hand. +</p> + +<p> +“Married, h’m?” +</p> + +<p> +For a moment the word would not come. I could hear Norah catch her breath +quickly. Then—“Yes,” answered I. +</p> + +<p> +“Husband living?” I could see suspicion dawning in his cold gray eye. +</p> + +<p> +Again the catch in Norah’s throat and a little half warning, half supplicating +gesture. And again, “Yes,” said I. +</p> + +<p> +The dawn of suspicion burst into full glow. +</p> + +<p> +“Where is he?” growled the red-haired doctor. “At a time like this?” +</p> + +<p> +I shut my eyes for a moment, too sick at heart to resent his manner. I could +feel, more than see, that Sis was signaling him frantically. I moistened my +lips and answered him, bitterly. +</p> + +<p> +“He is in the Starkweather Hospital for the insane.” +</p> + +<p> +When the red-haired man spoke again the growl was quite gone from his voice. +</p> + +<p> +“And your home is—where?” +</p> + +<p> +“Nowhere,” I replied meekly, from my pillow. But at that Sis put her hand out +quickly, as though she had been struck, and said: +</p> + +<p> +“My home is her home.” +</p> + +<p> +“Well then, take her there,” he ordered, frowning, “and keep her there as long +as you can. Newspaper reporting, h’m? In New York? That’s a devil of a job for +a woman. And a husband who... Well, you’ll have to take a six months’ course in +loafing, young woman. And at the end of that time, if you are still determined +to work, can’t you pick out something easier—like taking in scrubbing, for +instance?” +</p> + +<p> +I managed a feeble smile, wishing that he would go away quickly, so that I +might sleep. He seemed to divine my thoughts, for he disappeared into the +corridor, taking Norah with him. Their voices, low-pitched and carefully +guarded, could be heard as they conversed outside my door. +</p> + +<p> +Norah was telling him the whole miserable business. I wished, savagely, that +she would let me tell it, if it must be told. How could she paint the +fascination of the man who was my husband? She had never known the charm of him +as I had known it in those few brief months before our marriage. She had never +felt the caress of his voice, or the magnetism of his strange, smoldering eyes +glowing across the smoke-dimmed city room as I had felt them fixed on me. No +one had ever known what he had meant to the girl of twenty, with her brain full +of unspoken dreams—dreams which were all to become glorious realities in that +wonder-place, New York. +</p> + +<p> +How he had fired my country-girl imagination! He had been the most brilliant +writer on the big, brilliant sheet—and the most dissolute. How my heart had +pounded on that first lonely day when this Wonder-Being looked up from his +desk, saw me, and strolled over to where I sat before my typewriter! He smiled +down at me, companionably. I’m quite sure that my mouth must have been wide +open with surprise. He had been smoking a cigarette—an expensive-looking, +gold-tipped one. Now he removed it from between his lips with that hand that +always shook a little, and dropped it to the floor, crushing it lightly with +the toe of his boot. He threw back his handsome head and sent out the last +mouthful of smoke in a thin, lazy spiral. I remember thinking what a pity it +was that he should have crushed that costly-looking cigarette, just for me. +</p> + +<p> +“My name’s Orme,” he said, gravely. “Peter Orme. And if yours isn’t Shaughnessy +or Burke at least, then I’m no judge of what black hair and gray eyes stand +for.” +</p> + +<p> +“Then you’re not,” retorted I, laughing up at him, “for it happens to be +O’Hara—Dawn O’Hara, if ye plaze.” +</p> + +<p> +He picked up a trifle that lay on my desk—a pencil, perhaps, or a bit of +paper—and toyed with it, absently, as though I had not spoken. I thought he had +not heard, and I was conscious of feeling a bit embarrassed, and very young. +Suddenly he raised his smoldering eyes to mine, and I saw that they had taken +on a deeper glow. His white, even teeth showed in a half smile. +</p> + +<p> +“Dawn O’Hara,” said he, slowly, and the name had never sounded in the least +like music before, “Dawn O’Hara. It sounds like a rose—a pink blush rose that +is deeper pink at its heart, and very sweet.” +</p> + +<p> +He picked up the trifle with which he had been toying and eyed it intently for +a moment, as though his whole mind were absorbed in it. Then he put it down, +turned, and walked slowly away. I sat staring after him like a little +simpleton, puzzled, bewildered, stunned. That had been the beginning of it all. +</p> + +<p> +He had what we Irish call “a way wid him.” I wonder now why I did not go mad +with the joy, and the pain, and the uncertainty of it all. Never was a girl so +dazzled, so humbled, so worshiped, so neglected, so courted. He was a creature +of a thousand moods to torture one. What guise would he wear to-day? Would he +be gay, or dour, or sullen, or teasing or passionate, or cold, or tender or +scintillating? I know that my hands were always cold, and my cheeks were always +hot, those days. +</p> + +<p> +He wrote like a modern Demosthenes, with all political New York to quiver under +his philippics. The managing editor used to send him out on wonderful +assignments, and they used to hold the paper for his stuff when it was late. +Sometimes he would be gone for days at a time, and when he returned the men +would look at him with a sort of admiring awe. And the city editor would glance +up from beneath his green eye-shade and call out: +</p> + +<p> +“Say, Orme, for a man who has just wired in about a million dollars’ worth of +stuff seems to me you don’t look very crisp and jaunty.” +</p> + +<p> +“Haven’t slept for a week,” Peter Orme would growl, and then he would brush +past the men who were crowded around him, and turn in my direction. And the old +hot-and-cold, happy, frightened, laughing, sobbing sensation would have me by +the throat again. +</p> + +<p> +Well, we were married. Love cast a glamour over his very vices. His love of +drink? A weakness which I would transform into strength. His white hot flashes +of uncontrollable temper? Surely they would die down at my cool, tender touch. +His fits of abstraction and irritability? Mere evidences of the genius within. +Oh, my worshiping soul was always alert with an excuse. +</p> + +<p> +And so we were married. He had quite tired of me in less than a year, and the +hand that had always shaken a little shook a great deal now, and the fits of +abstraction and temper could be counted upon to appear oftener than any other +moods. I used to laugh, sometimes, when I was alone, at the bitter humor of it +all. It was like a Duchess novel come to life. +</p> + +<p> +His work began to show slipshod in spots. They talked to him about it and he +laughed at them. Then, one day, he left them in the ditch on the big story of +the McManus indictment, and the whole town scooped him, and the managing editor +told him that he must go. His lapses had become too frequent. They would have +to replace him with a man not so brilliant, perhaps, but more reliable. +</p> + +<p> +I daren’t think of his face as it looked when he came home to the little +apartment and told me. The smoldering eyes were flaming now. His lips were +flecked with a sort of foam. I stared at him in horror. He strode over to me, +clasped his fingers about my throat and shook me as a dog shakes a mouse. +</p> + +<p> +“Why don’t you cry, eh?” he snarled. “Why don’t you cry!” +</p> + +<p> +And then I did cry out at what I saw in his eyes. I wrenched myself free, fled +to my room, and locked the door and stood against it with my hand pressed over +my heart until I heard the outer door slam and the echo of his footsteps die +away. +</p> + +<p> +Divorce! That was my only salvation. No, that would be cowardly now. I would +wait until he was on his feet again, and then I would demand my old free life +back once more. This existence that was dragging me into the gutter—this was +not life! Life was a glorious, beautiful thing, and I would have it yet. I laid +my plans, feverishly, and waited. He did not come back that night, or the next, +or the next, or the next. In desperation I went to see the men at the office. +No, they had not seen him. Was there anything that they could do? they asked. I +smiled, and thanked them, and said, oh, Peter was so absent-minded! No doubt he +had misdirected his letters, or something of the sort. And then I went back to +the flat to resume the horrible waiting. +</p> + +<p> +One week later he turned up at the old office which had cast him off. He sat +down at his former desk and began to write, breathlessly, as he used to in the +days when all the big stories fell to him. One of the men reporters strolled up +to him and touched him on the shoulder, man-fashion. Peter Orme raised his head +and stared at him, and the man sprang back in terror. The smoldering eyes had +burned down to an ash. Peter Orme was quite bereft of all reason. They took him +away that night, and I kept telling myself that it wasn’t true; that it was all +a nasty dream, and I would wake up pretty soon, and laugh about it, and tell it +at the breakfast table. +</p> + +<p> +Well, one does not seek a divorce from a husband who is insane. The busy men on +the great paper were very kind. They would take me back on the staff. Did I +think that I still could write those amusing little human interest stories? +Funny ones, you know, with a punch in ’em. +</p> + +<p> +Oh, plenty of good stories left in me yet, I assured them. They must remember +that I was only twenty-one, after all, and at twenty-one one does not lose the +sense of humor. +</p> + +<p> +And so I went back to my old desk, and wrote bright, chatty letters home to +Norah, and ground out very funny stories with a punch in ’em, that the husband +in the insane asylum might be kept in comforts. With both hands I hung on like +grim death to that saving sense of humor, resolved to make something of that +miserable mess which was my life—to make something of it yet. And now— +</p> + +<p> +At this point in my musings there was an end of the low-voiced conversation in +the hall. Sis tiptoed in and looked her disapproval at finding me sleepless. +</p> + +<p> +“Dawn, old girlie, this will never do. Shut your eyes now, like a good child, +and go to sleep. Guess what that great brute of a doctor said! I may take you +home with me next week! Dawn dear, you will come, won’t you? You must! This is +killing you. Don’t make me go away leaving you here. I couldn’t stand it.” +</p> + +<p> +She leaned over my pillow and closed my eyelids gently with her sweet, cool +fingers. “You are coming home with me, and you shall sleep and eat, and sleep +and eat, until you are as lively as the Widow Malone, ohone, and twice as fat. +Home, Dawnie dear, where we’ll forget all about New York. Home, with me.” +</p> + +<p> +I reached up uncertainly, and brought her hand down to my lips and a great +peace descended upon my sick soul. “Home—with you,” I said, like a child, and +fell asleep. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap02"></a>CHAPTER II.<br/> +MOSTLY EGGS</h2> + +<p> +Oh, but it was clean, and sweet, and wonderfully still, that rose-and-white +room at Norah’s! No street cars to tear at one’s nerves with grinding brakes +and clanging bells; no tramping of restless feet on the concrete all through +the long, noisy hours; no shrieking midnight joy-riders; not one of the hundred +sounds which make night hideous in the city. What bliss to lie there, hour +after hour, in a delicious half-waking, half-sleeping, wholly exquisite stupor, +only rousing myself to swallow egg-nogg No. 426, and then to flop back again on +the big, cool pillow! +</p> + +<p> +New York, with its lights, its clangor, its millions, was only a far-away, +jumbled nightmare. The office, with its clacking typewriters, its insistent, +nerve-racking telephone bells, its systematic rush, its smoke-dimmed city room, +was but an ugly part of the dream. +</p> + +<p> +Back to that inferno of haste and scramble and clatter? Never! Never! I +resolved, drowsily. And dropped off to sleep again. +</p> + +<p> +And the sheets. Oh, those sheets of Norah’s! Why, they were white, instead of +gray! And they actually smelled of flowers. For that matter, there were +rosebuds on the silken coverlet. It took me a week to get chummy with that +rosebud-and-down quilt. I had to explain carefully to Norah that after a +half-dozen years of sleeping under doubtful boarding-house blankets one does +not so soon get rid of a shuddering disgust for coverings which are haunted by +the ghosts of a hundred unknown sleepers. Those years had taught me to draw up +the sheet with scrupulous care, to turn it down, and smooth it over, so that no +contaminating and woolly blanket should touch my skin. The habit stuck even +after Norah had tucked me in between her fragrant sheets. Automatically my +hands groped about, arranging the old protecting barrier. +</p> + +<p> +“What’s the matter, Fuss-fuss?” inquired Norah, looking on. “That down quilt +won’t bite you; what an old maid you are!” +</p> + +<p> +“Don’t like blankets next to my face,” I elucidated, sleepily, “never can tell +who slept under ’em last—” +</p> + +<p> +“You cat!” exclaimed Norah, making a little rush at me. “If you weren’t +supposed to be ill I’d shake you! Comparing my darling rosebud quilt to your +miserable gray blankets! Just for that I’ll make you eat an extra pair of +eggs.” +</p> + +<p> +There never was a sister like Norah. But then, who ever heard of a +brother-in-law like Max? No woman—not even a frazzled-out newspaper woman—could +receive the love and care that they gave me, and fail to flourish under it. +They had been Dad and Mother to me since the day when Norah had tucked me under +her arm and carried me away from New York. Sis was an angel; a comforting, +twentieth-century angel, with white apron strings for wings, and a tempting +tray in her hands in place of the hymn books and palm leaves that the +picture-book angels carry. She coaxed the inevitable eggs and beef into more +tempting forms than Mrs. Rorer ever guessed at. She could disguise those two +plain, nourishing articles of diet so effectually that neither hen nor cow +would have suspected either of having once been part of her anatomy. Once I ate +halfway through a melting, fluffy, peach-bedecked plate of something before I +discovered that it was only another egg in disguise. +</p> + +<p> +“Feel like eating a great big dinner to-day, Kidlet?” Norah would ask in the +morning as she stood at my bedside (with a glass of egg-something in her hand, +of course). +</p> + +<p> +“Eat!”—horror and disgust shuddering through my voice—“Eat! Ugh! Don’t +s-s-speak of it to me. And for pity’s sake tell Frieda to shut the kitchen door +when you go down, will you? I can smell something like ugh!—like pot roast, +with gravy!” And I would turn my face to the wall. +</p> + +<p> +Three hours later I would hear Sis coming softly up the stairs, accompanied by +a tinkling of china and glass. I would face her, all protest. +</p> + +<p> +“Didn’t I tell you, Sis, that I couldn’t eat a mouthful? Not a mouthf—um-m-m-m! +How perfectly scrumptious that looks! What’s that affair in the lettuce leaf? +Oh, can’t I begin on that divine-looking pinky stuff in the tall glass? H’m? +Oh, please!” +</p> + +<p> +“I thought—” Norah would begin; and then she would snigger softly. +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, well, that was hours ago,” I would explain, loftily. “Perhaps I could +manage a bite or two now.” +</p> + +<p> +Whereupon I would demolish everything except the china and doilies. +</p> + +<p> +It was at this point on the road to recovery, just halfway between illness and +health, that Norah and Max brought the great and unsmiling Von Gerhard on the +scene. It appeared that even New York was respectfully aware of Von Gerhard, +the nerve specialist, in spite of the fact that he lived in Milwaukee. The idea +of bringing him up to look at me occurred to Max quite suddenly. I think it was +on the evening that I burst into tears when Max entered the room wearing a +squeaky shoe. The Weeping Walrus was a self-contained and tranquil creature +compared to me at that time. The sight of a fly on the wall was enough to make +me burst into a passion of sobs. +</p> + +<p> +“I know the boy to steady those shaky nerves of yours, Dawn,” said Max, after I +had made a shamefaced apology for my hysterical weeping, “I’m going to have Von +Gerhard up here to look at you. He can run up Sunday, eh, Norah?” +</p> + +<p> +“Who’s Von Gerhard?” I inquired, out of the depths of my ignorance. “Anyway, I +won’t have him. I’ll bet he wears a Vandyke and spectacles.” +</p> + +<p> +“Von Gerhard!” exclaimed Norah, indignantly. “You ought to be thankful to have +him look at you, even if he wears goggles and a flowing beard. Why, even that +red-haired New York doctor of yours cringed and looked impressed when I told +him that Von Gerhard was a friend of my husband’s, and that they had been +comrades at Heidelberg. I must have mentioned him dozens of times in my +letters.” +</p> + +<p> +“Never.” +</p> + +<p> +“Queer,” commented Max, “he runs up here every now and then to spend a quiet +Sunday with Norah and me and the Spalpeens. Says it rests him. The kids swarm +all over him, and tear him limb from limb. It doesn’t look restful, but he says +it’s great. I think he came here from Berlin just after you left for New York, +Dawn. Milwaukee fits him as if it had been made for him.” +</p> + +<p> +“But you’re not going to drag this wonderful being up here just for me!” I +protested, aghast. +</p> + +<p> +Max pointed an accusing finger at me from the doorway. “Aren’t you what the +bromides call a bundle of nerves? And isn’t Von Gerhard’s specialty untying +just those knots? I’ll write to him to-night.” +</p> + +<p> +And he did. And Von Gerhard came. The Spalpeens watched for him, their noses +flattened against the window-pane, for it was raining. As he came up the path +they burst out of the door to meet him. From my bedroom window I saw him come +prancing up the walk like a boy, with the two children clinging to his +coat-tails, all three quite unmindful of the rain, and yelling like Comanches. +</p> + +<p> +Ten minutes later he had donned his professional dignity, entered my room, and +beheld me in all my limp and pea-green beauty. I noted approvingly that he had +to stoop a bit as he entered the low doorway, and that the Vandyke of my +prophecy was missing. +</p> + +<p> +He took my hand in his own steady, reassuring clasp. Then he began to talk. +Half an hour sped away while we discussed New +York—books—music—theatres—everything and anything but Dawn O’Hara. I learned +later that as we chatted he was getting his story, bit by bit, from every +twitch of the eyelids, from every gesture of the hands that had grown too thin +to wear the hateful ring; from every motion of the lips; from the color of my +nails; from each convulsive muscle; from every shadow, and wrinkle and curve +and line of my face. +</p> + +<p> +Suddenly he asked: “Are you making the proper effort to get well? You try to +conquer those jumping nerfs, yes?” +</p> + +<p> +I glared at him. “Try! I do everything. I’d eat woolly worms if I thought they +might benefit me. If ever a girl has minded her big sister and her doctor, that +girl is I. I’ve eaten everything from pâté de foie gras to raw beef, and I’ve +drunk everything from blood to champagne.” +</p> + +<p> +“Eggs?” queried Von Gerhard, as though making a happy suggestion. +</p> + +<p> +“Eggs!” I snorted. “Eggs! Thousands of ’em! Eggs hard and soft boiled, poached +and fried, scrambled and shirred, eggs in beer and egg-noggs, egg lemonades and +egg orangeades, eggs in wine and eggs in milk, and eggs au naturel. I’ve lapped +up iron-and-wine, and whole rivers of milk, and I’ve devoured rare porterhouse +and roast beef day after day for weeks. So! Eggs!” +</p> + +<p> +“Mein Himmel!” ejaculated he, fervently, “And you still live!” A suspicion of a +smile dawned in his eyes. I wondered if he ever laughed. I would experiment. +</p> + +<p> +“Don’t breathe it to a soul,” I whispered, tragically, “but eggs, and eggs +alone, are turning my love for my sister into bitterest hate. She stalks me the +whole day long, forcing egg mixtures down my unwilling throat. She bullies me. +I daren’t put out my hand suddenly without knocking over liquid refreshment in +some form, but certainly with an egg lurking in its depths. I am so expert that +I can tell an egg orangeade from an egg lemonade at a distance of twenty yards, +with my left hand tied behind me, and one eye shut, and my feet in a sack.” +</p> + +<p> +“You can laugh, eh? Well, that iss good,” commented the grave and unsmiling +one. +</p> + +<p> +“Sure,” answered I, made more flippant by his solemnity. “Surely I can laugh. +For what else was my father Irish? Dad used to say that a sense of humor was +like a shillaly—an iligent thing to have around handy, especially when the +joke’s on you.” +</p> + +<p> +The ghost of a twinkle appeared again in the corners of the German blue eyes. +Some fiend of rudeness seized me. +</p> + +<p> +“Laugh!” I commanded. +</p> + +<p> +Dr. Ernst von Gerhard stiffened. “Pardon?” inquired he, as one who is sure that +he has misunderstood. +</p> + +<p> +“Laugh!” I snapped again. “I’ll dare you to do it. I’ll double dare you! You +dassen’t!” +</p> + +<p> +But he did. After a moment’s bewildered surprise he threw back his handsome +blond head and gave vent to a great, deep infectious roar of mirth that brought +the Spalpeens tumbling up the stairs in defiance of their mother’s strict +instructions. +</p> + +<p> +After that we got along beautifully. He turned out to be quite human, beneath +the outer crust of reserve. He continued his examination only after bribing the +Spalpeens shamefully, so that even their rapacious demands were satisfied, and +they trotted off contentedly. +</p> + +<p> +There followed a process which reduced me to a giggling heap but which Von +Gerhard carried out ceremoniously. It consisted of certain raps at my knees, +and shins, and elbows, and fingers, and certain commands to—“look at my finger! +Look at the wall! Look at my finger! Look at the wall!” +</p> + +<p> +“So!” said Von Gerhard at last, in a tone of finality. I sank my battered frame +into the nearest chair. “This—this newspaper work—it must cease.” He dismissed +it with a wave of the hand. +</p> + +<p> +“Certainly,” I said, with elaborate sarcasm. “How should you advise me to earn +my living in the future? In the stories they paint dinner cards, don’t they? or +bake angel cakes?” +</p> + +<p> +“Are you then never serious?” asked Von Gerhard, in disapproval. +</p> + +<p> +“Never,” said I. “An old, worn-out, worked-out newspaper reporter, with a +husband in the mad-house, can’t afford to be serious for a minute, because if +she were she’d go mad, too, with the hopelessness of it all.” And I buried my +face in my hands. +</p> + +<p> +The room was very still for a moment. Then the great Von Gerhard came over, and +took my hands gently from my face. “I—I do beg your pardon,” he said. He looked +strangely boyish and uncomfortable as he said it. “I was thinking only of your +good. We do that, sometimes, forgetting that circumstances may make our wishes +impossible of execution. So. You will forgive me?” +</p> + +<p> +“Forgive you? Yes, indeed,” I assured him. And we shook hands, gravely. “But +that doesn’t help matters much, after all, does it?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, it helps. For now we understand one another, is it not so? You say you +can only write for a living. Then why not write here at home? Surely these +years of newspaper work have given you a great knowledge of human nature. Then +too, there is your gift of humor. Surely that is a combination which should +make your work acceptable to the magazines. Never in my life have I seen so +many magazines as here in the United States. But hundreds! Thousands!” +</p> + +<p> +“Me!” I exploded—“A real writer lady! No more interviews with actresses! No +more slushy Sunday specials! No more teary tales! Oh, my! When may I begin? +To-morrow? You know I brought my typewriter with me. I’ve almost forgotten +where the letters are on the keyboard.” +</p> + +<p> +“Wait, wait; not so fast! In a month or two, perhaps. But first must come other +things—outdoor things. Also housework.” +</p> + +<p> +“Housework!” I echoed, feebly. +</p> + +<p> +“Naturlich. A little dusting, a little scrubbing, a little sweeping, a little +cooking. The finest kind of indoor exercise. Later you may write a little—but +very little. Run and play out of doors with the children. When I see you again +you will have roses in your cheeks like the German girls, yes?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes,” I echoed, meekly, “I wonder how Frieda will like my elephantine efforts +at assisting with the housework. If she gives notice, Norah will be lost to +you.” +</p> + +<p> +But Frieda did not give notice. After I had helped her clean the kitchen and +the pantry I noticed an expression of deepest pity overspreading her lumpy +features. The expression became almost one of agony as she watched me roll out +some noodles for soup, and delve into the sticky mysteries of a new kind of +cake. +</p> + +<p> +Max says that for a poor working girl who hasn’t had time to cultivate the +domestic graces, my cakes are a distinct triumph. Sis sniffs at that, and +mutters something about cups of raisins and nuts and citron hiding a multitude +of batter sins. She never allows the Spalpeens to eat my cakes, and on my +baking days they are usually sent from the table howling. Norah declares, +severely, that she is going to hide the Green Cook Book. The Green Cook Book is +a German one. Norah bought it in deference to Max’s love of German cookery. It +is called Aunt Julchen’s cook book, and the author, between hints as to flour +and butter, gets delightfully chummy with her pupil. Her cakes are proud, rich +cakes. She orders grandly: +</p> + +<p> +“Now throw in the yolks of twelve eggs; one-fourth of a pound of almonds; two +pounds of raisins; a pound of citron; a pound of orange-peel.” +</p> + +<p> +As if that were not enough, there follow minor instructions as to trifles like +ounces of walnut meats, pounds of confectioner’s sugar, and pints of very rich +cream. When cold, to be frosted with an icing made up of more eggs, more nuts, +more cream, more everything. +</p> + +<p> +The children have appointed themselves official lickers and scrapers of the +spoons and icing pans, also official guides on their auntie’s walks. They +regard their Aunt Dawn as a quite ridiculous but altogether delightful old +thing. +</p> + +<p> +And Norah—bless her! looks up when I come in from a romp with the Spalpeens and +says: “Your cheeks are pink! Actually! And you’re losing a puff there at the +back of your ear, and your hat’s on crooked. Oh, you are beginning to look your +old self, Dawn dear!” +</p> + +<p> +At which doubtful compliment I retort, recklessly: “Pooh! What’s a puff more or +less, in a worthy cause? And if you think my cheeks are pink now, just wait +until your mighty Von Gerhard comes again. By that time they shall be so red +and bursting that Frieda’s, on wash day, will look anemic by comparison. Say, +Norah, how red are German red cheeks, anyway?” +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap03"></a>CHAPTER III.<br/> +GOOD AS NEW</h2> + +<p> +So Spring danced away, and Summer sauntered in. My pillows looked less and less +tempting. The wine of the northern air imparted a cocky assurance. One +blue-and-gold day followed the other, and I spent hours together out of doors +in the sunshine, lying full length on the warm, sweet ground, to the horror of +the entire neighborhood. To be sure, I was sufficiently discreet to choose the +lawn at the rear of the house. There I drank in the atmosphere, as per doctor’s +instructions, while the genial sun warmed the watery blood in my veins and +burned the skin off the end of my nose. +</p> + +<p> +All my life I had envied the loungers in the parks—those silent, inert figures +that lie under the trees all the long summer day, their shabby hats over their +faces, their hands clasped above their heads, legs sprawled in uncouth comfort, +while the sun dapples down between the leaves and, like a good fairy godmother, +touches their frayed and wrinkled garments with flickering figures of golden +splendor, while they sleep. They always seemed so blissfully care-free and at +ease—those sprawling men figures—and I, to whom such simple joys were +forbidden, being a woman, had envied them. +</p> + +<p> +Now I was reveling in that very joy, stretched prone upon the ground, blinking +sleepily up at the sun and the cobalt sky, feeling my very hair grow, and +health returning in warm, electric waves. I even dared to cross one leg over +the other and to swing the pendant member with nonchalant air, first taking a +cautious survey of the neighboring back windows to see if any one peeked. +Doubtless they did, behind those ruffled curtains, but I grew splendidly +indifferent. +</p> + +<p> +Even the crawling things—and there were myriads of them—added to the enjoyment +of my ease. With my ear so close to the ground the grass seemed fairly to buzz +with them. Everywhere there were crazily busy ants, and I, patently a sluggard +and therefore one of those for whom the ancient warning was intended, +considered them lazily. How they plunged about, weaving in and out, rushing +here and there, helter-skelter, like bargain-hunting women darting wildly from +counter to counter! +</p> + +<p> +“O, foolish, foolish antics!” I chided them, “stop wearing yourselves out this +way. Don’t you know that the game isn’t worth the candle, and that you’ll give +yourselves nervous jim-jams and then you’ll have to go home to be patched up? +Look at me! I’m a horrible example.” +</p> + +<p> +But they only bustled on, heedless of my advice, and showed their contempt by +crawling over me as I lay there like a lady Gulliver. +</p> + +<p> +Oh, I played what they call a heavy thinking part. It was not only the ants +that came in for lectures. I preached sternly to myself. +</p> + +<p> +“Well, Dawn old girl, you’ve made a beautiful mess of it. A smashed-up wreck at +twenty-eight! And what have you to show for it? Nothing! You’re a useless pulp, +like a lemon that has been squeezed dry. Von Gerhard was right. There must be +no more newspaper work for you, me girl. Not if you can keep away from the +fascination of it, which I don’t think you can.” +</p> + +<p> +Then I would fall to thinking of those years of newspapering—of the thrills of +them, and the ills of them. It had been exhilarating, and educating, but +scarcely remunerative. Mother had never approved. Dad had chuckled and said +that it was a curse descended upon me from the terrible old Kitty O’Hara, the +only old maid in the history of the O’Haras, and famed in her day for a caustic +tongue and a venomed pen. Dad and Mother—what a pair of children they had been! +The very dissimilarity of their natures had been a bond between them. Dad, +light-hearted, whimsical, care-free, improvident; Mother, gravely sweet, +anxious-browed, trying to teach economy to the handsome Irish husband who, +descendant of a long and royal line of spendthrift ancestors, would have none +of it. +</p> + +<p> +It was Dad who had insisted that they name me Dawn. Dawn O’Hara! His sense of +humor must have been sleeping. “You were such a rosy, pinky, soft baby thing,” +Mother had once told me, “that you looked just like the first flush of light at +sunrise. That is why your father insisted on calling you Dawn.” +</p> + +<p> +Poor Dad! How could he know that at twenty-eight I would be a yellow wreck of a +newspaper reporter—with a wrinkle between my eyes. If he could see me now he +would say: +</p> + +<p> +“Sure, you look like the dawn yet, me girl—but a Pittsburgh dawn.” +</p> + +<p> +At that, Mother, if she were here, would pat my check where the hollow place +is, and murmur: “Never mind, Dawnie dearie, Mother thinks you are beautiful +just the same.” Of such blessed stuff are mothers made. +</p> + +<p> +At this stage of the memory game I would bury my face in the warm grass and +thank my God for having taken Mother before Peter Orme came into my life. And +then I would fall asleep there on the soft, sweet grass, with my head snuggled +in my arms, and the ants wriggling, unchided, into my ears. +</p> + +<p> +On the last of these sylvan occasions I awoke, not with a graceful start, like +the story-book ladies, but with a grunt. Sis was digging me in the ribs with +her toe. I looked up to see her standing over me, a foaming tumbler of +something in her hand. I felt that it was eggy and eyed it disgustedly. +</p> + +<p> +“Get up,” said she, “you lazy scribbler, and drink this.” +</p> + +<p> +I sat up, eyeing her severely and picking grass and ants out of my hair. +</p> + +<p> +“D’ you mean to tell me that you woke me out of that babe-like slumber to make +me drink that goo? What is it, anyway? I’ll bet it’s another egg-nogg.” +</p> + +<p> +“Egg-nogg it is; and swallow it right away, because there are guests to see +you.” +</p> + +<p> +I emerged from the first dip into the yellow mixture and fixed on her as stern +and terrible a look at any one can whose mouth is encircled by a mustache of +yellow foam. +</p> + +<p> +“Guests!” I roared, “not for me! Don’t you dare to say that they came to see +me!” +</p> + +<p> +“Did too,” insists Norah, with firmness, “they came especially to see you. +Asked for you, right from the jump.” +</p> + +<p> +I finished the egg-nogg in four gulps, returned the empty tumbler with an air +of decision, and sank upon the grass. +</p> + +<p> +“Tell ’em I rave. Tell ’em that I’m unconscious, and that for weeks I have +recognized no one, not even my dear sister. Say that in my present +nerve-shattered condition I—” +</p> + +<p> +“That wouldn’t satisfy them,” Norah calmly interrupts, “they know you’re crazy +because they saw you out here from their second story back windows. That’s why +they came. So you may as well get up and face them. I promised them I’d bring +you in. You can’t go on forever refusing to see people, and you know the +Whalens are—” +</p> + +<p> +“Whalens!” I gasped. “How many of them? Not—not the entire fiendish three?” +</p> + +<p> +“All three. I left them champing with impatience.” +</p> + +<p> +The Whalens live just around the corner. The Whalens are omniscient. They have +a system of news gathering which would make the efforts of a New York daily +appear antiquated. They know that Jenny Laffin feeds the family on soup meat +and oat-meal when Mr. Laffin is on the road; they know that Mrs. Pearson only +shakes out her rugs once in four weeks; they can tell you the number of times a +week that Sam Dempster comes home drunk; they know that the Merkles never have +cream with their coffee because little Lizzie Merkle goes to the creamery every +day with just one pail and three cents; they gloat over the knowledge that +Professor Grimes, who is a married man, is sweet on Gertie Ashe, who teaches +second reader in his school; they can tell you where Mrs. Black got her seal +coat, and her husband only earning two thousand a year; they know who is going +to run for mayor, and how long poor Angela Sims has to live, and what Guy +Donnelly said to Min when he asked her to marry him. +</p> + +<p> +The three Whalens—mother and daughters—hunt in a group. They send meaning +glances to one another across the room, and at parties they get together and +exchange bulletins in a corner. On passing the Whalen house one is +uncomfortably aware of shadowy forms lurking in the windows, and of parlor +curtains that are agitated for no apparent cause. +</p> + +<p> +Therefore it was with a groan that I rose and prepared to follow Norah into the +house. Something in my eye caused her to turn at the very door. “Don’t you +dare!” she hissed; then, banishing the warning scowl from her face, and +assuming a near-smile, she entered the room and I followed miserably at her +heels. +</p> + +<p> +The Whalens rose and came forward effusively; Mrs. Whalen, plump, dark, +voluble; Sally, lean, swarthy, vindictive; Flossie, pudgy, powdered, +over-dressed. They eyed me hungrily. I felt that they were searching my +features for signs of incipient insanity. +</p> + +<p> +“Dear, DEAR girl!” bubbled the billowy Flossie, kissing the end of my nose and +fastening her eye on my ringless left hand. +</p> + +<p> +Sally contented herself with a limp and fishy handshake. She and I were sworn +enemies in our school-girl days, and a baleful gleam still lurked in Sally’s +eye. Mrs. Whalen bestowed on me a motherly hug that enveloped me in an +atmosphere of liquid face-wash, strong perfumery and fried lard. Mrs. Whalen is +a famous cook. Said she: +</p> + +<p> +“We’ve been thinking of calling ever since you were brought home, but dear me! +you’ve been looking so poorly I just said to the girls, wait till the poor +thing feels more like seeing her old friends. Tell me, how are you feeling +now?” +</p> + +<p> +The three sat forward in their chairs in attitudes of tense waiting. +</p> + +<p> +I resolved that if err I must it should be on the side of safety. I turned to +sister Norah. +</p> + +<p> +“How am I feeling anyway, Norah?” I guardedly inquired. +</p> + +<p> +Norah’s face was a study. “Why Dawn dear,” she said, sugar-sweet, “no doubt you +know better than I. But I’m sure that you are wonderfully improved—almost your +old self, in fact. Don’t you think she looks splendid, Mrs. Whalen?” +</p> + +<p> +The three Whalens tore their gaze from my blank countenance to exchange a +series of meaning looks. +</p> + +<p> +“I suppose,” purred Mrs. Whalen, “that your awful trouble was the real cause of +your—a-a-a-sickness, worrying about it and grieving as you must have.” +</p> + +<p> +She pronounces it with a capital T, and I know she means Peter. I hate her for +it. +</p> + +<p> +“Trouble!” I chirped. “Trouble never troubles me. I just worked too hard, +that’s all, and acquired an awful ‘tired.’ All work and no play makes Jill a +nervous wreck, you know.” +</p> + +<p> +At that the elephantine Flossie wagged a playful finger at me. “Oh, now, you +can’t make us believe that, just because we’re from the country! We know all +about you gay New Yorkers, with your Bohemian ways and your midnight studio +suppers, and your cigarettes, and cocktails and high jinks!” +</p> + +<p> +Memory painted a swift mental picture of Dawn O’Hara as she used to tumble into +bed after a whirlwind day at the office, too dog-tired to give her hair even +one half of the prescribed one hundred strokes of the brush. But in turn I +shook a reproving forefinger at Flossie. +</p> + +<p> +“You’ve been reading some naughty society novel! One of those +millionaire-divorce-actress-automobile novels. Dear, dear! Shall I ever forget +the first New York actress I ever met; or what she said!” +</p> + +<p> +I felt, more than saw, a warning movement from Sis. But the three Whalens had +hitched forward in their chairs. +</p> + +<p> +“What did she say?” gurgled Flossie. “Was it something real reezk?” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, it was at a late supper—a studio supper given in her honor,” I +confessed. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes-s-s-s,” hissed the Whalens. +</p> + +<p> +“And this actress—she was one of those musical comedy actresses, you know; I +remember her part called for a good deal of kicking about in a short Dutch +costume—came in rather late, after the performance. She was wearing a +regal-looking fur-edged evening wrap, and she still wore all her make-up”—out +of the corner of my eye I saw Sis sink back with an air of resignation—“and she +threw open the door and said— +</p> + +<p> +“Yes-s-s-s!” hissed the Whalens again, wetting their lips. +</p> + +<p> +“—said: ‘Folks, I just had a wire from mother, up in Maine. The boy has the +croup. I’m scared green. I hate to spoil the party, but don’t ask me to stay. I +want to go home to the flat and blubber. I didn’t even stop to take my make-up +off. My God! If anything should happen to the boy!—Well, have a good time +without me. Jim’s waiting outside.’” A silence. +</p> + +<p> +Then—“Who was Jim?” asked Flossie, hopefully. +</p> + +<p> +“Jim was her husband, of course. He was in the same company.” +</p> + +<p> +Another silence. +</p> + +<p> +“Is that all?” demanded Sally from the corner in which she had been glowering. +</p> + +<p> +“All! You unnatural girl! Isn’t one husband enough?” +</p> + +<p> +Mrs. Whalen smiled an uncertain, wavering smile. There passed among the three a +series of cabalistic signs. They rose simultaneously. +</p> + +<p> +“How quaint you are!” exclaimed Mrs. Whalen, “and so amusing! Come girls, we +mustn’t tire Miss—ah—Mrs.—er—” with another meaning look at my bare left hand. +</p> + +<p> +“My husband’s name is still Orme,” I prompted, quite, quite pleasantly. +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, certainly. I’m so forgetful. And one reads such queer things in the +newspapers now-a-days. Divorces, and separations, and soul-mates and things.” +There was a note of gentle insinuation in her voice. +</p> + +<p> +Norah stepped firmly into the fray. “Yes, doesn’t one? What a comfort it must +be to you to know that your dear girls are safe at home with you, and no doubt +will be secure, for years to come, from the buffeting winds of matrimony.” +</p> + +<p> +There was a tinge of purple in Mrs. Whalen’s face as she moved toward the door, +gathering her brood about her. “Now that dear Dawn is almost normal again I +shall send my little girlies over real often. She must find it very dull here +after her—ah—life in New York.” +</p> + +<p> +“Not at all,” I said, hurriedly, “not at all. You see I’m—I’m writing a book. +My entire day is occupied.” +</p> + +<p> +“A book!” screeched the three. “How interesting! What is it? When will it be +published?” +</p> + +<p> +I avoided Norah’s baleful eye as I answered their questions and performed the +final adieux. +</p> + +<p> +As the door closed, Norah and I faced each other, glaring. +</p> + +<p> +“Hussies!” hissed Norah. Whereupon it struck us funny and we fell, a shrieking +heap, into the nearest chair. Finally Sis dabbed at her eyes with her +handkerchief, drew a long breath, and asked, with elaborate sarcasm, why I +hadn’t made it a play instead of a book, while I was about it. +</p> + +<p> +“But I mean it,” I declared. “I’ve had enough of loafing. Max must unpack my +typewriter to-night. I’m homesick for a look at the keys. And to-morrow I’m to +be installed in the cubbyhole off the dining-room and I defy any one to enter +it on peril of their lives. If you value the lives of your offspring, warn them +away from that door. Von Gerhard said that there was writing in my system, and +by the Great Horn Spoon and the Beard of the Prophet, I’ll have it out! +Besides, I need the money. Norah dear, how does one set about writing a book? +It seems like such a large order.” +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap04"></a>CHAPTER IV.<br/> +DAWN DEVELOPS A HEIMWEH</h2> + +<p> +It’s hard trying to develop into a real Writer Lady in the bosom of one’s +family, especially when the family refuses to take one seriously. Seven years +of newspaper grind have taught me the fallacy of trying to write by the +inspiration method. But there is such a thing as a train of thought, and mine +is constantly being derailed, and wrecked and pitched about. +</p> + +<p> +Scarcely am I settled in my cubby-hole, typewriter before me, the working plan +of a story buzzing about in my brain, when I hear my name called in muffled +tones, as though the speaker were laboring with a mouthful of hairpins. I pay +no attention. I have just given my heroine a pair of calm gray eyes, shaded +with black lashes and hair to match. A voice floats down from the upstairs +regions. +</p> + +<p> +“Dawn! Oh, Dawn! Just run and rescue the cucumbers out of the top of the +ice-box, will you? The iceman’s coming, and he’ll squash ’em.” +</p> + +<p> +A parting jab at my heroine’s hair and eyes, and I’m off to save the cucumbers. +</p> + +<p> +Back at my typewriter once more. Shall I make my heroine petite or grande? I +decide that stateliness and Gibsonesque height should accompany the calm gray +eyes. I rattle away happily, the plot unfolding itself in some mysterious way. +Sis opens the door a little and peers in. She is dressed for the street. +</p> + +<p> +“Dawn dear, I’m going to the dressmaker’s. Frieda’s upstairs cleaning the +bathroom, so take a little squint at the roast now and then, will you? See that +it doesn’t burn, and that there’s plenty of gravy. Oh, and Dawn—tell the +milkman we want an extra half-pint of cream to-day. The tickets are on the +kitchen shelf, back of the clock. I’ll be back in an hour.” +</p> + +<p> +“Mhmph,” I reply. +</p> + +<p> +Sis shuts the door, but opens it again almost immediately. +</p> + +<p> +“Don’t let the Infants bother you. But if Frieda’s upstairs and they come to +you for something to eat, don’t let them have any cookies before dinner. If +they’re really hungry they’ll eat bread and butter.” +</p> + +<p> +I promise, dreamily, my last typewritten sentence still running through my +head. The gravy seems to have got into the heroine’s calm gray eyes. What +heroine could remain calm-eyed when her creator’s mind is filled with roast +beef? A half-hour elapses before I get back on the track. Then appears the +hero—a tall blond youth, fair to behold. I make him two yards high, and endow +him with a pair of clothing-advertisement shoulders. +</p> + +<p> +There assails my nostrils a fearful smell of scorching. The roast! A wild rush +into the kitchen. I fling open the oven door. The roast is mahogany-colored, +and gravyless. It takes fifteen minutes of the most desperate +first-aid-to-the-injured measures before the roast is revived. +</p> + +<p> +Back to the writing. It has lost its charm. The gray-eyed heroine is a stick; +she moves like an Indian lady outside a cigar shop. The hero is a +milk-and-water sissy, without a vital spark in him. What’s the use of trying to +write, anyway? Nobody wants my stuff. Good for nothing except dubbing on a +newspaper! +</p> + +<p> +Rap! Rap! Rappity-rap-rap! Bing! Milk! +</p> + +<p> +I dash into the kitchen. No milk! No milkman! I fly to the door. He is +disappearing around the corner of the house. +</p> + +<p> +“Hi! Mr. Milkman! Say, Mr. Milkman!” with frantic beckonings. +</p> + +<p> +He turns. He lifts up his voice. “The screen door was locked so I left youse +yer milk on top of the ice-box on the back porch. Thought like the hired girl +was upstairs an’ I could git the tickets to-morra.” +</p> + +<p> +I explain about the cream, adding that it is wanted for short-cake. The +explanation does not seem to cheer him. He appears to be a very gloomy and +reserved milkman. I fancy that he is in the habit of indulging in a little airy +persiflage with Frieda o’ mornings, and he finds me a poor substitute for her +red-cheeked comeliness. +</p> + +<p> +The milk safely stowed away in the ice-box, I have another look at the roast. I +am dipping up spoonfuls of brown gravy and pouring them over the surface of the +roast in approved basting style, when there is a rush, a scramble, and two hard +bodies precipitate themselves upon my legs so suddenly that for a moment my +head pitches forward into the oven. I withdraw my head from the oven, hastily. +The basting spoon is immersed in the bottom of the pan. I turn, indignant. The +Spalpeens look up at me with innocent eyes. +</p> + +<p> +“You little divils, what do you mean by shoving your old aunt into the oven! +It’s cannibals you are!” +</p> + +<p> +The idea pleases them. They release my legs and execute a savage war dance +around me. The Spalpeens are firm in the belief that I was brought to their +home for their sole amusement, and they refuse to take me seriously. The +Spalpeens themselves are two of the finest examples of real humor that ever +were perpetrated upon parents. Sheila is the first-born. Norah decided that she +should be an Irish beauty, and bestowed upon her a name that reeks of the bogs. +Whereupon Sheila, at the age of six, is as flaxen-haired and blue-eyed and +stolid a little German madchen as ever fooled her parents, and she is a +feminine reproduction of her German Dad. Two years later came a sturdy boy, and +they named him Hans, in a flaunt of defiance. Hans is black-haired, gray-eyed +and Irish as Killarny. +</p> + +<p> +“We’re awful hungry,” announces Sheila. +</p> + +<p> +“Can’t you wait until dinner time? Such a grand dinner!” +</p> + +<p> +Sheila and Hans roll their eyes to convey to me that, were they to wait until +dinner for sustenance we should find but their lifeless forms. +</p> + +<p> +“Well then, Auntie will get a nice piece of bread and butter for each of you.” +</p> + +<p> +“Don’t want bread an’ butty!” shrieks Hans. “Want tooky!” +</p> + +<p> +“Cooky!” echoes Sheila, pounding on the kitchen table with the rescued basting +spoon. +</p> + +<p> +“You can’t have cookies before dinner. They’re bad for your insides.” +</p> + +<p> +“Can too,” disputes Hans. “Fwieda dives us tookies. Want tooky!” wailingly. +</p> + +<p> +“Please, ple-e-e-ease, Auntie Dawnie dearie,” wheedles Sheila, wriggling her +soft little fingers in my hand. +</p> + +<p> +“But Mother never lets you have cookies before dinner,” I retort severely. “She +knows they are bad for you.” +</p> + +<p> +“Pooh, she does too! She always says, ‘No, not a cooky!’ And then we beg and +screech, and then she says, ‘Oh, for pity’s sake, Frieda, give ’em a cooky and +send ’em out. One cooky can’t kill ’em.’” Sheila’s imitation is delicious. +</p> + +<p> +Hans catches the word screech and takes it as his cue. He begins a series of +ear-piercing wails. Sheila surveys him with pride and then takes the wail up in +a minor key. Their teamwork is marvelous. I fly to the cooky jar and extract +two round and sugary confections. I thrust them into the pink, eager palms. The +wails cease. Solemnly they place one cooky atop the other, measuring the +circlets with grave eyes. +</p> + +<p> +“Mine’s a weeny bit bigger’n yours this time,” decides Sheila, and holds her +cooky heroically while Hans takes a just and lawful bite out of his sister’s +larger share. +</p> + +<p> +“The blessed little angels!” I say to myself, melting. “The dear, unselfish +little sweeties!” and give each of them another cooky. +</p> + +<p> +Back to my typewriter. But the words flatly refuse to come now. I make six +false starts, bite all my best finger-nails, screw my hair into a wilderness of +cork-screws and give it up. No doubt a real Lady Writer could write on, +unruffled and unhearing, while the iceman squashed the cucumbers, and the roast +burned to a frazzle, and the Spalpeens perished of hunger. Possessed of the +real spark of genius, trivialities like milkmen and cucumbers could not dim its +glow. Perhaps all successful Lady Writers with real live sparks have cooks and +scullery maids, and need not worry about basting, and gravy, and milkmen. +</p> + +<p> +This book writing is all very well for those who have a large faith in the +future and an equally large bank account. But my future will have to be +hand-carved, and my bank account has always been an all too small pay envelope +at the end of each week. It will be months before the book is shaped and +finished. And my pocketbook is empty. Last week Max sent money for the care of +Peter. He and Norah think that I do not know. +</p> + +<p> +Von Gerhard was here in August. I told him that all my firm resolutions to +forsake newspaperdom forever were slipping away, one by one. +</p> + +<p> +“I have heard of the fascination of the newspaper office,” he said, in his +understanding way. “I believe you have a heimweh for it, not?” +</p> + +<p> +“Heimweh! That’s the word,” I had agreed. “After you have been a newspaper +writer for seven years—and loved it—you will be a newspaper writer, at heart +and by instinct at least, until you die. There’s no getting away from it. It’s +in the blood. Newspaper men have been known to inherit fortunes, to enter +politics, to write books and become famous, to degenerate into press agents and +become infamous, to blossom into personages, to sink into nonentities, but +their news-nose remained a part of them, and the inky, smoky, stuffy smell of a +newspaper office was ever sweet in their nostrils.” +</p> + +<p> +But, “Not yet,” Von Gerhard had said, “It unless you want to have again this +miserable business of the sick nerfs. Wait yet a few months.” +</p> + +<p> +And so I have waited, saying nothing to Norah and Max. But I want to be in the +midst of things. I miss the sensation of having my fingers at the pulse of the +big old world. I’m lonely for the noise and the rush and the hard work; for a +glimpse of the busy local room just before press time, when the lights are +swimming in a smoky haze, and the big presses downstairs are thundering their +warning to hurry, and the men are breezing in from their runs with the grist of +news that will be ground finer and finer as it passes through the mill of +copy-readers’ and editors’ hands. I want to be there in the thick of the +confusion that is, after all, so orderly. I want to be there when the telephone +bells are zinging, and the typewriters are snapping, and the messenger boys are +shuffling in and out, and the office kids are scuffling in a corner, and the +big city editor, collar off, sleeves rolled up from his great arms, hair +bristling wildly above his green eye-shade, is swearing gently and smoking +cigarette after cigarette, lighting each fresh one at the dying glow of the +last. I would give a year of my life to hear him say: +</p> + +<p> +“I don’t mind tellin’ you, Beatrice Fairfax, that that was a darn good story +you got on the Millhaupt divorce. The other fellows haven’t a word that isn’t +re-hash.” +</p> + +<p> +All of which is most unwomanly; for is not marriage woman’s highest aim, and +home her true sphere? Haven’t I tried both? I ought to know. I merely have been +miscast in this life’s drama. My part should have been that of one who makes +her way alone. Peter, with his thin, cruel lips, and his shaking hands, and his +haggard face and his smoldering eyes, is a shadow forever blotting out the +sunny places in my path. I was meant to be an old maid, like the terrible old +Kitty O’Hara. Not one of the tatting-and-tea kind, but an impressive, bustling +old girl, with a double chin. The sharp-tongued Kitty O’Hara used to say that +being an old maid was a great deal like death by drowning—a really delightful +sensation when you ceased struggling. +</p> + +<p> +Norah has pleaded with me to be more like other women of my age, and for her +sake I’ve tried. She has led me about to bridge parties and tea fights, and I +have tried to act as though I were enjoying it all, but I knew that I wasn’t +getting on a bit. I have come to the conclusion that one year of newspapering +counts for two years of ordinary existence, and that while I’m twenty-eight in +the family Bible I’m fully forty inside. When one day may bring under one’s pen +a priest, a pauper, a prostitute, a philanthropist, each with a story to tell, +and each requiring to be bullied, or cajoled, or bribed, or threatened, or +tricked into telling it; then the end of that day’s work finds one looking out +at the world with eyes that are very tired and as old as the world itself. +</p> + +<p> +I’m spoiled for sewing bees and church sociables and afternoon bridges. A +hunger for the city is upon me. The long, lazy summer days have slipped by. +There is an autumn tang in the air. The breeze has a touch that is sharp. +</p> + +<p> +Winter in a little northern town! I should go mad. But winter in the city! The +streets at dusk on a frosty evening; the shop windows arranged by artist hands +for the beauty-loving eyes of women; the rows of lights like jewels strung on +an invisible chain; the glitter of brass and enamel as the endless procession +of motors flashes past; the smartly-gowned women; the keen-eyed, nervous men; +the shrill note of the crossing policeman’s whistle; every smoke-grimed wall +and pillar taking on a mysterious shadowy beauty in the purple dusk, every +unsightly blot obscured by the kindly night. But best of all, the fascination +of the People I’d Like to Know. They pop up now and then in the shifting +crowds, and are gone the next moment, leaving behind them a vague regret. +Sometimes I call them the People I’d Like to Know and sometimes I call them the +People I Know I’d Like, but it means much the same. Their faces flash by in the +crowd, and are gone, but I recognize them instantly as belonging to my beloved +circle of unknown friends. +</p> + +<p> +Once it was a girl opposite me in a car—a girl with a wide, humorous mouth, and +tragic eyes, and a hole in her shoe. Once it was a big, homely, red-headed +giant of a man with an engineering magazine sticking out of his coat pocket. He +was standing at a book counter reading Dickens like a schoolboy and laughing in +all the right places, I know, because I peaked over his shoulder to see. +Another time it was a sprightly little, grizzled old woman, staring into a +dazzling shop window in which was displayed a wonderful collection of +fashionably impossible hats and gowns. She was dressed all in rusty black, was +the little old lady, and she had a quaint cast in her left eye that gave her +the oddest, most sporting look. The cast was working overtime as she gazed at +the gowns, and the ridiculous old sprigs on her rusty black bonnet trembled +with her silent mirth. She looked like one of those clever, epigrammatic, dowdy +old duchesses that one reads about in English novels. I’m sure she had cardamon +seeds in her shabby bag, and a carriage with a crest on it waiting for her just +around the corner. I ached to slip my hand through her arm and ask her what she +thought of it all. I know that her reply would have been exquisitely witty and +audacious, and I did so long to hear her say it. +</p> + +<p> +No doubt some good angel tugs at my common sense, restraining me from doing +these things that I am tempted to do. Of course it would be madness for a woman +to address unknown red-headed men with the look of an engineer about them and a +book of Dickens in their hands; or perky old women with nutcracker faces; or +girls with wide humorous mouths. Oh, it couldn’t be done, I suppose. They would +clap me in a padded cell in no time if I were to say: +</p> + +<p> +“Mister Red-headed Man, I’m so glad your heart is young enough for Dickens. I +love him too—enough to read him standing at a book counter in a busy shop. And +do you know, I like the squareness of your jaw, and the way your eyes crinkle +up when you laugh; and as for your being an engineer—why one of the very first +men I ever loved was the engineer in ‘Soldiers of Fortune.’” +</p> + +<p> +I wonder what the girl in the car would have said if I had crossed over to her, +and put my hand on her arm and spoken, thus: +</p> + +<p> +“Girl with the wide, humorous mouth, and the tragic eyes, and the hole in your +shoe, I think you must be an awfully good sort. I’ll wager you paint, or write, +or act, or do something clever like that for a living. But from that hole in +your shoe which you have inked so carefully, although it persists in showing +white at the seams, I fancy you are stumbling over a rather stony bit of Life’s +road just now. And from the look in your eyes, girl, I’m afraid the stones have +cut and bruised rather cruelly. But when I look at your smiling, humorous mouth +I know that you are trying to laugh at the hurts. I think that this morning, +when you inked your shoe for the dozenth time, you hesitated between tears and +laughter, and the laugh won, thank God! Please keep right on laughing, and +don’t you dare stop for a minute! Because pretty soon you’ll come to a smooth +easy place, and then won’t you be glad that you didn’t give up to lie down by +the roadside, weary of your hurts?” +</p> + +<p> +Oh, it would never do. Never. And yet no charm possessed by the people I know +and like can compare with the fascination of those People I’d Like to Know, and +Know I Would Like. +</p> + +<p> +Here at home with Norah there are no faces in the crowds. There are no crowds. +When you turn the corner at Main street you are quite sure that you will see +the same people in the same places. You know that Mamie Hayes will be flapping +her duster just outside the door of the jewelry store where she clerks. She +gazes up and down Main street as she flaps the cloth, her bright eyes keeping a +sharp watch for stray traveling men that may chance to be passing. You know +that there will be the same lounging group of white-faced, vacant-eyed youths +outside the pool-room. Dr. Briggs’s patient runabout will be standing at his +office doorway. Outside his butcher shop Assemblyman Schenck will be holding +forth on the subject of county politics to a group of red-faced, badly dressed, +prosperous looking farmers and townsmen, and as he talks the circle of brown +tobacco juice which surrounds the group closes in upon them, nearer and nearer. +And there, in a roomy chair in a corner of the public library reference room, +facing the big front window, you will see Old Man Randall. His white hair forms +a halo above his pitiful drink-marred face. He was to have been a great lawyer, +was Old Man Randall. But on the road to fame he met Drink, and she grasped his +arm, and led him down by-ways, and into crooked lanes, and finally into +ditches, and he never arrived at his goal. There in that library window nook it +is cool in summer, and warm in winter. So he sits and dreams, holding an open +volume, unread, on his knees. Sometimes he writes, hunched up in his corner, +feverishly scribbling at ridiculous plays, short stories, and novels which +later he will insist on reading to the tittering schoolboys and girls who come +into the library to do their courting and reference work. Presently, when it +grows dusk, Old Man Randall will put away his book, throw his coat over his +shoulders, sleeves dangling, flowing white locks sweeping the frayed velvet +collar. He will march out with his soldierly tread, humming a bit of a tune, +down the street and into Vandermeister’s saloon, where he will beg a drink and +a lunch, and some man will give it to him for the sake of what Old Man Randall +might have been. +</p> + +<p> +All these things you know. And knowing them, what is left for the imagination? +How can one dream dreams about people when one knows how much they pay their +hired girl, and what they have for dinner on Wednesdays? +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap05"></a>CHAPTER V.<br/> +THE ABSURD BECOMES SERIOUS</h2> + +<p> +I can understand the emotions of a broken-down war horse that is hitched to a +vegetable wagon. I am going to Milwaukee to work! It is a thing to make the +gods hold their sides and roll down from their mountain peaks with laughter. +After New York—Milwaukee! +</p> + +<p> +Of course Von Gerhard is to blame. But I think even he sees the humor of it. It +happened in this way, on a day when I was indulging in a particularly +greenery-yallery fit of gloom. Norah rushed into my room. I think I was mooning +over some old papers, or letters, or ribbons, or some such truck in the +charming, knife-turning way that women have when they are blue. +</p> + +<p> +“Out wid yez!” cried Norah. “On with your hat and coat! I’ve just had a wire +from Ernst von Gerhard. He’s coming, and you look like an under-done dill +pickle. You aren’t half as blooming as when he was here in August, and this is +October. Get out and walk until your cheeks are so red that Von Gerhard will +refuse to believe that this fiery-faced puffing, bouncing creature is the green +and limp thing that huddled in a chair a few months ago. Out ye go!” +</p> + +<p> +And out I went. Hatless, I strode countrywards, leaving paved streets and +concrete walks far behind. There were drifts of fallen leaves all about, and I +scuffled through them drearily, trying to feel gloomy, and old, and useless, +and failing because of the tang in the air, and the red-and-gold wonder of the +frost-kissed leaves, and the regular pump-pump of good red blood that was +coursing through my body as per Norah’s request. +</p> + +<p> +In a field at the edge of the town, just where city and country begin to have a +bowing acquaintance, the college boys were at football practice. Their scarlet +sweaters made gay patches of color against the dull gray-brown of the autumn +grass. +</p> + +<p> +“Seven-eighteen-two-four!” called a voice. There followed a scuffle, a creaking +of leather on leather, a thud. I watched them, a bit enviously, walking +backwards until a twist in the road hid them from view. That same twist +transformed my path into a real country road—a brown, dusty, monotonous +Michigan country road that went severely about its business, never once +stopping to flirt with the blushing autumn woodland at its left, or to dally +with the dimpling ravine at its right. +</p> + +<p> +“Now if that were an English country road,” thought I, “a sociably inclined, +happy-go-lucky, out-for-pleasure English country road, one might expect +something of it. On an English country road this would be the psychological +moment for the appearance of a blond god, in gray tweed. What a delightful time +of it Richard Le Gallienne’s hero had on his quest! He could not stroll down +the most innocent looking lane, he might not loiter along the most +out-of-the-way path, he never ambled over the barest piece of country road, +that he did not come face to face with some witty and lovely woman creature, +also in search of things unconventional, and able to quote charming lines from +Chaucer to him.” +</p> + +<p> +Ah, but that was England, and this is America. I realize it sadly as I step out +of the road to allow a yellow milk wagon to rattle past. The red letters on the +yellow milk cart inform the reader that it is the property of August +Schimmelpfennig, of Hickory Grove. The Schimmelpfennig eye may be seen staring +down upon me from the bit of glass in the rear as the cart rattles ahead, +doubtless being suspicious of hatless young women wandering along country roads +at dusk, alone. There was that in the staring eye to which I took exception. It +wore an expression which made me feel sure that the mouth below it was all +a-grin, if I could but have seen it. It was bad enough to be stared at by the +fishy Schimmelpfennig eye, but to be grinned at by the Schimmelpfennig mouth!—I +resented it. In order to show my resentment I turned my back on the +Schimmelpfennig cart and pretended to look up the road which I had just +traveled. +</p> + +<p> +I pretended to look up the road, and then I did look in earnest. No wonder the +Schimmelpfennig eye and mouth had worn the leering expression. The blond god in +gray tweed was swinging along toward me! I knew that he was blond because he +wore no hat and the last rays of the October sun were making a little halo +effect about his head. I knew that his gray clothes were tweed because every +well regulated hero on a country road wears tweed. It’s almost a religion with +them. He was not near enough to make a glance at his features possible. I +turned around and continued my walk. The yellow cart, with its impudent +Schimmelpfennig leer, was disappearing in a cloud of dust. Shades of the +“Duchess” and Bertha M. Clay! How does one greet a blond god in gray tweed on a +country road, when one has him! +</p> + +<p> +The blond god solved the problem for me. +</p> + +<p> +“Hi!” he called. I did not turn. There was a moment’s silence. Then there came +a shrill, insistent whistle, of the kind that is made by placing four fingers +between the teeth. It is a favorite with the gallery gods. I would not have +believed that gray tweed gods stooped to it. +</p> + +<p> +“Hi!” called the voice again, very near now. “Lieber Gott! Never have I seen so +proud a young woman!” +</p> + +<p> +I whirled about to face Von Gerhard; a strangely boyish and unprofessional +looking Von Gerhard. +</p> + +<p> +“Young man,” I said severely, “have you been a-follerin’ of me?” +</p> + +<p> +“For miles,” groaned he, as we shook hands. “You walk like a grenadier. I am +sent by the charming Norah to tell you that you are to come home to mix the +salad dressing, for there is company for supper. I am the company.” +</p> + +<p> +I was still a bit dazed. “But how did you know which road to take? And when—” +</p> + +<p> +“Wunderbar, nicht wahr?” laughed Von Gerhard. “But really quite simple. I come +in on an earlier train than I had expected, chat a moment with sister Norah, +inquire after the health of my patient, and am told that she is running away +from a horde of blue devils!—quote your charming sister—that have swarmed about +her all day. What direction did her flight take? I ask. Sister Norah shrugs her +shoulders and presumes that it is the road which shows the reddest and +yellowest autumn colors. That road will be your road. So!” +</p> + +<p> +“Pooh! How simple! That is the second disappointment you have given me to-day.” +</p> + +<p> +“But how is that possible? The first has not had time to happen.” +</p> + +<p> +“The first was yourself,” I replied, rudely. +</p> + +<p> +“I had been longing for an adventure. And when I saw you ’way up the road, such +an unusual figure for our Michigan country roads, I forgot that I was a +disappointed old grass widder with a history, and I grew young again, and my +heart jumped up into my throat, and I sez to mesilf, sez I: ‘Enter the hero!’ +And it was only you.” +</p> + +<p> +Von Gerhard stared a moment, a curious look on his face. Then he laughed one of +those rare laughs of his, and I joined him because I was strangely young, +light, and happy to be alive. +</p> + +<p> +“You walk and enjoy walking, yes?” asked Von Gerhard, scanning my face. “Your +cheeks they are like—well, as unlike the cheeks of the German girls as Diana’s +are unlike a dairy maid’s. And the nerfs? They no longer jump, eh?” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, they jump, but not with weariness. They jump to get into action again. +From a life of too much excitement I have gone to the other extreme. I shall be +dead of ennui in another six months.” +</p> + +<p> +“Ennui?” mused he, “and you are—how is it?—twenty-eight years, yes? H’m!” +</p> + +<p> +There was a world of exasperation in the last exclamation. +</p> + +<p> +“I am a thousand years old,” it made me exclaim, “a million!” +</p> + +<p> +“I will prove to you that you are sixteen,” declared Von Gerhard, calmly. +</p> + +<p> +We had come to a fork in the road. At the right the narrower road ran between +two rows of great maples that made an arch of golden splendor. The frost had +kissed them into a gorgeous radiance. +</p> + +<p> +“Sunshine Avenue,” announced Von Gerhard. “It beckons us away from home, and +supper and salad dressing and duty, but who knows what we shall find at the end +of it!” +</p> + +<p> +“Let’s explore,” I suggested. “It is splendidly golden enough to be enchanted.” +</p> + +<p> +We entered the yellow canopied pathway. +</p> + +<p> +“Let us pretend this is Germany, yes?” pleaded Von Gerhard. “This golden +pathway will end in a neat little glass-roofed restaurant, with tables and +chairs outside, and comfortable German papas and mammas and pig-tailed children +sitting at the tables, drinking coffee or beer. There will be stout waiters, +and a red-faced host. And we will seat ourselves at one of the tables, and I +will wave my hand, and one of the stout waiters will come flying. ‘Will you +have coffee, <i>Fraulein</i>, or beer?’ It sounds prosaic, but it is very, very +good, as you will see. Pathways in Germany always end in coffee and Kuchen and +waiters in white aprons.” +</p> + +<p> +But, “Oh, no!” I exclaimed, for his mood was infectious. “This is France. +Please! The golden pathway will end in a picturesque little French farm, with a +dairy. And in the doorway of the farmhouse there will be a red-skirted peasant +woman, with a white cap! and a baby on her arm! and sabots! Oh, surely she will +wear sabots!” +</p> + +<p> +“Most certainly she will wear sabots,” Von Gerhard said, heatedly, “and blue +knitted stockings. And the baby’s name is Mimi!” +</p> + +<p> +We had taken hands and were skipping down the pathway now, like two excited +children. +</p> + +<p> +“Let’s run,” I suggested. And run we did, like two mad creatures, until we +rounded a gentle curve and brought up, panting, within a foot of a decrepit +rail fence. The rail fence enclosed a stubbly, lumpy field. The field was +inhabited by an inquiring cow. Von Gerhard and I stood quite still, hand in +hand, gazing at the cow. Then we turned slowly and looked at each other. +</p> + +<p> +“This pathway of glorified maples ends in a cow,” I said, solemnly. At which we +both shrieked with mirth, leaning on the decrepit fence and mopping our eyes +with our handkerchiefs. +</p> + +<p> +“Did I not say you were sixteen?” taunted Von Gerhard. We were getting +surprisingly well acquainted. +</p> + +<p> +“Such a scolding as we shall get! It will be quite dark before we are home. +Norah will be tearing her hair.” +</p> + +<p> +It was a true prophecy. As we stampeded up the steps the door was flung open, +disclosing a tragic figure. +</p> + +<p> +“Such a steak!” wailed Norah, “and it has been done for hours and hours, and +now it looks like a piece of fried ear. Where have you two driveling idiots +been? And mushrooms too.” +</p> + +<p> +“She means that the ruined steak was further enhanced by mushrooms,” I +explained in response to Von Gerhard’s bewildered look. We marched into the +house, trying not to appear like sneak thieves. Max, pipe in mouth, surveyed us +blandly. +</p> + +<p> +“Fine color you’ve got, Dawn,” he remarked. +</p> + +<p> +“There is such a thing as overdoing this health business,” snapped Norah, with +a great deal of acidity for her. “I didn’t tell you to make them purple, you +know.” +</p> + +<p> +Max turned to Von Gerhard. “Now what does she mean by that do you suppose, eh +Ernst?” +</p> + +<p> +“Softly, brother, softly!” whispered Von Gerhard. “When women exchange remarks +that apparently are simple, and yet that you, a man, cannot understand, then +know there is a woman’s war going on, and step softly, and hold your peace. +Aber ruhig!” +</p> + +<p> +Calm was restored with the appearance of the steak, which was found to have +survived the period of waiting, and to be incredibly juicy and tender. +Presently we were all settled once more in the great beamed living room, Sis at +the piano, the two men smoking their after-dinner cigars with that idiotic +expression of contentment which always adorns the masculine face on such +occasions. +</p> + +<p> +I looked at them—at those three who had done so much for my happiness and well +being, and something within me said: “Now! Speak now!” Norah was playing very +softly, so that the Spalpeens upstairs might not be disturbed. I took a long +breath and made the plunge. +</p> + +<p> +“Norah, if you’ll continue the slow music, I’ll be much obliged. ‘The time has +come, the Walrus said, to talk of many things.’” +</p> + +<p> +“Don’t be absurd,” said Norah, over her shoulder, and went on playing. +</p> + +<p> +“I never was more serious in my life, good folkses all. I’ve got to be. This +butterfly existence has gone on long enough. Norah, and Max, and Mr. Doctor +Man, I am going away.” +</p> + +<p> +Norah’s hands crashed down on the piano keys with a jangling discord. She swung +about to face me. +</p> + +<p> +“Not New York again, Dawn! Not New York!” +</p> + +<p> +“I am afraid so,” I answered. +</p> + +<p> +Max—bless his great, brotherly heart—rose and came over to me and put a hand on +my shoulder. +</p> + +<p> +“Don’t you like it here, girlie? Want to be hauled home on a shutter again, do +you? You know that as long as we have a home, you have one. We need you here.” +</p> + +<p> +But I shook my head. From his chair at the other side of the room I could feel +Von Gerhard’s gaze fixed upon us. He had said nothing. +</p> + +<p> +“Need me! No one needs me. Don’t worry; I’m not going to become maudlin about +it. But I don’t belong here, and you know, it. I have my work to do. Norah is +the best sister that a woman ever had. And Max, you’re an angel brother-in-law. +But how can I stay on here and keep my self-respect?” I took Max’s big hand in +mine and gathered courage from it. +</p> + +<p> +“But you have been working,” wailed Norah, “every morning. And I thought the +book was coming on beautifully. And I’m sure it will be a wonderful book, Dawn +dear. You are so clever.” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, the book—it is too uncertain. Perhaps it will go, but perhaps it won’t. +And then—what? It will be months before the book is properly polished off. And +then I may peddle it around for more months. No; I can’t afford to trifle with +uncertainties. Every newspaper man or woman writes a book. It’s like having the +measles. There is not a newspaper man living who does not believe, in his +heart, that if he could only take a month or two away from the telegraph desk +or the police run, he could write the book of the year, not to speak of the +great American Play. Why, just look at me! I’ve only been writing seriously for +a few weeks, and already the best magazines in the country are refusing my +manuscripts daily.” +</p> + +<p> +“Don’t joke,” said Norah, coming over to me, “I can’t stand it.” +</p> + +<p> +“Why not? Much better than weeping, isn’t it? And anyway, I’m no subject for +tears any more. Dr. von Gerhard will tell you how well and strong I am. Won’t +you, Herr Doktor?” +</p> + +<p> +“Well,” said Von Gerhard, in his careful, deliberate English, “since you ask +me, I should say that you might last about one year, in New York.” +</p> + +<p> +“There! What did I tell you!” cried Norah. +</p> + +<p> +“What utter blither!” I scoffed, turning to glare at Von Gerhard. +</p> + +<p> +“Gently,” warned Max. “Such disrespect to the man who pulled you back from the +edge of the yawning grave only six months ago!” +</p> + +<p> +“Yawning fiddlesticks!” snapped I, elegantly. “There was nothing wrong with me +except that I wanted to be fussed over. And I have been. And I’ve loved it. But +it must stop now.” I rose and walked over to the table and faced Von Gerhard, +sitting there in the depths of a great chair. “You do not seem to realize that +I am not free to come and go, and work and play, and laugh and live like other +women. There is my living to make. And there is—Peter Orme. Do you think that I +could stay on here like this? Oh, I know that Max is not a poor man. But he is +not a rich man, either. And there are the children to be educated, and besides, +Max married Norah O’Hara, not the whole O’Hara tribe. I want to go to work. I +am not a free woman, but when I am working, I forget, and am almost happy. I +tell you I must be well again! I will be well! I am well!” +</p> + +<p> +At the end of which dramatic period I spoiled the whole effect by bowing my +head on the table and giving way to a fit of weeping such as I had not had +since the days of my illness. +</p> + +<p> +“Looks like it,” said Max, at which I decided to laugh, and the situation was +saved. +</p> + +<p> +It was then that Von Gerhard proposed the thing that set us staring at him in +amused wonder. He came over and stood looking down at us, his hands outspread +upon the big library table, his body bent forward in an attitude of eager +intentness. I remember thinking what wonderful hands they were, true indexes of +the man’s character; broad, white, surgeonly hands; the fingers almost square +at the tips. They were hands as different from those slender, nervous, +unsteady, womanly hands of Peter Orme as any hands could be, I thought. They +were hands made for work that called for delicate strength, if such a paradox +could be; hands to cling to; to gain courage from; hands that spelled power and +reserve. I looked at them, fascinated, as I often had done before, and thought +that I never had seen such SANE hands. +</p> + +<p> +“You have done me the honor to include me in this little family conclave,” +began Ernst von Gerhard. “I am going to take advantage of your trust. I shall +give you some advice—a thing I usually keep for unpleasant professional +occasions. Do not go back to New York.” +</p> + +<p> +“But I know New York. And New York—the newspaper part of it—knows me. Where +else can I go?” +</p> + +<p> +“You have your book to finish. You could never finish it there, is it not so?” +</p> + +<p> +I’m afraid I shrugged my shoulders. It was all so much harder than I had +expected. What did they want me to do? I asked myself, bitterly. +</p> + +<p> +Von Gerhard went on. “Why not go where the newspaper work will not be so +nerve-racking? where you still might find time for this other work that is dear +to you, and that may bring its reward in time.” He reached out and took my +hand, into his great, steady clasp. “Come to the happy, healthy, German town +called Milwaukee, yes? Ach, you may laugh. But newspaper work is newspaper work +the world over, because men and women are just men and women the world over. +But there you could live sanely, and work not too hard, and there would be +spare hours for the book that is near your heart. And I—I will speak of you to +Norberg, of the Post. And on Sundays, if you are good, I may take you along the +marvelous lake drives in my little red runabout, yes? Aber wunderbar, those +drives are! So.” +</p> + +<p> +Then—“Milwaukee!” shrieked Max and Norah and I, together. “After New +York—Milwaukee!” +</p> + +<p> +“Laugh,” said Von Gerhard, quite composedly. “I give you until to-morrow +morning to stop laughing. At the end of that time it will not seem quite so +amusing. No joke is so funny after one has contemplated it for twelve hours.” +</p> + +<p> +The voice of Norah, the temptress, sounded close to my ear. “Dawn dear, just +think how many million miles nearer you would be to Max, and me, and home.” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, you have all gone mad! The thing is impossible. I shan’t go back to a +country sheet in my old age. I suppose that in two more years I shall be +editing a mothers’ column on an agricultural weekly.” +</p> + +<p> +“Norberg would be delighted to get you,” mused Von Gerhard, “and it would be +day work instead of night work.” +</p> + +<p> +“And you would send me a weekly bulletin on Dawn’s health, wouldn’t you, +Ernst?” pleaded Norah. “And you’d teach her to drink beer and she shall grow so +fat that the Spalpeens won’t know their auntie.” +</p> + +<p> +At last—“How much do they pay?” I asked, in desperation. And the thing that had +appeared so absurd at first began to take on the shape of reality. +</p> + +<p> +Von Gerhard did speak to Norberg of the Post. And I am to go to Milwaukee next +week. The skeleton of the book manuscript is stowed safely away in the bottom +of my trunk and Norah has filled in the remaining space with sundry flannels, +and hot water bags and medicine flasks, so that I feel like a schoolgirl on her +way to boarding-school, instead of like a seasoned old newspaper woman with a +capital PAST and a shaky future. I wish that I were chummier with the Irish +saints. I need them now. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap06"></a>CHAPTER VI.<br/> +STEEPED IN GERMAN</h2> + +<p> +I am living at a little private hotel just across from the court house square +with its scarlet geraniums and its pretty fountain. The house is filled with +German civil engineers, mechanical engineers, and Herr Professors from the +German academy. On Sunday mornings we have Pfannkuchen with currant jelly, and +the Herr Professors come down to breakfast in fearful flappy German slippers. +I’m the only creature in the place that isn’t just over from Germany. Even the +dog is a dachshund. It is so unbelievable that every day or two I go down to +Wisconsin Street and gaze at the stars and stripes floating from the government +building, in order to convince myself that this is America. It needs only a +Kaiser or so, and a bit of Unter den Linden to be quite complete. +</p> + +<p> +The little private hotel is kept by Herr and Frau Knapf. After one has seen +them, one quite understands why the place is steeped in a German atmosphere up +to its eyebrows. +</p> + +<p> +I never would have found it myself. It was Doctor von Gerhard who had suggested +Knapf’s, and who had paved the way for my coming here. +</p> + +<p> +“You will find it quite unlike anything you have ever tried before,” he warned +me. “Very German it is, and very, very clean, and most inexpensive. Also I +think you will find material there—how is it you call it?—copy, yes? Well, +there should be copy in plenty; and types! But you shall see.” +</p> + +<p> +From the moment I rang the Knapf doorbell I saw. The dapper, cheerful Herr +Knapf, wearing a disappointed Kaiser Wilhelm mustache, opened the door. I +scarcely had begun to make my wishes known when he interrupted with a large +wave of the hand, and an elaborate German bow. +</p> + +<p> +“Ach yes! You would be the lady of whom the Herr Doktor has spoken. Gewiss! +Frau Orme, not? But so a young lady I did not expect to see. A room we have +saved for you—aber wunderhubsch! It makes me much pleasure to show. Folgen Sie +mir, bitte.” +</p> + +<p> +“You—you speak English?” I faltered, with visions of my evenings spent in +expressing myself in the sign language. +</p> + +<p> +“Englisch? But yes. Here in Milwaukee it gives aber mostly German. And then +too, I have been only twenty years in this country. And always in Milwaukee. +Here is it gemutlich—and mostly it gives German.” +</p> + +<p> +I tried not to look frightened, and followed him up to the “but wonderfully +beautiful” room. To my joy I found it high-ceilinged, airy, and huge, with a +great vault of a clothes closet bristling with hooks, and boasting an +unbelievable number of shelves. My trunk was swallowed up in it. Never in all +my boarding-house experience have I seen such a room, or such a closet. The +closet must have been built for a bride’s trousseau in the days of hoop-skirts +and scuttle bonnets. There was a separate and distinct hook for each and every +one of my most obscure garments. I tried to spread them out. I used two hooks +to every petticoat, and three for my kimono, and when I had finished there were +rows of hooks to spare. Tiers of shelves yawned for hat-boxes which I possessed +not. Bluebeard’s wives could have held a family reunion in that closet and +invited all of Solomon’s spouses. Finally, in desperation, I gathered all my +poor garments together and hung them in a sociable bunch on the hooks nearest +the door. How I should have loved to have shown that closet to a select circle +of New York boarding-house landladies! +</p> + +<p> +After wrestling in vain with the forest of hooks, I turned my attention to my +room. I yanked a towel thing off the center table and replaced it with a scarf +that Peter had picked up in the Orient. I set up my typewriter in a corner near +a window and dug a gay cushion or two and a chafing-dish out of my trunk. I +distributed photographs of Norah and Max and the Spalpeens separately, in +couples, and in groups. Then I bounced up and down in a huge yellow brocade +chair and found it unbelievably soft and comfortable. Of course, I reflected, +after the big veranda, and the apple tree at Norah’s, and the leather-cushioned +comfort of her library, and the charming tones of her Oriental rugs and +hangings— +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, stop your carping, Dawn!” I told myself. “You can’t expect charming tones, +and Oriental do-dads and apple trees in a German boarding-house. Anyhow there’s +running water in the room. For general utility purposes that’s better than a +pink prayer rug.” +</p> + +<p> +There was a time when I thought that it was the luxuries that made life worth +living. That was in the old Bohemian days. +</p> + +<p> +“Necessities!” I used to laugh, “Pooh! Who cares about the necessities! What if +the dishpan does leak? It is the luxuries that count.” +</p> + +<p> +Bohemia and luxuries! Half a dozen lean boarding-house years have steered me +safely past that. After such a course in common sense you don’t stand back and +examine the pictures of a pink Moses in a nest of purple bullrushes, or +complain because the bureau does not harmonize with the wall paper. Neither do +you criticize the blue and saffron roses that form the rug pattern. ’Deedy not! +Instead you warily punch the mattress to see if it is rock-stuffed, and you +snoop into the clothes closet; you inquire the distance to the nearest bath +room, and whether the payments are weekly or monthly, and if there is a baby in +the room next door. Oh, there’s nothing like living in a boarding-house for +cultivating the materialistic side. +</p> + +<p> +But I was to find that here at Knapf’s things were quite different. Not only +was Ernst von Gerhard right in saying that it was “very German, and very, very +clean;” he recognized good copy when he saw it. Types! I never dreamed that +such faces existed outside of the old German woodcuts that one sees +illustrating time-yellowed books. +</p> + +<p> +I had thought myself hardened to strange boarding-house dining rooms, with +their batteries of cold, critical women’s eyes. I had learned to walk unruffled +in the face of the most carping, suspicious and the fishiest of these +batteries. Therefore on my first day at Knapf’s I went down to dinner in the +evening, quite composed and secure in the knowledge that my collar was clean +and that there was no flaw to find in the fit of my skirt in the back. +</p> + +<p> +As I opened the door of my room I heard sounds as of a violent altercation in +progress downstairs. I leaned over the balusters and listened. The sounds rose +and fell and swelled and boomed. They were German sounds that started in the +throat, gutturally, and spluttered their way up. They were sounds such as I had +not heard since the night I was sent to cover a Socialist meeting in New York. +I tip-toed down the stairs, although I might have fallen down and landed with a +thud without having been heard. The din came from the direction of the dining +room. Well, come what might, I would not falter. After all, it could not be +worse than that awful time when I had helped cover the teamsters’ strike. I +peered into the dining room. +</p> + +<p> +The thunder of conversation went on as before. But there was no bloodshed. +Nothing but men and women sitting at small tables, eating and talking. When I +say eating and talking I do not mean that those acts were carried on +separately. Not at all. The eating and the talking went on simultaneously, +neither interrupting the other. A fork full of food and a mouthful of +ten-syllabled German words met, wrestled, and passed one another, unscathed. I +stood in the doorway, fascinated, until Herr Knapf spied me, took a nimble skip +in my direction, twisted the discouraged mustaches into temporary +sprightliness, and waved me toward a table in the center of the room. +</p> + +<p> +Then a frightful thing happened. When I think of it now I turn cold. The +battery was not that of women’s eyes, but of men’s. And conversation ceased! +The uproar and the booming of vowels was hushed. The silence was appalling. I +looked up in horror to find that what seemed to be millions of staring blue +eyes were fixed on me. The stillness was so thick that you could cut it with a +knife. Such men! Immediately I dubbed them the aborigines, and prayed that I +might find adjectives with which to describe their foreheads. +</p> + +<p> +It appeared that the aborigines were especially favored in that they were all +placed at one long, untidy table at the head of the room. The rest of us sat at +small tables. Later I learned that they were all engineers. At meals they +discuss engineering problems in the most awe-inspiring German. After supper +they smoke impossible German pipes and dozens of cigarettes. They have bulging, +knobby foreheads and bristling pompadours, and some of the rawest of them wear +wild-looking beards, and thick spectacles, and cravats and trousers that Lew +Fields never even dreamed of. They are all graduates of high-sounding foreign +universities and are horribly learned and brilliant, but they are the worst +mannered lot I ever saw. +</p> + +<p> +In the silence that followed my entrance a red-cheeked maid approached me and +asked what I would have for supper. Supper? I asked. Was not dinner served in +the evening? The aborigines nudged each other and sniggered like fiendish +little school-boys. +</p> + +<p> +The red-cheeked maid looked at me pityingly. Dinner was served in the middle of +the day, naturlich. For supper there was Wienerschnitzel, and kalter +Aufschnitt, also Kartoffel Salat, and fresh Kaffeekuchen. +</p> + +<p> +The room hung breathless on my decision. I wrestled with a horrible desire to +shriek and run. Instead I managed to mumble an order. The aborigines turned to +one another inquiringly. +</p> + +<p> +“Was hat sie gesagt?” they asked. “What did she say?” Whereupon they fell to +discussing my hair and teeth and eyes and complexion in German as crammed with +adjectives as was the rye bread over which I was choking with caraway. The +entire table watched me with wide-eyed, unabashed interest while I ate, and I +advanced by quick stages from red-faced confusion to purple mirth. It appeared +that my presence was the ground for a heavy German joke in connection with the +youngest of the aborigines. He was a very plump and greasy looking aborigine +with a doll-like rosiness of cheek and a scared and bristling pompadour and +very small pig-eyes. The other aborigines clapped him on the back and roared: +</p> + +<p> +“Ai Fritz! Jetzt brauchst du nicht zu weinen! Deine Lena war aber nicht so +huebsch, eh?” +</p> + +<p> +Later I learned that Fritz was the newest arrival and that since coming to this +country he had been rather low in spirits in consequence of a certain +flaxen-haired Lena whom he had left behind in the fatherland. +</p> + +<p> +An examination of the dining room and its other occupants served to keep my +mind off the hateful long table. The dining room was a double one, the floor +carpetless and clean. There was a little platform at one end with hardy-looking +plants in pots near the windows. The wall was ornamented with very German +pictures of very plump, bare-armed German girls being chucked under the chin by +very dashing, mustachioed German lieutenants. It was all very bare, and strange +and foreign to my eyes, and yet there was something bright and comfortable +about it. I felt that I was going to like it, aborigines and all. The men drink +beer with their supper and read the Staats-Zeitung and the Germania and foreign +papers that I never heard of. It is uncanny, in these United States. But it is +going to be bully for my German. +</p> + +<p> +After my first letter home Norah wrote frantically, demanding to know if I was +the only woman in the house. I calmed her fears by assuring her that, while the +men were interesting and ugly with the fascinating ugliness of a bulldog, the +women were crushed looking and uninteresting and wore hopeless hats. I have +written Norah and Max reams about this household, from the aborigines to Minna, +who tidies my room and serves my meals, and admires my clothes. Minna is +related to Frau Knapf, whom I have never seen. Minna is inordinately fond of +dress, and her remarks anent my own garments are apt to be a trifle +disconcerting, especially when she intersperses her recital of dinner dishes +with admiring adjectives directed at my blouse or hat. Thus: +</p> + +<p> +“Wir haben roast beef, und spareribs mit Sauerkraut, und schicken—ach, wie +schon, Frau Orme! Aber ganz prachtvoll!” Her eyes and hands are raised toward +heaven. +</p> + +<p> +“What’s prachtful?” I ask, startled. “The chicken?” +</p> + +<p> +“Nein; your waist. Selbst gemacht?” +</p> + +<p> +I am even becoming hardened to the manners of the aborigines. It used to fuss +me to death to meet one of them in the halls. They always stopped short, +brought heels together with a click, bent stiffly from the waist, and +thundered: “Nabben’, Fraulein!” +</p> + +<p> +I have learned to take the salutation quite calmly, and even the wildest, most +spectacled and knobby-browed aborigine cannot startle me. Nonchalantly I reply, +“Nabben’,” and wish that Norah could but see me in the act. +</p> + +<p> +When I told Ernst von Gerhard about them, he laughed a little and shrugged his +shoulders and said: +</p> + +<p> +“Na, you should not look so young, and so pretty, and so unmarried. In Germany +a married woman brushes her hair quite smoothly back, and pins it in a hard +knob. And she knows nothing of such bewildering collars and fluffy frilled +things in the front of the blouse. How do you call them—jabots?” +</p> + +<p> +Von Gerhard has not behaved at all nicely. I did not see him until two weeks +after my arrival in Milwaukee, although he telephoned twice to ask if there was +anything that he could do to make me comfortable. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes,” I had answered the last time that I heard his voice over the telephone. +“It would be a whole heap of comfort to me just to see you. You are the nearest +thing to Norah that there is in this whole German town, and goodness knows +you’re far from Irish.” +</p> + +<p> +He came. The weather had turned suddenly cold and he was wearing a fur-lined +coat with a collar of fur. He looked most amazingly handsome and blond and +splendidly healthy. The clasp of his hands was just as big and sure as ever. +</p> + +<p> +“You have no idea how glad I am to see you,” I told him. “If you had, you would +have been here days ago. Aren’t you rather ill-mannered and neglectful, +considering that you are responsible for my being here?” +</p> + +<p> +“I did not know whether you, a married woman, would care to have me here,” he +said, in his composed way. “In a place like this people are not always kind +enough to take the trouble to understand. And I would not have them raise their +eyebrows at you, not for—” +</p> + +<p> +“Married!” I laughed, some imp of willfulness seizing me, “I’m not married. +What mockery to say that I am married simply because I must write madam before +my name! I am not married, and I shall talk to whom I please.” +</p> + +<p> +And then Von Gerhard did a surprising thing. He took two great steps over to my +chair, and grasped my hands and pulled me to my feet. I stared up at him like a +silly creature. His face was suffused with a dull red, and his eyes were +unbelievably blue and bright. He had my hands in his great grip, but his voice +was very quiet and contained. +</p> + +<p> +“You are married,” he said. “Never forget that for a moment. You are bound, +hard and fast and tight. And you are for no man. You are married as much as +though that poor creature in the mad house were here working for you, instead +of the case being reversed as it is. So.” +</p> + +<p> +“What do you mean!” I cried, wrenching myself away indignantly. “What right +have you to talk to me like this? You know what my life has been, and how I +have tried to smile with my lips and stay young in my heart! I thought you +understood. Norah thought so too, and Max—” +</p> + +<p> +“I do understand. I understand so well that I would not have you talk as you +did a moment ago. And I said what I said not so much for your sake, as for +mine. For see, I too must remember that you write madam before your name. And +sometimes it is hard for me to remember.” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh,” I said, like a simpleton, and stood staring after him as he quietly +gathered up his hat and gloves and left me standing there. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap07"></a>CHAPTER VII.<br/> +BLACKIE’S PHILOSOPHY</h2> + +<p> +I did not write Norah about Von Gerhard. After all, I told myself, there was +nothing to write. And so I was the first to break the solemn pact that we had +made. +</p> + +<p> +“You will write everything, won’t you, Dawn dear?” Norah had pleaded, with +tears in her pretty eyes. “Promise me. We’ve been nearer to each other in these +last few months than we have been since we were girls. And I’ve loved it so. +Please don’t do as you did during those miserable years in New York, when you +were fighting your troubles alone and we knew nothing of it. You wrote only the +happy things. Promise me you’ll write the unhappy ones too—though the saints +forbid that there should be any to write! And Dawn, don’t you dare to forget +your heavy underwear in November. Those lake breezes!—Well, some one has to +tell you, and I can’t leave those to Von Gerhard. He has promised to act as +monitor over your health.” +</p> + +<p> +And so I promised. I crammed my letters with descriptions of the Knapf +household. I assured her that I was putting on so much weight that the skirts +which formerly hung about me in limp, dejected folds now refused to meet in the +back, and all the hooks and eyes were making faces at each other. My cheeks, I +told her, looked as if I were wearing plumpers, and I was beginning to waddle +and puff as I walked. +</p> + +<p> +Norah made frantic answer: +</p> + +<p> +“For mercy’s sake child, be careful or you’ll be FAT!” +</p> + +<p> +To which I replied: “Don’t care if I am. Rather be hunky and healthy than +skinny and sick. Have tried both.” +</p> + +<p> +It is impossible to avoid becoming round-cheeked when one is working on a paper +that allows one to shut one’s desk and amble comfortably home for dinner at +least five days in the week. Everybody is at least plump in this comfortable, +gemutlich town, where everybody placidly locks his shop or office and goes home +at noon to dine heavily on soup and meat and vegetables and pudding, washed +down by the inevitable beer and followed by forty winks on the dining room sofa +with the German Zeitung spread comfortably over the head as protection against +the flies. +</p> + +<p> +There is a fascination about the bright little city. There is about it +something quaint and foreign, as though a cross-section of the old world had +been dumped bodily into the lap of Wisconsin. It does not seem at all strange +to hear German spoken everywhere—in the streets, in the shops, in the theaters, +in the street cars. One day I chanced upon a sign hung above the doorway of a +little German bakery over on the north side. There were Hornchen and +Kaffeekuchen in the windows, and a brood of flaxen-haired and sticky children +in the back of the shop. I stopped, open-mouthed, to stare at the worn sign +tacked over the door. +</p> + +<p> +“Hier wird Englisch gesprochen,” it announced. +</p> + +<p> +I blinked. Then I read it again. I shut my eyes, and opened them again +suddenly. The fat German letters spoke their message as before—“English spoken +here.” +</p> + +<p> +On reaching the office I told Norberg, the city editor, about my find. He was +not impressed. Norberg never is impressed. He is the most soul-satisfying and +theatrical city editor that I have ever met. He is fat, and unbelievably +nimble, and keen-eyed, and untiring. He says, “Hell!” when things go wrong; he +smokes innumerable cigarettes, inhaling the fumes and sending out the thin +wraith of smoke with little explosive sounds between tongue and lips; he wears +blue shirts, and no collar to speak of, and his trousers are kept in place only +by a miracle and an inefficient looking leather belt. +</p> + +<p> +When he refused to see the story in the little German bakery sign I began to +argue. +</p> + +<p> +“But man alive, this is America! I think I know a story when I see it. Suppose +you were traveling in Germany, and should come across a sign over a shop, +saying: ‘Hier wird Deutsch gesprochen.’ Wouldn’t you think you were dreaming?” +</p> + +<p> +Norberg waved an explanatory hand. “This isn’t America. This is Milwaukee. +After you’ve lived here a year or so you’ll understand what I mean. If we +should run a story of that sign, with a two-column cut, Milwaukee wouldn’t even +see the joke.” +</p> + +<p> +But it was not necessary that I live in Milwaukee a year or so in order to +understand its peculiarities, for I had a personal conductor and efficient +guide in the new friend that had come into my life with the first day of my +work on the Post. Surely no woman ever had a stronger friend than little +“Blackie” Griffith, sporting editor of the Milwaukee Post. We became friends, +not step by step, but in one gigantic leap such as sometimes triumphs over the +gap between acquaintance and liking. +</p> + +<p> +I never shall forget my first glimpse of him. He strolled into the city room +from his little domicile across the hall. A shabby, disreputable, out-at-elbows +office coat was worn over his ultra-smart street clothes, and he was puffing at +a freakish little pipe in the shape of a miniature automobile. He eyed me a +moment from the doorway, a fantastic, elfin little figure. I thought that I had +never seen so strange and so ugly a face as that of this little brown Welshman +with his lank, black hair and his deep-set, uncanny black eyes. Suddenly he +trotted over to me with a quick little step. In the doorway he had looked +forty. Now a smile illumined the many lines of his dark countenance, and in +some miraculous way he looked twenty. +</p> + +<p> +“Are you the New York importation?” he, asked, his great black eyes searching +my face. +</p> + +<p> +“I’m what’s left of it,” I replied, meekly. +</p> + +<p> +“I understand you’ve been in for repairs. Must of met up with somethin’ on the +road. They say the goin’ is full of bumps in N’ York.” +</p> + +<p> +“Bumps!” I laughed, “it’s uphill every bit of the road, and yet you’ve got to +go full speed to get anywhere. But I’m running easily again, thank you.” +</p> + +<p> +He waved away a cloud of pipe-smoke, and knowingly squinted through the haze. +“We don’t speed up much here. And they ain’t no hill climbin’ t’ speak of. But +say, if you ever should hit a nasty place on the route, toot your siren for me +and I’ll come. I’m a regular little human garage when it comes to patchin’ up +those aggravatin’ screws that need oilin’. And, say, don’t let Norberg bully +you. My name’s Blackie. I’m goin’ t’ like you. Come on over t’ my sanctum once +in a while and I’ll show you my scrapbook and let you play with the office +revolver.” +</p> + +<p> +And so it happened that I had not been in Milwaukee a month before Blackie and +I were friends. +</p> + +<p> +Norah was horrified. My letters were full of him. I told her that she might get +a more complete mental picture of him if she knew that he wore the pinkest +shirts, and the purplest neckties, and the blackest and whitest of +black-and-white checked vests that ever aroused the envy of an office boy, and +beneath them all, the gentlest of hearts. And therefore one loves him. There is +a sort of spell about the illiterate little slangy, brown Welshman. He is the +presiding genius of the place. The office boys adore him. The Old Man takes his +advice in selecting a new motor car; the managing editor arranges his lunch +hour to suit Blackie’s and they go off to the Press club together, arm in arm. +It is Blackie who lends a sympathetic ear to the society editor’s tale of woe. +He hires and fires the office boys; boldly he criticizes the news editor’s +makeup; he receives delegations of tan-coated, red-faced prizefighting-looking +persons; he gently explains to the photographer why that last batch of cuts +make their subjects look as if afflicted with the German measles; he arbitrates +any row that the newspaper may have with such dignitaries as the mayor or the +chief of police; he manages boxing shows; he skims about in a smart little +roadster; he edits the best sporting page in the city; and at four o’clock of +an afternoon he likes to send around the corner for a chunk of devil’s food +cake with butter filling from the Woman’s Exchange. Blackie never went to +school to speak of. He doesn’t know was from were. But he can “see” a story +quicker, and farther and clearer than any newspaper man I ever knew—excepting +Peter Orme. +</p> + +<p> +There is a legend about to the effect that one day the managing editor, who is +Scotch and without a sense of humor, ordered that Blackie should henceforth be +addressed by his surname of Griffith, as being a more dignified appellation for +the use of fellow reporters, hangers-on, copy kids, office boys and others +about the big building. +</p> + +<p> +The day after the order was issued the managing editor summoned a freckled +youth and thrust a sheaf of galley proofs into his hand. +</p> + +<p> +“Take those to Mr. Griffith,” he ordered without looking up. +</p> + +<p> +“T’ who?” +</p> + +<p> +“To Mr. Griffith,” said the managing editor, laboriously, and scowling a bit. +</p> + +<p> +The boy took three unwilling steps toward the door. Then he turned a puzzled +face toward the managing editor. +</p> + +<p> +“Say, honest, I ain’t never heard of dat guy. He must be a new one. W’ere’ll I +find him?” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, damn! Take those proofs to Blackie!” roared the managing editor. And thus +ended Blackie’s enforced flight into the realms of dignity. +</p> + +<p> +All these things, and more, I wrote to the scandalized Norah. I informed her +that he wore more diamond rings and scarf pins and watch fobs than a railroad +conductor, and that his checked top-coat shrieked to Heaven. +</p> + +<p> +There came back a letter in which every third word was underlined, and which +ended by asking what the morals of such a man could be. +</p> + +<p> +Then I tried to make Blackie more real to Norah who, in all her sheltered life, +had never come in contact with a man like this. +</p> + +<p> +“... As for his morals—or what you would consider his morals, Sis—they probably +are a deep crimson; but I’ll swear there is no yellow streak. I never have +heard anything more pathetic than his story. Blackie sold papers on a down-town +corner when he was a baby six years old. Then he got a job as office boy here, +and he used to sharpen pencils, and run errands, and carry copy. After office +hours he took care of some horses in an alley barn near by, and after that work +was done he was employed about the pressroom of one of the old German newspaper +offices. Sometimes he would be too weary to crawl home after working half the +night, and so he would fall asleep, a worn, tragic little figure, on a pile of +old papers and sacks in a warm corner near the presses. He was the head of a +household, and every penny counted. And all the time he was watching things, +and learning. Nothing escaped those keen black eyes. He used to help the +photographer when there was a pile of plates to develop, and presently he knew +more about photography than the man himself. So they made him staff +photographer. In some marvelous way he knew more ball players, and fighters and +horsemen than the sporting editor. He had a nose for news that was nothing +short of wonderful. He never went out of the office without coming back with a +story. They used to use him in the sporting department when a rush was on. Then +he became one of the sporting staff; then assistant sporting editor; then +sporting editor. He knows this paper from the basement up. He could operate a +linotype or act as managing editor with equal ease. +</p> + +<p> +“No, I’m afraid that Blackie hasn’t had much time for morals. But, Norah dear, +I wish that you could hear him when he talks about his mother. He may follow +doubtful paths, and associate with questionable people, and wear restless +clothes, but I wouldn’t exchange his friendship for that of a dozen of your +ordinary so-called good men. All these years of work and suffering have made an +old man of little Blackie, although he is young in years. But they haven’t +spoiled his heart any. He is able to distinguish between sham and truth because +he has been obliged to do it ever since he was a child selling papers on the +corner. But he still clings to the office that gave him his start, although he +makes more money in a single week outside the office than his salary would +amount to in half a year. He says that this is a job that does not interfere +with his work.” +</p> + +<p> +Such is Blackie. Surely the oddest friend a woman ever had. He possesses a +genius for friendship, and a wonderful understanding of suffering, born of +those years of hardship and privation. Each learned the other’s story, bit by +bit, in a series of confidences exchanged during that peaceful, beatific period +that follows just after the last edition has gone down. Blackie’s little +cubby-hole of an office is always blue with smoke, and cluttered with a +thousand odds and ends—photographs, souvenirs, boxing-gloves, a litter of pipes +and tobacco, a wardrobe of dust-covered discarded coats and hats, and Blackie +in the midst of it all, sunk in the depths of his swivel chair, and looking +like an amiable brown gnome, or a cheerful little joss-house god come to life. +There is in him an uncanny wisdom which only the streets can teach. He is one +of those born newspaper men who could not live out of sight of the ticker-tape, +and the copy-hook and the proof-sheet. +</p> + +<p> +“Y’ see, girl, it’s like this here,” Blackie explained one day. “W’re all +workin’ for some good reason. A few of us are workin’ for the glory of it, and +most of us are workin’ t’ eat, and lots of us are pluggin’ an’ savin’ in the +hopes that some day we’ll have money enough to get back at some people we know; +but there is some few workin’ for the pure love of the work—and I guess I’m one +of them fools. Y’ see, I started in at this game when I was such a little runt +that now it’s a ingrowing habit, though it is comfortin’ t’ know you got a +place where you c’n always come in out of the rain, and where you c’n have your +mail sent.” +</p> + +<p> +“This newspaper work is a curse,” I remarked. “Show me a clever newspaper man +and I’ll show you a failure. There is nothing in it but the glory—and little of +that. We contrive and scheme and run about all day getting a story. And then we +write it at fever heat, searching our souls for words that are cleancut and +virile. And then we turn it in, and what is it? What have we to show for our +day’s work? An ephemeral thing, lacking the first breath of life; a thing that +is dead before it is born. Why, any cub reporter, if he were to put into some +other profession the same amount of nerve, and tact, and ingenuity and finesse, +and stick-to-it-iveness that he expends in prying a single story out of some +unwilling victim, could retire with a fortune in no time.” +</p> + +<p> +Blackie blew down the stem of his pipe, preparatory to re-filling the bowl. +There was a quizzical light in his black eyes. The little heap of burned +matches at his elbow was growing to kindling wood proportions. It was common +knowledge that Blackie’s trick of lighting pipe or cigarette and then +forgetting to puff at it caused his bill for matches to exceed his tobacco +expense account. +</p> + +<p> +“You talk,” chuckled Blackie, “like you meant it. But sa-a-ay, girl, it’s a +lonesome game, this retirin’ with a fortune. I’ve noticed that them guys who +retire with a barrel of money usually dies at the end of the first year, of a +kind of a lingerin’ homesickness. You c’n see their pictures in th’ papers, +with a pathetic story of how they was just beginnin’ t’ enjoy life when along +comes the grim reaper an’ claims ’em.” +</p> + +<p> +Blackie slid down in his chair and blew a column of smoke ceilingward. +</p> + +<p> +“I knew a guy once—newspaper man, too—who retired with a fortune. He used to do +the city hall for us. Well, he got in soft with the new administration before +election, and made quite a pile in stocks that was tipped off to him by his +political friends. His wife was crazy for him to quit the newspaper game. He +done it. An’ say, that guy kept on gettin’ richer and richer till even his wife +was almost satisfied. But sa-a-ay, girl, was that chap lonesome! One day he +come up here looking like a dog that’s run off with the steak. He was just +dyin’ for a kind word, an’ he sniffed the smell of the ink and the hot metal +like it was June roses. He kind of wanders over to his old desk and slumps down +in the chair, and tips it back, and puts his feet on the desk, with his hat +tipped back, and a bum stogie in his mouth. And along came a kid with a bunch +of papers wet from the presses and sticks one in his hand, and—well, girl, that +fellow, he just wriggled he was so happy. You know as well as I do that every +man on a morning paper spends his day off hanging around the office wishin’ +that a mob or a fire or somethin’ big would tear lose so he could get back into +the game. I guess I told you about the time Von Gerhard sent me abroad, didn’t +I?” +</p> + +<p> +“Von Gerhard!” I repeated, startled. “Do you know him?” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, he ain’t braggin’ about it none,” Blackie admitted. “Von Gerhard, he +told me I had about five years or so t’ live, about two, three years ago. He +don’t approve of me. Pried into my private life, old Von Gerhard did, somethin’ +scand’lous. I had sort of went to pieces about that time, and I went t’ him to +be patched up. He thumps me fore ‘an’ aft, firing a volley of questions, +lookin’ up the roof of m’ mouth, and squintin’ at m’ finger nails an’ teeth +like I was a prize horse for sale. Then he sits still, lookin’ at me for about +half a minute, till I begin t’ feel uncomfortable. Then he says, slow: ‘Young +man, how old are you?’ +</p> + +<p> +“‘O, twenty-eight or so,’ I says, airy. +</p> + +<p> +“‘My Gawd!’ said he. ‘You’ve crammed twice those years into your life, and +you’ll have to pay for it. Now you listen t’ me. You got t’ quit workin’, an’ +smokin’, and get away from this. Take a ocean voyage,’ he says, ’an’ try to get +four hours sleep a night, anyway.’ +</p> + +<p> +“Well say, mother she was scared green. So I tucked her under m’ arm, and we +hit it up across the ocean. Went t’ Germany, knowin’ that it would feel +homelike there, an’ we took in all the swell baden, and chased up the +Jungfrau—sa-a-ay, that’s a classy little mountain, that Jungfrau. Mother, she +had some swell time I guess. She never set down except for meals, and she wrote +picture postals like mad. But sa-a-ay, girl, was I lonesome! Maybe that trip +done me good. Anyway, I’m livin’ yet. I stuck it out for four months, an’ that +ain’t so rotten for a guy who just grew up on printer’s ink ever since he was +old enough to hold a bunch of papers under his arm. Well, one day mother an’ me +was sittin’ out on one of them veranda cafes they run to over there, w’en +somebody hits me a crack on the shoulder, an’ there stands old Ryan who used t’ +do A. P. here. He was foreign correspondent for some big New York syndicate +papers over there. +</p> + +<p> +“‘Well if it ain’t Blackie!’ he says. ‘What in Sam Hill are you doing out of +your own cell when Milwaukee’s just got four more games t’ win the pennant?’ +</p> + +<p> +“Sa-a-a-ay, girl, w’en I got through huggin’ him around the neck an’ buyin’ him +drinks I knew it was me for the big ship. ‘Mother,’ I says, ‘if you got anybody +on your mind that you neglected t’ send picture postals to, now’s’ your last +chance. ’F I got to die I’m going out with m’ scissors in one mitt, and m’ +trusty paste-pot by m’ side!’ An’ we hits it up for old Milwaukee. I ain’t been +away since, except w’en I was out with the ball team, sending in sportin’ extry +dope for the pink sheet. The last time I was in at Baumbach’s in comes Von +Gerhard an’—” +</p> + +<p> +“Who are Baumbach’s?” I interrupted. +</p> + +<p> +Blackie regarded me pityingly. “You ain’t never been to Baumbach’s? Why girl, +if you don’t know Baumbach’s, you ain’t never been properly introduced to +Milwaukee. No wonder you ain’t hep to the ways of this little community. There +ain’t what the s’ciety editor would call the proper ontong cordyal between you +and the natives if you haven’t had coffee at Baumbach’s. It ain’t hardly legal +t’ live in Milwaukee all this time without ever having been inside of B—” +</p> + +<p> +“Stop! If you do not tell me at once just where this wonderful place may be +found, and what one does when one finds it, and how I happened to miss it, and +why it is so necessary to the proper understanding of the city—” +</p> + +<p> +“I’ll tell you what I’ll do,” said Blackie, grinning, “I’ll romp you over there +to-morrow afternoon at four o’clock. Ach Himmel! What will that for a grand +time be, no?” +</p> + +<p> +“Blackie, you’re a dear to be so polite to an old married cratur’ like me. Did +you notice—that is, does Ernst von Gerhard drop in often at Baumbach’s?” +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap08"></a>CHAPTER VIII.<br/> +KAFFEE AND KAFFEEKUCHEN</h2> + +<p> +I have visited Baumbach’s. I have heard Milwaukee drinking its afternoon +Kaffee. +</p> + +<p> +O Baumbach’s, with your deliciously crumbling butter cookies and your kaffee +kuchen, and your thick cream, and your thicker waitresses and your cockroaches, +and your dinginess and your dowdy German ladies and your black, black Kaffee, +where in this country is there another like you! +</p> + +<p> +Blackie, true to his promise, had hailed me from the doorway on the afternoon +of the following day. In the rush of the day’s work I had quite forgotten about +Blackie and Baumbach’s. +</p> + +<p> +“Come, Kindchen!” he called. “Get your bonnet on. We will by Baumbach’s go, +no?” +</p> + +<p> +Ruefully I gazed at the grimy cuffs of my blouse, and felt of my dishevelled +hair. “Oh, I’m afraid I can’t go. I look so mussy. Haven’t had time to brush +up.” +</p> + +<p> +“Brush up!” scoffed Blackie, “the only thing about you that will need brushin’ +up is your German. I was goin’ t’ warn you to rumple up your hair a little so +you wouldn’t feel overdressed w’en you got there. Come on, girl.” +</p> + +<p> +And so I came. And oh, I’m so glad I came! +</p> + +<p> +I must have passed it a dozen times without once noticing it—just a dingy +little black shop nestling between two taller buildings, almost within the +shadow of the city hall. Over the sidewalk swung a shabby black sign with gilt +letters that spelled, “Franz Baumbach.” +</p> + +<p> +Blackie waved an introductory hand in the direction of the sign. “There he is. +That’s all you’ll ever see of him.” +</p> + +<p> +“Dead?” asked I, regretfully, as we entered the narrow doorway. +</p> + +<p> +“No; down in the basement baking Kaffeekuchen.” +</p> + +<p> +Two tiny show-windows faced the street—such queer, old-fashioned windows in +these days of plate glass. At the back they were quite open to the shop, and in +one of them reposed a huge, white, immovable structure—a majestic, heavy, +nutty, surely indigestible birthday cake. Around its edge were flutings and +scrolls of white icing, and on its broad breast reposed cherries, and stout +butterflies of jelly, and cunning traceries of colored sugar. It was quite the +dressiest cake I had ever beheld. Surely no human hand could be wanton enough +to guide a knife through all that magnificence. But in the center of all this +splendor was an inscription in heavy white letters of icing: “Charlottens +Geburtstag.” +</p> + +<p> +Reluctantly I tore my gaze from this imposing example of the German +confectioner’s art, for Blackie was tugging impatiently at my sleeve. +</p> + +<p> +“But Blackie,” I marveled, “do you honestly suppose that that structure is +intended for some Charlotte’s birthday?” +</p> + +<p> +“In Milwaukee,” explained Blackie, “w’en you got a birthday you got t’ have a +geburtstag cake, with your name on it, and all the cousins and aunts and +members of the North Side Frauen Turner Verein Gesellchaft, in for the day. It +ain’t considered decent if you don’t. Are you ready to fight your way into the +main tent?” +</p> + +<p> +It was holiday time, and the single narrow aisle of the front shop was crowded. +It was not easy to elbow one’s way through the packed little space. Men and +women were ordering recklessly of the cakes of every description that were +heaped in cases and on shelves. +</p> + +<p> +Cakes! What a pale; dry name to apply to those crumbling, melting, indigestible +German confections! Blackie grinned with enjoyment while I gazed. There were +cakes the like of which I had never seen and of which I did not even know the +names. There were little round cup cakes made of almond paste that melts in the +mouth; there were Schnecken glazed with a delicious candied brown sugar; there +were Bismarcks composed of layer upon layer of flaky crust inlaid with an oozy +custard that evades the eager consumer at the first bite, and that slides down +one’s collar when chased with a pursuing tongue. There were Pfeffernusse; +there, were Lebkuchen; there were cheese-kuchen; plum-kuchen, peach-kuchen, +Apfelkuchen, the juicy fruit stuck thickly into the crust, the whole dusted +over with powdered sugar. There were Torten, and Hornchen, and butter cookies. +</p> + +<p> +Blackie touched my arm, and I tore my gaze from a cherry-studded Schaumtorte +that was being reverently packed for delivery. +</p> + +<p> +“My, what a greedy girl! Now get your mind all made up. This is your chance. +You know you’re supposed t’ take a slant at th’ things an’ make up your mind +w’at you want before you go back w’ere th’ tables are. Don’t fumble this thing. +When Olga or Minna comes waddlin’ up t’ you an’ says: ‘Nu, Fraulein?’ you gotta +tell her whether your heart says plum-kuchen oder Nusstorte, or both, see? Just +like that. Now make up your mind. I’d hate t’ have you blunder. Have you +decided?” +</p> + +<p> +“Decided! How can I?” I moaned, watching a black-haired, black-eyed Alsatian +girl behind the counter as she rolled a piece of white paper into a cone and +dipped a spoonful of whipped cream from a great brown bowl heaped high with the +snowy stuff. She filled the paper cone, inserted the point of it into one end +of a hollow pastry horn, and gently squeezed. Presto! A cream-filled Hornchen! +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, Blackie!” I gasped. “Come on. I want to go in and eat.” +</p> + +<p> +As we elbowed our way to the rear room separated from the front shop only by a +flimsy wooden partition, I expected I know not what. +</p> + +<p> +But surely this was not Blackie’s much-vaunted Baumbach’s! This long, narrow, +dingy room, with its bare floor and its iron-legged tables whose bare marble +tops were yellow with age and use! I said nothing as we seated ourselves. +Blackie was watching me out of the tail of his eye. My glance wandered about +the shabby, smoke-filled room, and slowly and surely the charm of that fusty, +dingy little cafe came upon me. +</p> + +<p> +A huge stove glowed red in one corner. On the wall behind the stove was +suspended a wooden rack, black with age, its compartments holding German, +Austrian and Hungarian newspapers. Against the opposite wall stood an ancient +walnut mirror, and above it hung a colored print of Bismarck, helmeted, +uniformed, and fiercely mustached. The clumsy iron-legged tables stood in two +solemn rows down the length of the narrow room. Three or four stout, blond +girls plodded back and forth, from tables to front shop, bearing trays of cakes +and steaming cups of coffee. There was a rumble and clatter of German. Every +one seemed to know every one else. A game of chess was in progress at one +table, and between moves each contestant would refresh himself with a +long-drawn, sibilant mouthful of coffee. There was nothing about the place or +its occupants to remind one of America. This dim, smoky, cake-scented cafe was +Germany. +</p> + +<p> +“Time!” said Blackie. “Here comes Rosie to take our order. You can take your +choice of coffee or chocolate. That’s as fancy as they get here.” +</p> + +<p> +An expansive blond girl paused at our table smiling a broad welcome at Blackie. +</p> + +<p> +“Wie geht’s, Roschen?” he greeted her. Roschen’s smile became still more +pervasive, so that her blue eyes disappeared in creases of good humor. She +wiped the marble table top with a large and careless gesture that precipitated +stray crumbs into our laps. “Gut!” murmured she, coyly, and leaned one hand on +a portly hip in an attitude of waiting. +</p> + +<p> +“Coffee?” asked Blackie, turning to me. I nodded. +</p> + +<p> +“Zweimal Kaffee?” beamed Roschen, grasping the idea. +</p> + +<p> +“Now’s your time to speak up,” urged Blackie. “Go ahead an’ order all the cream +gefillte things that looked good to you out in front.” +</p> + +<p> +But I leaned forward, lowering my voice discreetly. “Blackie, before I plunge +in too recklessly, tell me, are their prices very—” +</p> + +<p> +“Sa-a-ay, child, you just can’t spend half a dollar here if you try. The +flossiest kind of thing they got is only ten cents a order. They’ll smother you +in whipped cream f’r a quarter. You c’n come in here an’ eat an’ eat an’ put +away piles of cakes till you feel like a combination of Little Jack Horner an’ +old Doc Johnson. An’ w’en you’re all through, they hand yuh your check, an’, +say—it says forty-five cents. You can’t beat it, so wade right in an’ spoil +your complexion.” +</p> + +<p> +With enthusiasm I turned upon the patient Rosie. “O, bring me some of those +cunning little round things with the cream on ’em, you know—two of those, eh +Blackie? And a couple of those with the flaky crust and the custard between, +and a slice of that fluffy-looking cake and some of those funny cocked-hat +shaped cookies—” +</p> + +<p> +But a pall of bewilderment was slowly settling over Rosie’s erstwhile smiling +face. Her plump shoulders went up in a helpless shrug, and she turned her round +blue eyes appealingly to Blackie. +</p> + +<p> +“Was meint sie alles?” she asked. +</p> + +<p> +So I began all over again, with the assistance of Blackie. We went into minute +detail. We made elaborate gestures. We drew pictures of our desired goodies on +the marble-topped table, using a soft-lead pencil. Rosie’s countenance wore a +distracted look. In desperation I was about to accompany her to the crowded +shop, there to point out my chosen dainties when suddenly, as they would put it +here, a light went her over. +</p> + +<p> +“Ach, yes-s-s-s! Sie wollten vielleicht abgeruhrter Gugelhopf haben, und auch +Schaumtorte, und Bismarcks, und Hornchen mit cream gefullt, nicht?” +</p> + +<p> +“Certainly,” I murmured, quite crushed. Roschen waddled merrily off to the +shop. +</p> + +<p> +Blackie was rolling a cigarette. He ran his funny little red tongue along the +edge of the paper and glanced up at me in glee. “Don’t bother about me,” he +generously observed. “Just set still and let the atmosphere soak in.” +</p> + +<p> +But already I was lost in contemplation of a red-faced, pompadoured German who +was drinking coffee and reading the Fliegende Blatter at a table just across +the way. There were counterparts of my aborigines at Knapf’s—thick spectacled +engineers with high foreheads—actors and actresses from the German stock +company—reporters from the English and German newspapers—business men with +comfortable German consciences—long-haired musicians—dapper young lawyers—a +giggling group of college girls and boys—a couple of smartly dressed women +nibbling appreciatively at slices of Nusstorte—low-voiced lovers whose coffee +cups stood untouched at their elbows, while no fragrant cloud of steam rose to +indicate that there was warmth within. Their glances grow warmer as the +neglected Kaffee grows colder. The color comes and goes in the girl’s face and +I watch it, a bit enviously, marveling that the old story still should be so +new. +</p> + +<p> +At a large square table near the doorway a group of eight men were absorbed in +an animated political discussion, accompanied by much waving of arms, and +thundering of gutturals. It appeared to be a table of importance, for the +high-backed bench that ran along one side was upholstered in worn red velvet, +and every newcomer paused a moment to nod or to say a word in greeting. It was +not of American politics that they talked, but of the politics of Austria and +Hungary. Finally the argument resolved itself into a duel of words between a +handsome, red-faced German whose rosy skin seemed to take on a deeper tone in +contrast to the whiteness of his hair and mustache, and a swarthy young fellow +whose thick spectacles and heavy mane of black hair gave him the look of a +caricature out of an illustrated German weekly. The red-faced man argued +loudly, with much rapping of bare knuckles on the table top. But the dark man +spoke seldom, and softly, with a little twisted half-smile on his lips; and +whenever he spoke the red-faced man grew redder, and there came a huge laugh +from the others who sat listening. +</p> + +<p> +“Say, wouldn’t it curdle your English?” Blackie laughed. +</p> + +<p> +Solemnly I turned to him. “Blackie Griffith, these people do not even realize +that there is anything unusual about this.” +</p> + +<p> +“Sure not; that’s the beauty of it. They don’t need to make no artificial +atmosphere for this place; it just grows wild, like dandelions. Everybody comes +here for their coffee because their aunts an’ uncles and Grossmutters and +Grosspapas used t’ come, and come yet, if they’re livin’! An’, after all, what +is it but a little German bakery?” +</p> + +<p> +“But O, wise Herr Baumbach down in the kitchen! O, subtle Frau Baumbach back of +the desk!” said I. “Others may fit their shops with mirrors, and cut-glass +chandeliers and Oriental rugs and mahogany, but you sit serenely by, and you +smile, and you change nothing. You let the brown walls grow dimmer with age; +you see the marble-topped tables turning yellow; you leave bare your wooden +floor, and you smile, and smile, and smile.” +</p> + +<p> +“Fine!” applauded Blackie. “You’re on. And here comes Rosie.” +</p> + +<p> +Rosie, the radiant, placed on the table cups and saucers of an unbelievable +thickness. She set them down on the marble surface with a crash as one who +knows well that no mere marble or granite could shatter the solidity of those +stout earthenware receptacles. Napkins there were none. I was to learn that +fingers were rid of any clinging remnants of cream or crumb by the simple +expedient of licking them. +</p> + +<p> +Blackie emptied his pitcher of cream into his cup of black, black coffee, +sugared it, stirred, tasted, and then, with a wicked gleam in his black eyes he +lifted the heavy cup to his lips and took a long, gurgling mouthful. +</p> + +<p> +“Blackie,” I hissed, “if you do that again I shall refuse to speak to you!” +</p> + +<p> +“Do what?” demanded he, all injured innocence. +</p> + +<p> +“Snuffle up your coffee like that.” +</p> + +<p> +“Why, girl, that’s th’ proper way t’ drink coffee here. Listen t’ everybody +else.” And while I glared he wrapped his hand lovingly about his cup, holding +the spoon imprisoned between first and second fingers, and took another +sibilant mouthful. “Any more of your back talk and I’ll drink it out of m’ +saucer an’ blow on it like the hefty party over there in the earrings is doin’. +Calm yerself an’ try a Bismarck.” +</p> + +<p> +I picked up one of the flaky confections and eyed it in despair. There were no +plates except that on which the cakes reposed. +</p> + +<p> +“How does one eat them?” I inquired. +</p> + +<p> +“Yuh don’t really eat ’em. The motion is more like inhalin’. T’ eat ’em +successful you really ought t’ get into a bath-tub half-filled with water, +because as soon’s you bite in at one end w’y the custard stuff slides out at +the other, an’ no human mouth c’n be two places at oncet. Shut your eyes girl, +an’ just wade in.” +</p> + +<p> +I waded. In silence I took a deep delicious bite, nimbly chased the coy filling +around a corner with my tongue, devoured every bit down to the last crumb and +licked the stickiness off my fingers. Then I investigated the interior of the +next cake. +</p> + +<p> +“I’m coming here every day,” I announced. +</p> + +<p> +“Better not. Ruin your complexion and turn all your lines into bumps. Look at +the dame with the earrings. I’ve been keepin’ count an’ I’ve seen her eat three +Schnecken, two cream puffs, a Nusshornchen and a slice of Torte with two cups +of coffee. Ain’t she a horrible example! And yet she’s got th’ nerve t’ wear a +princess gown!” +</p> + +<p> +“I don’t care,” I replied, recklessly, my voice choked with whipped cream and +butteriness. “I can just feel myself getting greasy. Haven’t I done beautifully +for a new hand? Now tell me about some of these people. Who is the funny little +man in the checked suit with the black braid trimming, and the green cravat, +and the white spats, and the tan hat and the eyeglasses?” +</p> + +<p> +“Ain’t them th’ dizzy habiliments?” A note of envy crept into Blackie’s voice. +“His name is Hugo Luders. Used t’ be a reporter on the Germania, but he’s +reformed and gone into advertisin’, where there’s real money. Some say he wears +them clo’es on a bet, and some say his taste in dress is a curse descended upon +him from Joseph, the guy with the fancy coat, but I think he wears ’em because +he fancies ’em. He’s been coming here ever’ afternoon for twelve years, has a +cup of coffee, game of chess, and a pow-wow with a bunch of cronies. If +Baumbach’s ever decide to paint the front of their shop or put in cut glass +fixtures and handpainted china, Hugo Luders would serve an injunction on ’em. +Next!” +</p> + +<p> +“Who’s the woman with the leathery complexion and the belt to match, and the +untidy hair and the big feet? I like her face. And why does she sit at a table +with all those strange-looking men? And who are all the men? And who is the +fur-lined grand opera tenor just coming in—Oh!” +</p> + +<p> +Blackie glanced over his shoulder just as the tall man in the doorway turned +his face toward us. “That? Why, girl, that’s Von Gerhard, the man who gives me +one more year t’ live. Look at everybody kowtowing to him. He don’t favor +Baumbach’s often. Too busy patching up the nervous wrecks that are washed up on +his shores.” +</p> + +<p> +The tall figure in the doorway was glancing from table to table, nodding here +and there to an acquaintance. His eyes traveled the length of the room. Now +they were nearing us. I felt a sudden, inexplicable tightening at heart and +throat, as though fingers were clutching there. Then his eyes met mine, and I +felt the blood rushing to my face as he came swiftly over to our table and took +my hand in his. +</p> + +<p> +“So you have discovered Baumbach’s,” he said. “May I have my coffee and cigar +here with you?” +</p> + +<p> +“Blackie here is responsible for my being initiated into the sticky mysteries +of Baumbach’s. I never should have discovered it if he had not offered to act +as personal conductor. You know one another, I believe?” +</p> + +<p> +The two men shook hands across the table. There was something forced and +graceless about the act. Blackie eyed Von Gerhard through a misty curtain of +cigarette smoke. Von Gerhard gazed at Blackie through narrowed lids as he +lighted his cigar. “I’m th’ gink you killed off two or three years back,” +Blackie explained. +</p> + +<p> +“I remember you perfectly,” Von Gerhard returned, courteously. “I rejoice to +see that I was mistaken.” +</p> + +<p> +“Well,” drawled Blackie, a wicked gleam in his black eyes, “I’m some rejoiced +m’self, old top. Angel wings and a white kimono, worn bare-footy, would go some +rotten with my Spanish style of beauty, what? Didn’t know that you and m’dame +friend here was acquainted. Known each other long?” +</p> + +<p> +I felt myself flushing again. +</p> + +<p> +“I knew Dr. von Gerhard back home. I’ve scarcely seen him since I have been +here. Famous specialists can’t be bothered with middle-aged relatives of their +college friends, can they, Herr Doktor?” +</p> + +<p> +And now it was Von Gerhard’s face that flushed a deep and painful crimson. He +looked at me, in silence, and I felt very little, and insignificant, and much +like an impudent child who has stuck out its tongue at its elders. Silent men +always affect talkative women in that way. +</p> + +<p> +“You know that what you say is not true,” he said, slowly. +</p> + +<p> +“Well, we won’t quibble. We—we were just about to leave, weren’t we Blackie?” +</p> + +<p> +“Just,” said Blackie, rising. “Sorry t’ see you drinkin’ Baumbach’s coffee, +Doc. It ain’t fair t’ your patients.” +</p> + +<p> +“Quite right,” replied Von Gerhard; and rose with us. “I shall not drink it. I +shall walk home with Mrs. Orme instead, if she will allow me. That will be more +stimulating than coffee, and twice as dangerous, perhaps, but—” +</p> + +<p> +“You know how I hate that sort of thing,” I said, coldly, as we passed from the +warmth of the little front shop where the plump girls were still filling +pasteboard boxes with holiday cakes, to the brisk chill of the winter street. +The little black-and-gilt sign swung and creaked in the wind. Whimsically, and +with the memory of that last cream-filled cake fresh in my mind, I saluted the +letters that spelled “Franz Baumbach.” +</p> + +<p> +Blackie chuckled impishly. “Just the same, try a pinch of soda bicarb’nate when +you get home, Dawn,” he advised. “Well, I’m off to the factory again. Got t’ +make up for time wasted on m’ lady friend. Auf wiedersehen!” +</p> + +<p> +And the little figure in the checked top-coat trotted off. +</p> + +<p> +“But he called you—Dawn,” broke from Von Gerhard. +</p> + +<p> +“Mhum,” I agreed. “My name’s Dawn.” +</p> + +<p> +“Surely not to him. You have known him but a few weeks. I would not have +presumed—” +</p> + +<p> +“Blackie never presumes,” I laughed. “Blackie’s just—Blackie. Imagine taking +offense at him! He knows every one by their given name, from Jo, the boss of +the pressroom, to the Chief, who imports his office coats from London. Besides, +Blackie and I are newspaper men. And people don’t scrape and bow in a newspaper +office—especially when they’re fond of one another. You wouldn’t understand.” +</p> + +<p> +As I looked at Von Gerhard in the light of the street lamp I saw a tense, drawn +look about the little group of muscles which show when the teeth are set hard. +When he spoke those muscles had relaxed but little. +</p> + +<p> +“One man does not talk ill of another. But this is different. I want to ask +you—do you know what manner of man this—this Blackie is? I ask you because I +would have you safe and sheltered always from such as he—because I—” +</p> + +<p> +“Safe! From Blackie? Now listen. There never was a safer, saner, truer, more +generous friend. Oh, I know what his life has been. But what else could it have +been, beginning as he did? I have no wish to reform him. I tried my hand at +reforming one man, and made a glorious mess of it. So I’ll just take Blackie as +he is, if you please—slang, wickedness, pink shirt, red necktie, diamond rings +and all. If there’s any bad in him, we all know it, for it’s right down on the +table, face up. You’re just angry because he called you Doc.” +</p> + +<p> +“Small one,” said Von Gerhard, in his quaint German idiom, “we will not +quarrel, you and I. If I have been neglectful it was because edged tools were +never a chosen plaything of mine. Perhaps your little Blackie realizes that he +need have no fear of such things, for the Great Fear is upon him.” +</p> + +<p> +“The Great Fear! You mean!—” +</p> + +<p> +“I mean that there are too many fine little lines radiating from the corners of +the sunken eyes, and that his hand-clasp leaves a moisture in the palm. Ach! +you may laugh. Come, we will change the subject to something more cheerful, +yes? Tell me, how grows the book?” +</p> + +<p> +“By inches. After working all day on a bulletin paper whose city editor is +constantly shouting: ‘Boil it now, fellows! Keep it down! We’re crowded!’ it is +too much of a wrench to find myself seated calmly before my own typewriter at +night, privileged to write one hundred thousand words if I choose. I can’t get +over the habit of crowding the story all into the first paragraph. Whenever I +flower into a descriptive passage I glance nervously over my shoulder, +expecting to find Norberg stationed behind me, scissors and blue pencil in +hand. Consequently the book, thus far, sounds very much like a police +reporter’s story of a fire four minutes before the paper is due to go to +press.” +</p> + +<p> +Von Gerhard’s face was unsmiling. “So,” he said, slowly. “You burn the candle +at both ends. All day you write, is it not so? And at night you come home to +write still more? Ach, Kindchen!—Na, we shall change all that. We will be +better comrades, we two, yes? You remember that gay little walk of last autumn, +when we explored the Michigan country lane at dusk? I shall be your Sunday +Schatz, and there shall be more rambles like that one, to bring the roses into +your cheeks. We shall be good Kameraden, as you and this little Griffith +are—what is it they say—good fellows? That is it—good fellows, yes? So, shall +we shake hands on it?” +</p> + +<p> +But I snatched my hand away. “I don’t want to be a good fellow,” I cried. “I’m +tired of being a good fellow. I’ve been a good fellow for years and years, +while every other married woman in the world has been happy in her own home, +bringing up her babies. When I am old I want some sons to worry me, too, and to +stay awake nights for, and some daughters to keep me young, and to prevent me +from doing my hair in a knob and wearing bonnets! I hate good-fellow women, and +so do you, and so does every one else! I—I—” +</p> + +<p> +“Dawn!” cried Von Gerhard. But I ran up the steps and into the house and +slammed the door behind me, leaving him standing there. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap09"></a>CHAPTER IX.<br/> +THE LADY FROM VIENNA</h2> + +<p> +Two more aborigines have appeared. One of them is a lady aborigine. They made +their entrance at supper and I forgot to eat, watching them. The new-comers are +from Vienna. He is an expert engineer and she is a woman of noble birth, with a +history. Their combined appearance is calculated to strike terror to the heart. +He is daringly ugly, with a chin that curves in under his lip and then out in a +peak, like pictures of Punch. She wore a gray gown of a style I never had seen +before and never expect to see again. It was fastened with huge black buttons +all the way down the breathlessly tight front, and the upper part was composed +of that pre-historic garment known as a basque. She curved in where she should +have curved out, and she bulged where she should have had “lines.” About her +neck was suspended a string of cannon-ball beads that clanked as she walked. On +her forehead rested a sparse fringe. +</p> + +<p> +“Mein Himmel!” thought I. “Am I dreaming? This isn’t Wisconsin. This is +Nurnberg, or Strassburg, with a dash of Heidelberg and Berlin thrown in. Dawn, +old girl, it’s going to be more instructive than a Cook’s tour.” +</p> + +<p> +That turned out to be the truest prophecy I ever made. +</p> + +<p> +The first surprising thing that the new-comers did was to seat themselves at +the long table with the other aborigines, the lady aborigine being the only +woman among the twelve men. It was plain that they had known one another +previous to this meeting, for they became very good friends at once, and the +men grew heavily humorous about there being thirteen at table. +</p> + +<p> +At that the lady aborigine began to laugh. Straightway I forgot the outlandish +gown, forgot the cannon-ball beads, forgot the sparse fringe, forgave the +absence of “lines.” Such a voice! A lilting, melodious thing. She broke into a +torrent of speech, with bewildering gestures, and I saw that her hands were +exquisitely formed and as expressive as her voice. Her German was the musical +tongue of the Viennese, possessing none of the gutturals and sputterings. When +she crowned it with the gay little trilling laugh my views on the language +underwent a lightning change. It seemed the most natural thing in the world to +see her open the flat, silver case that dangled at the end of the cannon-ball +chain, take out a cigarette, light it, and smoke it there in that little German +dining room. She wore the most gracefully nonchalant air imaginable as she blew +little rings and wreaths, and laughed and chatted brightly with her husband and +the other men. Occasionally she broke into French, her accent as charmingly +perfect as it had been in her native tongue. There was a moment of breathless +staring on the part of the respectable middle-class Frauen at the other tables. +Then they shrugged their shoulders and plunged into their meal again. There was +a certain little high-born air of assurance about that cigarette-smoking that +no amount of staring could ruffle. +</p> + +<p> +Watching the new aborigines grew to be a sort of game. The lady aborigine of +the golden voice, and the ugly husband of the peaked chin had a strange +fascination for me. I scrambled downstairs at meal time in order not to miss +them, and I dawdled over the meal so that I need not leave before they. I +discovered that when the lady aborigine was animated, her face was that of a +young woman, possessing a certain high-bred charm, but that when in repose the +face of the lady aborigine was that of a very old and tired woman indeed. Also +that her husband bullied her, and that when he did that she looked at him +worshipingly. +</p> + +<p> +Then one evening, a week or so after the appearance of the new aborigines, +there came a clumping at my door. I was seated at my typewriter and the book +was balkier than usual, and I wished that the clumper at the door would go +away. +</p> + +<p> +“Come!” I called, ungraciously enough. Then, on second thought: “Herein!” +</p> + +<p> +The knob turned slowly, and the door opened just enough to admit the top of a +head crowned with a tight, moist German knob of hair. I searched my memory to +recognize the knob, failed utterly and said again, this time with mingled +curiosity and hospitality: +</p> + +<p> +“Won’t you come in?” +</p> + +<p> +The apparently bodiless head thrust itself forward a bit, disclosing an +apologetically smiling face, with high check bones that glistened with +friendliness and scrubbing. +</p> + +<p> +“Nabben’, Fraulein,” said the head. +</p> + +<p> +“Nabben’,” I replied, more mystified than ever. “Howdy do! Is there anything—” +</p> + +<p> +The head thrust itself forward still more, showing a pair of plump shoulders as +its support. Then the plump shoulders heaved into the room, disclosing a stout, +starched gingham body. +</p> + +<p> +“Ich bin Frau Knapf,” announced the beaming vision. +</p> + +<p> +Now up to this time Frau Knapf had maintained a Mrs. Harris-like +mysteriousness. I had heard rumors of her, and I had partaken of certain crispy +dishes of German extraction, reported to have come from her deft hands, but I +had not even caught a glimpse of her skirts whisking around a corner. +</p> + +<p> +Therefore: “Frau Knapf!” I repeated. “Nonsense! There ain’t no sich person—that +is, I’m glad to see you. Won’t you come in and sit down?” +</p> + +<p> +“Ach, no!” smiled the substantial Frau Knapf, clinging tightly to the door +knob. “I got no time. It gives much to do to-night yet. Kuchen dough I must +set, und ich weiss nicht was. I got no time.” +</p> + +<p> +Bustling, red-cheeked Frau Knapf! This was why I had never had a glimpse of +her. Always, she got no time. For while Herr Knapf, dapper and genial, welcomed +new-comers, chatted with the diners, poured a glass of foaming Doppel-brau for +Herr Weber or, dexterously carved fowl for the aborigines’ table, Frau Knapf +was making the wheels go round. I discovered that it was she who bakes the +melting, golden German Pfannkuchen on Sunday mornings; she it is who fries the +crisp and hissing Wienerschnitzel; she it is who prepares the plump ducklings, +and the thick gravies, and the steaming lentil soup and the rosy sausages +nestling coyly in their bed of sauerkraut. All the week Frau Knapf bakes and +broils and stews, her rosy cheeks taking on a twinkling crimson from the fire +over which she bends. But on Sunday night Frau Knapf sheds her huge apron and +rolls down the sleeves from her plump arms. On Sunday evening she leaves pots +and pans and cooking, and is a transformed Frau Knapf. Then does she don a +bright blue silk waist and a velvet coat that is dripping with jet, and a black +bonnet on which are perched palpitating birds and weary-looking plumes. Then +she and Herr Knapf walk comfortably down to the Pabst theater to see the German +play by the German stock company. They applaud their favorite stout, blond, +German comedienne as she romps through the acts of a sprightly German comedy, +and after the play they go to their favorite Wein-stube around the corner. +There they have sardellen and cheese sandwiches and a great deal of beer, and +for one charmed evening Frau Knapf forgets all about the insides of geese and +the thickening for gravies, and is happy. +</p> + +<p> +Many of these things Frau Knapf herself told me, standing there by the door +with the Kuchen heavy on her mind. Some of them I got from Ernst von Gerhard +when I told him about my visitor and her errand. The errand was not disclosed +until Frau Knapf had caught me casting a despairing glance at my last +typewritten page. +</p> + +<p> +“Ach, see! you got no time for talking to, ain’t it?” she apologized. +</p> + +<p> +“Heaps of time,” I politely assured her, “don’t hurry. But why not have a chair +and be comfortable?” +</p> + +<p> +Frau Knapf was not to be deceived. “I go in a minute. But first it is something +I like to ask you. You know maybe Frau Nirlanger?” +</p> + +<p> +I shook my head. +</p> + +<p> +“But sure you must know. From Vienna she is, with such a voice like a bird.” +</p> + +<p> +“And the beads, and the gray gown, and the fringe, and the cigarettes?” +</p> + +<p> +“And the oogly husband,” finished Frau Knapf, nodding. +</p> + +<p> +“Oogly,” I agreed, “isn’t the name for it. And so she is Frau Nirlanger? I +thought there would be a Von at the very least.” +</p> + +<p> +Whereupon my visitor deserted the doorknob, took half a dozen stealthy steps in +my direction and lowered her voice to a hissing whisper of confidence. +</p> + +<p> +“It is more as a Von. I will tell you. Today comes Frau Nirlanger by me and she +says: ‘Frau Knapf, I wish to buy clothes, aber echt Amerikanische. Myself, I do +not know what is modish, and I cannot go alone to buy.’” +</p> + +<p> +“That’s a grand idea,” said I, recalling the gray basque and the cannon-ball +beads. +</p> + +<p> +“Ja, sure it is,” agreed Frau Knapf. “Soo-o-o, she asks me was it some lady who +would come with her by the stores to help a hat and suit and dresses to buy. +Stylish she likes they should be, and echt Amerikanisch. So-o-o-o, I say to +her, I would go myself with you, only so awful stylish I ain’t, and anyway I +got no time. But a lady I know who is got such stylish clothes!” Frau Knapf +raised admiring hands and eyes toward heaven. “Such a nice lady she is, and +stylish, like anything! And her name is Frau Orme.” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, really, Frau Knapf—” I murmured in blushing confusion. +</p> + +<p> +“Sure, it is so,” insisted Frau Knapf, coming a step nearer, and sinking her, +voice one hiss lower. “You shouldn’t say I said it, but Frau Nirlanger likes +she should look young for her husband. He is much younger as she is—aber much. +Anyhow ten years. Frau Nirlanger does not tell me this, but from other people I +have found out.” Frau Knapf shook her head mysteriously a great many times. +“But maybe you ain’t got such an interest in Frau Nirlanger, yes?” +</p> + +<p> +“Interest! I’m eaten up with curiosity. You shan’t leave this room alive until +you’ve told me!” +</p> + +<p> +Frau Knapf shook with silent mirth. “Now you make jokings, ain’t? Well, I tell +you. In Vienna, Frau Nirlanger was a widow, from a family aber hoch edel—very +high born. From the court her family is, and friends from the Emperor, und +alles. Sure! Frau Nirlanger, she is different from the rest. Books she likes, +und meetings, und all such komisch things. And what you think!” +</p> + +<p> +“I don’t know,” I gasped, hanging on her words, “what DO I think?” +</p> + +<p> +“She meets this here Konrad Nirlanger, and falls with him in love. Und her +family is mad! But schrecklich mad! Forty years old she is, and from a noble +family, and Konrad Nirlanger is only a student from a university, and he comes +from the Volk. Sehr gebildet he is, but not high born. So-o-o-o-o, she runs +with him away and is married.” +</p> + +<p> +Shamelessly I drank it all in. “You don’t mean it! Well, then what happened? +She ran away with him—with that chin! and then what?” +</p> + +<p> +Frau Knapf was enjoying it as much as I. She drew a long breath, felt of the +knob of hair, and plunged once more into the story. +</p> + +<p> +“Like a story-book it is, nicht? Well, Frau Nirlanger, she has already a boy +who is ten years old, and a fine sum of money that her first husband left her. +Aber when she runs with this poor kerl away from her family, and her first +husband’s family is so schrecklich mad that they try by law to take from her +her boy and her money, because she has her highborn family disgraced, you see? +For a year they fight in the courts, and then it stands that her money Frau +Nirlanger can keep, but her boy she cannot have. He will be taken by her +highborn family and educated, and he must forget all about his mamma. To cry it +is, ain’t it? Das arme Kind! Well, she can stand it no longer to live where her +boy is, and not to see him. So-o-o-o, Konrad Nirlanger he gets a chance to come +by Amerika where there is a big engineering plant here in Milwaukee, and she +begs her husband he should come, because this boy she loves very much—Oh, she +loves her young husband too, but different, yes?” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, yes,” I agreed, remembering the gay little trilling laugh, and the face +that was so young when animated, and so old and worn in repose. “Oh, yes. +Quite, quite different.” +</p> + +<p> +Frau Knapf smoothed her spotless skirt and shook her head slowly and sadly. +“So-o-o-o, by Amerika they come. And Konrad Nirlanger he is maybe a little +cross and so, because for a year they have been in the courts, and it might +have been the money they would lose, and for money Konrad Nirlanger cares—well, +you shall see. But Frau Nirlanger must not mourn and cry. She must laugh and +sing, and be gay for her husband. But Frau Nirlanger has no grand clothes, for +first she runs away with Konrad Nirlanger, and then her money is tied in the +law. Now she has again her money, and she must be young—but young!” +</p> + +<p> +With a gesture that expressed a world of pathos and futility Frau Knapf flung +out her arms. “He must not see that she looks different as the ladies in this +country. So Frau Nirlanger wants she should buy here in the stores new +dresses—echt Amerikanische. All new and beautiful things she would have, +because she must look young, ain’t it? And perhaps her boy will remember her +when he is a fine young man, if she is yet young when he grows up, you see? And +too, there is the young husband. First, she gives up her old life, and her +friends and her family for this man, and then she must do all things to keep +him. Men, they are but children, after all,” spake the wise Frau Knapf in +conclusion. “They war and cry and plead for that which they would have, and +when they have won, then see! They are amused for a moment, and the new toy is +thrown aside.” +</p> + +<p> +“Poor, plain, vivacious, fascinating little Frau Nirlanger!” I said. “I wonder +just how much of pain and heartache that little musical laugh of hers +conceals?” +</p> + +<p> +“Ja, that is so,” mused Frau Knapf. “Her eyes look like eyes that have wept +much, not? And so you will be so kind and go maybe to select the so beautiful +clothes?” +</p> + +<p> +“Clothes?” I repeated, remembering the original errand. “But dear lady! How, +does one select clothes for a woman of forty who would not weary her husband? +That is a task for a French modiste, a wizard, and a fairy godmother all rolled +into one.” +</p> + +<p> +“But you will do it, yes?” urged Frau Knapf. +</p> + +<p> +“I’ll do it,” I agreed, a bit ruefully, “if only to see the face of the oogly +husband when his bride is properly corseted and shod.” +</p> + +<p> +Whereupon Frau Knapf, in a panic, remembered the unset Kuchen dough and rushed +away, with her hand on her lips and her eyes big with secrecy. And I sat +staring at the last typewritten page stuck in my typewriter and I found that +the little letters on the white page were swimming in a dim purple haze. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap10"></a>CHAPTER X.<br/> +A TRAGEDY OF GOWNS</h2> + +<p> +From husbands in general, and from oogly German husbands in particular may +Hymen defend me! Never again will I attempt to select “echt Amerikanische” +clothes for a woman who must not weary her young husband. But how was I to know +that the harmless little shopping expedition would resolve itself into a +domestic tragedy, with Herr Nirlanger as the villain, Frau Nirlanger as the +persecuted heroine, and I as—what is it in tragedy that corresponds to the +innocent bystander in real life? That would be my role. +</p> + +<p> +The purchasing of the clothes was a real joy. Next to buying pretty things for +myself there is nothing I like better than choosing them for some one else. And +when that some one else happens to be a fascinating little foreigner who coos +over the silken stuffs in a delightful mixture of German and English; and +especially when that some one else must be made to look so charming that she +will astonish her oogly husband, then does the selecting of those pretty things +cease to be a task, and become an art. +</p> + +<p> +It was to be a complete surprise to Herr Nirlanger. He was to know nothing of +it until everything was finished and Frau Nirlanger, dressed in the prettiest +of the pretty Amerikanisch gowns, was ready to astound him when he should come +home from the office of the vast plant where he solved engineering problems. +</p> + +<p> +“From my own money I buy all this,” Frau Nirlanger confided to me, with a gay +little laugh of excitement, as we started out. “From Vienna it comes. Always I +have given it at once to my husband, as a wife should. Yesterday it came, but I +said nothing, and when my husband said to me, ‘Anna, did not the money come as +usual to-day? It is time,’ I told a little lie—but a little one, is it not? +Very amusing it was. Almost I did laugh. Na, he will not be cross when he see +how his wife like the Amerikanische ladies will look. He admires very much the +ladies of Amerika. Many times he has said so.” +</p> + +<p> +(“I’ll wager he has—the great, ugly boor!” I thought, in parenthesis.) “We’ll +show him!” I said, aloud. “He won’t know you. Such a lot of beautiful clothes +as we can buy with all this money. Oh, dear Frau Nirlanger, it’s going to be +slathers of fun! I feel as excited about it as though it were a trousseau we +were buying.” +</p> + +<p> +“So it is,” she replied, a little shadow of sadness falling across the +brightness of her face. “I had no proper clothes when we were married—but +nothing! You know perhaps my story. In America, everyone knows everything. It +is wonderful. When I ran away to marry Konrad Nirlanger I had only the dress +which I wore; even that I borrowed from one of the upper servants, on a +pretext, so that no one should recognize me. Ach Gott! I need not have worried. +So! You see, it will be after all a trousseau.” +</p> + +<p> +Why, oh, why should a woman with her graceful carriage and pretty vivacity have +been cursed with such an ill-assorted lot of features! Especially when certain +boorish young husbands have expressed an admiration for pink-and-white effects +in femininity. +</p> + +<p> +“Never mind, Mr. Husband, I’ll show yez!” I resolved as the elevator left us at +the floor where waxen ladies in shining glass cases smiled amiably all the day. +</p> + +<p> +There must be no violent pinks or blues. Brown was too old. She was not young +enough for black. Violet was too trying. And so the gowns began to strew tables +and chairs and racks, and still I shook my head, and Frau Nirlanger looked +despairing, and the be-puffed and real Irish-crocheted saleswoman began to +develop a baleful gleam about the eyes. +</p> + +<p> +And then we found it! It was a case of love at first sight. The unimaginative +would have called it gray. The thoughtless would have pronounced it pink. It +was neither, and both; a soft, rosily-gray mixture of the two, like the sky +that one sometimes sees at winter twilight, the pink of the sunset veiled by +the gray of the snow clouds. It was of a supple, shining cloth, simple in cut, +graceful in lines. +</p> + +<p> +“There! We’ve found it. Let’s pray that it will not require too much altering.” +</p> + +<p> +But when it had been slipped over her head we groaned at the inadequacy of her +old-fashioned stays. There followed a flying visit to the department where hips +were whisked out of sight in a jiffy, and where lines miraculously took the +place of curves. Then came the gown once more, over the new stays this time. +The effect was magical. The Irish-crocheted saleswoman and I clasped hands and +fell back in attitudes of admiration. Frau Nirlanger turned this way and that +before the long mirror and chattered like a pleased child. Her adjectives grew +into words of six syllables. She cooed over the soft-shining stuff in little +broken exclamations in French and German. +</p> + +<p> +Then came a straight and simple street suit of blue cloth, a lingerie gown of +white, hats, shoes and even a couple of limp satin petticoats. The day was gone +before we could finish. +</p> + +<p> +I bullied them into promising the pinky-gray gown for the next afternoon. +</p> + +<p> +“Sooch funs!” giggled Frau Nirlanger, “and how it makes one tired. So kind you +were, to take this trouble for me. Me, I could never have warred with that +Fraulein who served us—so haughty she was, nicht? But it is good again pretty +clothes to have. Pretty gowns I lofe—you also, not?” +</p> + +<p> +“Indeed I do lofe ’em. But my money comes to me in a yellow pay envelope, and +it is spent before it reaches me, as a rule. It doesn’t leave much of a margin +for general recklessness.” +</p> + +<p> +A tiny sigh came from Frau Nirlanger. “There will be little to give to Konrad +this time. So much money they cost, those clothes! But Konrad, he will not care +when he sees the so beautiful dresses, is it not so?” +</p> + +<p> +“Care!” I cried with a great deal of bravado, although a tiny inner voice spake +in doubt. “Certainly not. How could he?” +</p> + +<p> +Next day the boxes came, and we smuggled them into my room. The unwrapping of +the tissue paper folds was a ceremony. We reveled in the very crackle of it. I +had scuttled home from the office as early as decency would permit, in order to +have plenty of time for the dressing. It must be quite finished before Herr +Nirlanger should arrive. Frau Nirlanger had purchased three tickets for the +German theater, also as a surprise, and I was to accompany the happily +surprised husband and the proud little wife of the new Amerikanische clothes. +</p> + +<p> +I coaxed her to let me do things to her hair. Usually she wore a stiff and ugly +coiffure that could only be described as a chignon. I do not recollect ever +having seen a chignon, but I know that it must look like that. I was thankful +for my Irish deftness of fingers as I stepped back to view the result of my +labors. The new arrangement of the hair gave her features a new softness and +dignity. +</p> + +<p> +We came to the lacing of the stays, with their exaggerated length. “Aber!” +exclaimed Frau Nirlanger, not daring to laugh because of the strange snugness. +“Ach!” and again, “Aber to laugh it is!” +</p> + +<p> +We had decided the prettiest of the new gowns must do honor to the occasion. +“This shade is called ashes of roses,” I explained, as I slipped it over her +head. +</p> + +<p> +“Ashes of roses!” she echoed. “How pretty, yes? But a little sad too, is it not +so? Like rosy hopes that have been withered. Ach, what a foolish talk! So, now +you will fasten it please. A real trick it is to button such a dress—so sly +they are, those fastenings.” +</p> + +<p> +When all the sly fastenings were secure I stood at gaze. +</p> + +<p> +“Nose is shiny,” I announced, searching in a drawer for chamois and powder. +</p> + +<p> +Frau Nirlanger raised an objecting hand. “But Konrad does not approve of such +things. He has said so. He has—” +</p> + +<p> +“You tell your Konrad that a chamois skin isn’t half as objectionable as a +shiny one. Come here and let me dust this over your nose and chin, while I +breathe a prayer of thanks that I have no overzealous husband near to forbid me +the use of a bit of powder. There! If I sez it mesilf as shouldn’t, yez ar-r-re +a credit t’ me, me darlint.” +</p> + +<p> +“You are satisfied. There is not one small thing awry? Ach, how we shall laugh +at Konrad’s face.” +</p> + +<p> +“Satisfied! I’d kiss you if I weren’t afraid that I should muss you up. You’re +not the same woman. You look like a girl! And so pretty! Now skedaddle into +your own rooms, but don’t you dare to sit down for a moment. I’m going down to +get Frau Knapf before your husband arrives.” +</p> + +<p> +“But is there then time?” inquired Frau Nirlanger. “He should be here now.” +</p> + +<p> +“I’ll bring her up in a jiffy, just for one peep. She won’t know you! Her face +will be a treat! Don’t touch your hair—it’s quite perfect. And f’r Jawn’s sake! +Don’t twist around to look at yourself in the back or something will burst, I +know it will. I’ll be back in a minute. Now run!” +</p> + +<p> +The slender, graceful figure disappeared with a gay little laugh, and I flew +downstairs for Frau Knapf. She was discovered with a spoon in one hand and a +spluttering saucepan in the other. I detached her from them, clasped her big, +capable red hands and dragged her up the stairs, explaining as I went. +</p> + +<p> +“Now don’t fuss about that supper! Let ’em wait. You must see her before Herr +Nirlanger comes home. He’s due any minute. She looks like a girl. So young! And +actually pretty! And her figure—divine! Funny what a difference a decent pair +of corsets, and a gown, and some puffs will make, h’m?” +</p> + +<p> +Frau Knapf was panting as I pulled her after me in swift eagerness. Between +puffs she brought out exclamations of surprise and unbelief such as: +“Unmoglich! (Puff! Puff!) Aber—wunderbar! (Puff! Puff!)” +</p> + +<p> +We stopped before Frau Nirlanger’s door. I struck a dramatic pose. “Prepare!” I +cried grandly, and threw open the door with a bang. +</p> + +<p> +Crouched against the wall at a far corner of the room was Frau Nirlanger. Her +hands were clasped over her breast and her eyes were dilated as though she had +been running. In the center of the room stood Konrad Nirlanger, and on his +oogly face was the very oogliest look that I have ever seen on a man. He +glanced at us as we stood transfixed in the doorway, and laughed a short, +sneering laugh that was like a stinging blow on the cheek. +</p> + +<p> +“So!” he said; and I would not have believed that men really said “So!” in that +way outside of a melodrama. “So! You are in the little surprise, yes? You carry +your meddling outside of your newspaper work, eh? I leave behind me an old wife +in the morning and in the evening, presto! I find a young bride. Wonderful!—but +wonderful!” He laughed an unmusical and mirthless laugh. +</p> + +<p> +“But—don’t you like it?” I asked, like a simpleton. +</p> + +<p> +Frau Nirlanger seemed to shrink before our very eyes, so that the pretty gown +hung in limp folds about her. +</p> + +<p> +I stared, fascinated, at Konrad Nirlanger’s cruel face with its little eyes +that were too close together and its chin that curved in below the mouth and +out again so grotesquely. +</p> + +<p> +“Like it?” sneered Konrad Nirlanger. “For a young girl, yes. But how useless, +this belated trousseau. What a waste of good money! For see, a young wife I do +not want. Young women one can have in plenty, always. But I have an old woman +married, and for an old woman the gowns need be few—eh, Frau Orme? And you too, +Frau Knapf?” +</p> + +<p> +Frau Knapf, crimson and staring, was dumb. There came a little shivering moan +from the figure crouched in the corner, and Frau Nirlanger, her face queerly +withered and ashen, crumpled slowly in a little heap on the floor and buried +her shamed head in her arms. +</p> + +<p> +Konrad Nirlanger turned to his wife, the black look on his face growing +blacker. +</p> + +<p> +“Come, get up Anna,” he ordered, in German. “These heroics become not a woman +of your years. And too, you must not ruin the so costly gown that will be +returned to-morrow.” +</p> + +<p> +Frau Nirlanger’s white face was lifted from the shelter of her arms. The +stricken look was still upon it, but there was no cowering in her attitude now. +Slowly she rose to her feet. I had not realized that she was so tall. +</p> + +<p> +“The gown does not go back,” she said. +</p> + +<p> +“So?” he snarled, with a savage note in his voice. “Now hear me. There shall be +no more buying of gowns and fripperies. You hear? It is for the wife to come to +the husband for the money; not for her to waste it wantonly on gowns, like a +creature of the streets. You,” his voice was an insult, “you, with your +wrinkles and your faded eyes in a gown of—” he turned inquiringly toward +me—“How does one call it, that color, Frau Orme?” +</p> + +<p> +There came a blur of tears to my eyes. “It is called ashes of roses,” I +answered. “Ashes of roses.” +</p> + +<p> +Konrad Nirlanger threw back his head and laughed a laugh as stinging as a +whip-lash. “Ashes of roses! So? It is well named. For my dear wife it is +poetically fit, is it not so? For see, her roses are but withered ashes, eh +Anna?” +</p> + +<p> +Deliberately and in silence Anna Nirlanger walked to the mirror and stood +there, gazing at the woman in the glass. There was something dreadful and +portentous about the calm and studied deliberation with which she critically +viewed that reflection. She lifted her arms slowly and patted into place the +locks that had become disarranged, turning her head from side to side to study +the effect. Then she took from a drawer the bit of chamois skin that I had +given her, and passed it lightly over her eyelids and cheeks, humming softly to +herself the while. No music ever sounded so uncanny to my ears. The woman +before the mirror looked at the woman in the mirror with a long, steady, +measuring look. Then, slowly and deliberately, the long graceful folds of her +lovely gown trailing behind her, she walked over to where her frowning husband +stood. So might a queen have walked, head held high, gaze steady. She stopped +within half a foot of him, her eyes level with his. For a long half-minute they +stood thus, the faded blue eyes of the wife gazing into the sullen black eyes +of the husband, and his were the first to drop, for all the noble blood in Anna +Nirlanger’s veins, and all her long line of gently bred ancestors were coming +to her aid in dealing with her middle-class husband. +</p> + +<p> +“You forget,” she said, very slowly and distinctly. “If this were Austria, +instead of Amerika, you would not forget. In Austria people of your class do +not speak in this manner to those of my caste.” +</p> + +<p> +“Unsinn!” laughed Konrad Nirlanger. “This is Amerika.” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes,” said Anna Nirlanger, “this is Amerika. And in Amerika all things are +different. I see now that my people knew of what they spoke when they called me +mad to think of wedding a clod of the people, such as you.” +</p> + +<p> +For a moment I thought that he was going to strike her. I think he would have, +if she had flinched. But she did not. Her head was held high, and her eyes did +not waver. +</p> + +<p> +“I married you for love. It is most comical, is it not? With you I thought I +should find peace, and happiness and a re-birth of the intellect that was being +smothered in the splendor and artificiality and the restrictions of my life +there. Well, I was wrong. But wrong. Now hear me!” Her voice was tense with +passion. “There will be gowns—as many and as rich as I choose. You have said +many times that the ladies of Amerika you admire. And see! I shall be also one +of those so-admired ladies. My money shall go for gowns! For hats! For trifles +of lace and velvet and fur! You shall learn that it is not a peasant woman whom +you have married. This is Amerika, the land of the free, my husband. And see! +Who is more of Amerika than I? Who?” +</p> + +<p> +She laughed a high little laugh and came over to me, taking my hands in her +own. +</p> + +<p> +“Dear girl, you must run quickly and dress. For this evening we go to the +theater. Oh, but you must. There shall be no unpleasantness, that I promise. My +husband accompanies us—with joy. Is it not so, Konrad? With joy? So!” +</p> + +<p> +Wildly I longed to decline, but I dared not. So I only nodded, for fear of the +great lump in my throat, and taking Frau Knapf’s hand I turned and fled with +her. Frau Knapf was muttering: +</p> + +<p> +“Du Hund! Du unverschamter Hund du!” in good Billingsgate German, and wiping +her eyes with her apron. And I dressed with trembling fingers because I dared +not otherwise face the brave little Austrian, the plucky little aborigine who, +with the donning of the new Amerikanische gown had acquired some real +Amerikanisch nerve. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap11"></a>CHAPTER XI.<br/> +VON GERHARD SPEAKS</h2> + +<p> +Of Von Gerhard I had not had a glimpse since that evening of my hysterical +outburst. On Christmas day there had come a box of roses so huge that I could +not find vases enough to hold its contents, although I pressed into service +everything from Mason jars from the kitchen to hand-painted atrocities from the +parlor. After I had given posies to Frau Nirlanger, and fastened a rose in Frau +Knapf’s hard knob of hair, where it bobbed in ludicrous discomfort, I still had +enough to fill the washbowl. My room looked like a grand opera star’s boudoir +when she is expecting the newspaper reporters. I reveled in the glowing +fragrance of the blossoms and felt very eastern and luxurious and popular. It +had been a busy, happy, work-filled week, in which I had had to snatch odd +moments for the selecting of certain wonderful toys for the Spalpeens. There +had been dolls and doll-clothes and a marvelous miniature kitchen for the +practical and stolid Sheila, and ingenious bits of mechanism that did +unbelievable things when wound up, for the clever, imaginative Hans. I was not +to have the joy of seeing their wide-eyed delight, but I knew that there would +follow certain laboriously scrawled letters, filled with topsy-turvy capitals +and crazily leaning words of thanks to the doting old auntie who had been such +good fun the summer before. +</p> + +<p> +Boarding-house Christmases had become an old story. I had learned to accept +them, even to those obscure and foreign parts of turkey which are seen only on +boarding-house plates, and which would be recognized nowhere else as belonging +to that stately bird. +</p> + +<p> +Christmas at Knapf’s had been a happy surprise; a day of hearty good cheer and +kindness. There had even been a Christmas tree, hung with stodgy German angels +and Pfeffernuesse and pink-frosted cakes. I found myself the bewildered +recipient of gifts from everyone—from the Knapfs, and the aborigines and even +from one of the crushed-looking wives. The aborigine whom they called Fritz had +presented me with a huge and imposing Lebkuchen, reposing in a box with frilled +border, ornamented with quaint little red-and-green German figures in sugar, +and labeled Nurnberg in stout letters, for it had come all the way from that +kuchen-famous city. The Lebkuchen I placed on my mantel shelf as befitted so +magnificent a work of art. It was quite too elaborate and imposing to be sent +the way of ordinary food, although it had a certain tantalizingly spicy scent +that tempted one to break off a corner here and there. +</p> + +<p> +On the afternoon of Christmas day I sat down to thank Dr. von Gerhard for the +flowers as prettily as might be. Also I asked his pardon, a thing not hard to +do with the perfume of his roses filling the room. +</p> + +<p> +“For you,” I wrote, “who are so wise in the ways of those tricky things called +nerves, must know that it was only a mild hysteria that made me say those most +unladylike things. I have written Norah all about it. She has replied, advising +me to stick to the good-fellow role but not to dress the part. So when next you +see me I shall be a perfectly safe and sane comrade in petticoats. And I +promise you—no more outbursts.” +</p> + +<p> +So it happened that on the afternoon of New Year’s day Von Gerhard and I +gravely wished one another many happy and impossible things for the coming +year, looking fairly and squarely into each other’s eyes as we did so. +</p> + +<p> +“So,” said Von Gerhard, as one who is satisfied. “The nerfs are steady to-day. +What do you say to a brisk walk along the lake shore to put us in a New Year +frame of mind, and then a supper down-town somewhere, with a toast to Max and +Norah?” +</p> + +<p> +“You’ve saved my life! Sit down here in the parlor and gaze at the crepe-paper +oranges while I powder my nose and get into some street clothes. I have such a +story to tell you! It has made me quite contented with my lot.” +</p> + +<p> +The story was that of the Nirlangers; and as we struggled against a brisk lake +breeze I told it, and partly because of the breeze, and partly because of the +story, there were tears in my eyes when I had finished. Von Gerhard stared at +me, aghast. +</p> + +<p> +“But you are—crying!” he marveled, watching a tear slide down my nose. +</p> + +<p> +“I’m not,” I retorted. “Anyway I know it. I think I may blubber if I choose to, +mayn’t I, as well as other women?” +</p> + +<p> +“Blubber?” repeated Von Gerhard, he of the careful and cautious English. “But +most certainly, if you wish. I had thought that newspaper women did not indulge +in the luxury of tears.” +</p> + +<p> +“They don’t—often. Haven’t the time. If a woman reporter were to burst into +tears every time she saw something to weep over she’d be going about with a red +nose and puffy eyelids half the time. Scarcely a day passes that does not bring +her face to face with human suffering in some form. Not only must she see these +things, but she must write of them so that those who read can also see them. +And just because she does not wail and tear her hair and faint she popularly is +supposed to be a flinty, cigarette-smoking creature who rampages up and down +the land, seeking whom she may rend with her pen and gazing, dry-eyed, upon +scenes of horrid bloodshed.” +</p> + +<p> +“And yet the little domestic tragedy of the Nirlangers can bring tears to your +eyes?” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, that was quite different. The case of the Nirlangers had nothing to do +with Dawn O’Hara, newspaper reporter. It was just plain Dawn O’Hara, woman, who +witnessed that little tragedy. Mein Himmel! Are all German husbands like that?” +</p> + +<p> +“Not all. I have a very good friend named Max—” +</p> + +<p> +“O, Max! Max is an angel husband. Fancy Max and Norah waxing tragic on the +subject of a gown! Now you—” +</p> + +<p> +“I? Come, you are sworn to good-fellowship. As one comrade to another, tell me, +what sort of husband do you think I should make, eh? The boorish Nirlanger +sort, or the charming Max variety. Come, tell me—you who always have seemed +so—so damnably able to take care of yourself.” His eyes were twinkling in the +maddening way they had. +</p> + +<p> +I looked out across the lake to where a line of white-caps was piling up +formidably only to break in futile wrath against the solid wall of the shore. +And there came over me an equally futile wrath; that savage, unreasoning +instinct in women which prompts them to hurt those whom they love. +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, you!” I began, with Von Gerhard’s amused eyes laughing down upon me. “I +should say that you would be more in the Nirlanger style, in your large, +immovable, Germansure way. Not that you would stoop to wrangle about money or +gowns, but that you would control those things. Your wife will be a placid, +blond, rather plump German Fraulein, of excellent family and no imagination. +Men of your type always select negative wives. Twenty years ago she would have +run to bring you your Zeitung and your slippers. She would be that kind, if +Zeitung-and-slipper husbands still were in existence. You will be fond of her, +in a patronizing sort of way, and she will never know the difference between +that and being loved, not having a great deal of imagination, as I have said +before. And you will go on becoming more and more famous, and she will grow +plumper and more placid, and less and less understanding of what those komisch +medical journals have to say so often about her husband who is always +discovering things. And you will live happily ever after—” +</p> + +<p> +A hand gripped my shoulder. I looked up, startled, into two blue eyes blazing +down into mine. Von Gerhard’s face was a painful red. I think that the hand on +my shoulder even shook me a little, there on that bleak and deserted lake +drive. I tried to wrench my shoulder free with a jerk. +</p> + +<p> +“You are hurting me!” I cried. +</p> + +<p> +A quiver of pain passed over the face that I had thought so calmly unemotional. +“You talk of hurts! You, who set out deliberately and maliciously to make me +suffer! How dare you then talk to me like this! You stab with a hundred +knives—you, who know how I—” +</p> + +<p> +“I’m sorry,” I put in, contritely. “Please don’t be so dreadful about it. After +all, you asked me, didn’t you? Perhaps I’ve hurt your vanity. There, I didn’t +mean that, either. Oh, dear, let’s talk about something impersonal. We get +along wretchedly of late.” +</p> + +<p> +The angry red ebbed away from Von Gerhard’s face. The blaze of wrath in his +eyes gave way to a deeper, brighter light that held me fascinated, and there +came to his lips a smile of rare sweetness. The hand that had grasped my +shoulder slipped down, down, until it met my hand and gripped it. +</p> + +<p> +“Na, ’s ist schon recht, Kindchen. Those that we most care for we would hurt +always. When I have told you of my love for you, although already you know it, +then you will tell me. Hush! Do not deny this thing. There shall be no more +lies between us. There shall be only the truth, and no more about plump, blonde +German wives who run with Zeitung and slippers. After all, it is no secret. +Three months ago I told Norah. It was not news to her. But she trusted me.” +</p> + +<p> +I felt my face to be as white and as tense as his own. “Norah—knows!” +</p> + +<p> +“It is better to speak these things. Then there need be no shifting of the +eyes, no evasive words, no tricks, no subterfuge.” +</p> + +<p> +We had faced about and were retracing our steps, past the rows of peculiarly +home-like houses that line Milwaukee’s magnificent lake shore. Windows were +hung with holiday scarlet and holly, and here and there a face was visible at a +window, looking out at the man and woman walking swiftly along the wind-swept +heights that rose far above the lake. +</p> + +<p> +A wretched revolt seized me as I gazed at the substantial comfort of those +normal, happy homes. +</p> + +<p> +“Why did you tell me! What good can that do? At least we were make-believe +friends before. Suppose I were to tell you that I care, then what.” +</p> + +<p> +“I do not ask you to tell me,” Von Gerhard replied, quietly. +</p> + +<p> +“You need not. You know. You knew long, long ago. You know I love the big +quietness of you, and your sureness, and the German way you have of twisting +your sentences about, and the steady grip of your great firm hands, and the +rareness of your laugh, and the simplicity of you. Why I love the very +cleanliness of your ruddy skin, and the way your hair grows away from your +forehead, and your walk, and your voice and—Oh, what is the use of it all?” +</p> + +<p> +“Just this, Dawn. The light of day sweetens all things. We have dragged this +thing out into the sunlight, where, if it grows, it will grow sanely and +healthily. It was but an ugly, distorted, unsightly thing, sending out pale +unhealthy shoots in the dark, unwholesome cellars of our inner consciences. +Norah’s knowing was the cleanest, sweetest thing about it.” +</p> + +<p> +“How wonderfully you understand her, and how right you are! Her knowing seems +to make it as it should be, doesn’t it? I am braver already, for the knowledge +of it. It shall make no difference between us?” +</p> + +<p> +“There is no difference, Dawn,” said he. +</p> + +<p> +“No. It is only in the story-books that they sigh, and groan and utter silly +nonsense. We are not like that. Perhaps, after a bit, you will meet some one +you care for greatly—not plump, or blond, or German, perhaps, but still—” +</p> + +<p> +“Doch you are flippant?” +</p> + +<p> +“I must say those things to keep the tears back. You would not have me wailing +here in the street. Tell me just one thing, and there shall be no more +fluttering breaths and languishing looks. Tell me, when did you begin to care?” +</p> + +<p> +We had reached Knapfs’ door-step. The short winter day was already drawing to +its close. In the half-light Von Gerhard’s eyes glowed luminous. +</p> + +<p> +“Since the day I first met you at Norah’s,” he said, simply. +</p> + +<p> +I stared at him, aghast, my ever-present sense of humor struggling to the +surface. “Not—not on that day when you came into the room where I sat in the +chair by the window, with a flowered quilt humped about my shoulders! And a +fever-sore twisting my mouth! And my complexion the color of cheese, and my +hair plastered back from my forehead, and my eyes like boiled onions!” +</p> + +<p> +“Thank God for your gift of laughter,” Von Gerhard said, and took my hand in +his for one brief moment before he turned and walked away. +</p> + +<p> +Quite prosaically I opened the big front door at Knapfs’ to find Herr Knapf +standing in the hallway with his: +</p> + +<p> +“Nabben’, Frau Orme.” +</p> + +<p> +And there was the sane and soothing scent of Wienerschnitzel and spluttering +things in the air. And I ran upstairs to my room and turned on all the lights +and looked at the starry-eyed creature in the mirror. Then I took the biggest, +newest photograph of Norah from the mantel and looked at her for a long, long +minute, while she looked back at me in her brave true way. +</p> + +<p> +“Thank you, dear,” I said to her. “Thank you. Would you think me stagey and +silly if I were to kiss you, just once, on your beautiful trusting eyes?” +</p> + +<p> +A telephone bell tinkled downstairs and Herr Knapf stationed himself at the +foot of the stairs and roared my name. +</p> + +<p> +When I had picked up the receiver: “This is Ernst,” said the voice at the other +end of the wire. “I have just remembered that I had asked you down-town for +supper.” +</p> + +<p> +“I would rather thank God fasting,” I replied, very softly, and hung the +receiver on its hook. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap12"></a>CHAPTER XII.<br/> +BENNIE THE CONSOLER</h2> + +<p> +In a corner of Frau Nirlanger’s bedroom, sheltered from draughts and glaring +light, is a little wooden bed, painted blue and ornamented with stout red roses +that are faded by time and much abuse. Every evening at eight o’clock three +anxious-browed women hold low-spoken conclave about the quaint old bed, while +its occupant sleeps and smiles as he sleeps, and clasps to his breast a +chewed-looking woolly dog. For a new joy has come to the sad little Frau +Nirlanger, and I, quite by accident, was the cause of bringing it to her. The +queer little blue bed, with its faded roses, was brought down from the attic by +Frau Knapf, for she is one of the three foster mothers of the small occupant of +the bed. The occupant of the bed is named Bennie, and a corporation formed for +the purpose of bringing him up in the way he should go is composed of: Dawn +O’Hara Orme, President and Distracted Guardian; Mrs. Konrad Nirlanger, +Cuddler-in-chief and Authority on the Subject of Bennie’s Bed-time; Mr. Blackie +Griffith, Good Angel, General Cut-up and Monitor off’n Bennie’s Neckties and +Toys; Dr. Ernst von Gerhard, Chief Medical Adviser, and Sweller of the +Exchequer, with the Privilege of Selecting All Candies. Members of the +corporation meet with great frequency evenings and Sundays, much to the +detriment of a certain Book-in-the-making with which Dawn O’Hara Orme was wont +to struggle o’ evenings. +</p> + +<p> +Bennie had been one of those little tragedies that find their way into juvenile +court. Bennie’s story was common enough, but Bennie himself had been different. +Ten minutes after his first appearance in the court room everyone, from the +big, bald judge to the newest probation officer, had fallen in love with him. +Somehow, you wanted to smooth the hair from his forehead, tip his pale little +face upward, and very gently kiss his smooth, white brow. Which alone was +enough to distinguish Bennie, for Juvenile court children, as a rule, are +distinctly not kissable. +</p> + +<p> +Bennie’s mother was accused of being unfit to care for her boy, and Bennie was +temporarily installed in the Detention Home. There the superintendent and his +plump and kindly wife had fallen head over heels in love with him, and had +dressed him in a smart little Norfolk suit and a frivolous plaid silk tie. +There were delays in the case, and postponement after postponement, so that +Bennie appeared in the court room every Tuesday for four weeks. The reporters, +and the probation officers and policemen became very chummy with Bennie, and +showered him with bright new pennies and certain wonderful candies. +Superintendent Arnett of the Detention Home was as proud of the boy as though +he were his own. And when Bennie would look shyly and questioningly into his +face for permission to accept the proffered offerings, the big superintendent +would chuckle delightedly. Bennie had a strangely mobile face for such a baby, +and the whitest, smoothest brow I have ever seen. +</p> + +<p> +The comedy and tears and misery and laughter of the big, white-walled court +room were too much for Bennie. He would gaze about with puzzled blue eyes; +then, giving up the situation as something too vast for his comprehension, he +would fall to drawing curly-cues on a bit of paper with a great yellow pencil +presented him by one of the newspaper men. +</p> + +<p> +Every Tuesday the rows of benches were packed with a motley crowd of Poles, +Russians, Slavs, Italians, Greeks, Lithuanians—a crowd made up of fathers, +mothers, sisters, brothers, aunts, uncles, neighbors, friends, and enemies of +the boys and girls whose fate was in the hands of the big man seated in the +revolving chair up in front. But Bennie’s mother was not of this crowd; this +pitiful, ludicrous crowd filling the great room with the stifling, rancid odor +of the poor. Nor was Bennie. He sat, clear-eyed and unsmiling, in the depths of +a great chair on the court side of the railing and gravely received the +attentions of the lawyers, and reporters and court room attaches who had grown +fond of the grave little figure. +</p> + +<p> +Then, on the fifth Tuesday, Bennie’s mother appeared. How she had come to be +that child’s mother God only knows—or perhaps He had had nothing to do with it. +She was terribly sober and frightened. Her face was swollen and bruised, and +beneath one eye there was a puffy green-and-blue swelling. Her sordid story was +common enough as the probation officer told it. The woman had been living in +one wretched room with the boy. Her husband had deserted her. There was no +food, and little furniture. The queer feature of it, said the probation +officer, was that the woman managed to keep the boy fairly neat and clean, +regardless of her own condition, and he generally had food of some sort, +although the mother sometimes went without food for days. Through the squalor +and misery and degradation of her own life Bennie had somehow been kept +unsullied, a thing apart. +</p> + +<p> +“H’m!” said judge Wheeling, and looked at Bennie. Bennie was standing beside +his mother. He was very quiet, and his eyes were smiling up into those of the +battered creature who was fighting for him. “I guess we’ll have to take you out +of this,” the judge decided, abruptly. “That boy is too good to go to waste.” +</p> + +<p> +The sodden, dazed woman before him did not immediately get the full meaning of +his words. She still stood there, swaying a bit, and staring unintelligently at +the judge. Then, quite suddenly, she realized it. She took a quick step +forward. Her hand went up to her breast, to her throat, to her lips, with an +odd, stifled gesture. +</p> + +<p> +“You ain’t going to take him away! From me! No, you wouldn’t do that, would +you? Not for—not for always! You wouldn’t do that—you wouldn’t—” +</p> + +<p> +Judge Wheeling waved her away. But the woman dropped to her knees. +</p> + +<p> +“Judge, give me a chance! I’ll stop drinking. Only don’t take him away from me! +Don’t, judge, don’t! He’s all I’ve got in the world. Give me a chance. Three +months! Six months! A year!” +</p> + +<p> +“Get up!” ordered judge Wheeling, gruffly, “and stop that! It won’t do you a +bit of good.” +</p> + +<p> +And then a wonderful thing happened. The woman rose to her feet. A new and +strange dignity had come into her battered face. The lines of suffering and +vice were erased as by magic, and she seemed to grow taller, younger, almost +beautiful. When she spoke again it was slowly and distinctly, her words quite +free from the blur of the barroom and street vernacular. +</p> + +<p> +“I tell you you must give me a chance. You cannot take a child from a mother in +this way. I tell you, if you will only help me I can crawl back up the road +that I’ve traveled. I was not always like this. There was another life, +before—before—Oh, since then there have been years of blackness, and hunger, +and cold and—worse! But I never dragged the boy into it. Look at him!” +</p> + +<p> +Our eyes traveled from the woman’s transfigured face to that of the boy. We +could trace a wonderful likeness where before we had seen none. But the woman +went on in her steady, even tone. +</p> + +<p> +“I can’t talk as I should, because my brain isn’t clear. It’s the drink. When +you drink, you forget. But you must help me. I can’t do it alone. I can +remember how to live straight, just as I can remember how to talk straight. Let +me show you that I’m not all bad. Give me a chance. Take the boy and then give +him back to me when you are satisfied. I’ll try—God only knows how I’ll try. +Only don’t take him away forever, Judge! Don’t do that!” +</p> + +<p> +Judge Wheeling ran an uncomfortable finger around his collar’s edge. +</p> + +<p> +“Any friends living here?” +</p> + +<p> +“No! No!” +</p> + +<p> +“Sure about that?” +</p> + +<p> +“Quite sure.” +</p> + +<p> +“Now see here; I’m going to give you your chance. I shall take this boy away +from you for a year. In that time you will stop drinking and become a decent, +self-supporting woman. You will be given in charge of one of these probation +officers. She will find work for you, and a good home, and she’ll stand by you, +and you must report to her. If she is satisfied with you at the end of the +year, the boy goes back to you.” +</p> + +<p> +“She will be satisfied,” the woman said, simply. She stooped and taking +Bennie’s face between her hands kissed him once. Then she stepped aside and +stood quite still, looking after the little figure that passed out of the court +room with his hand in that of a big, kindly police officer. She looked until +the big door had opened and closed upon them. +</p> + +<p> +Then—well, it was just another newspaper story. It made a good one. That +evening I told Frau Nirlanger about it, and she wept, softly, and murmured: +“Ach, das arme baby! Like my little Oscar he is, without a mother.” I told +Ernst about him too, and Blackie, because I could not get his grave little face +out of my mind. I wondered if those who had charge of him now would take the +time to bathe the little body, and brush the soft hair until it shone, and tie +the gay plaid silk tie as lovingly as “Daddy” Arnett of the Detention Home had +done. +</p> + +<p> +Then it was that I, quite unwittingly, stepped into Bennie’s life. +</p> + +<p> +There was an anniversary, or a change in the board of directors, or a new coat +of paint or something of the kind in one of the orphan homes, and the story +fell to me. I found the orphan home to be typical of its kind—a big, dreary, +prison-like structure. The woman at the door did not in the least care to let +me in. She was a fish-mouthed woman with a hard eye, and as I told my errand +her mouth grew fishier and the eye harder. Finally she led me down a long, +dark, airless stretch of corridor and departed in search of the matron, leaving +me seated in the unfriendly reception room, with its straight-backed chairs +placed stonily against the walls, beneath rows of red and blue and yellow +religious pictures. +</p> + +<p> +Just as I was wondering why it seemed impossible to be holy and cheerful at the +same time, there came a pad-padding down the corridor. The next moment the +matron stood in the doorway. She was a mountainous, red-faced woman, with warts +on her nose. +</p> + +<p> +“Good-afternoon,” I said, sweetly. (“Ugh! What a brute!”) I thought. Then I +began to explain my errand once more. Criticism of the Home? No indeed, I +assured her. At last, convinced of my disinterestedness she reluctantly guided +me about the big, gloomy building. There were endless flights of shiny stairs, +and endless stuffy, airless rooms, until we came to a door which she flung +open, disclosing the nursery. It seemed to me that there were a hundred +babies—babies at every stage of development, of all sizes, and ages and types. +They glanced up at the opening of the door, and then a dreadful thing happened. +</p> + +<p> +Every child that was able to walk or creep scuttled into the farthest corners +and remained quite, quite still with a wide-eyed expression of fear and +apprehension on every face. +</p> + +<p> +For a moment my heart stood still. I turned to look at the woman by my side. +Her thin lips were compressed into a straight, hard line. She said a word to a +nurse standing near, and began to walk about, eying the children sharply. She +put out a hand to pat the head of one red-haired mite in a soiled pinafore; but +before her hand could descend I saw the child dodge and the tiny hand flew up +to the head, as though in defense. +</p> + +<p> +“They are afraid of her!” my sick heart told me. “Those babies are afraid of +her! What does she do to them? I can’t stand this. I’m going.” +</p> + +<p> +I mumbled a hurried “Thank you,” to the fat matron as I turned to leave the +big, bare room. At the head of the stairs there was a great, black door. I +stopped before it—God knows why!—and pointed toward it. +</p> + +<p> +“What is in that room?” I asked. Since then I have wondered many times at the +unseen power that prompted me to put the question. +</p> + +<p> +The stout matron bustled on, rattling her keys as she walked. +</p> + +<p> +“That—oh, that’s where we keep the incorrigibles.” +</p> + +<p> +“May I see them?” I asked, again prompted by that inner voice. +</p> + +<p> +“There is only one.” She grudgingly unlocked the door, using one of the great +keys that swung from her waist. The heavy, black door swung open. I stepped +into the bare room, lighted dimly by one small window. In the farthest corner +crouched something that stirred and glanced up at our entrance. It peered at us +with an ugly look of terror and defiance, and I stared back at it, in the dim +light. During one dreadful, breathless second I remained staring, while my +heart stood still. Then—“Bennie!” I cried. And stumbled toward him. +“Bennie—boy!” +</p> + +<p> +The little unkempt figure, in its soiled knickerbocker suit, the sunny hair all +uncared for, the gay plaid tie draggled and limp, rushed into my arms with a +crazy, inarticulate cry. +</p> + +<p> +Down on my knees on the bare floor I held him close—close! and his arms were +about my neck as though they never should unclasp. +</p> + +<p> +“Take me away! Take me away!” His wet cheek was pressed against my own +streaming one. “I want my mother! I want Daddy Arnett! Take me away!” +</p> + +<p> +I wiped his cheeks with my notebook or something, picked him up in my arms, and +started for the door. I had quite forgotten the fat matron. +</p> + +<p> +“What are you doing?” she asked, blocking the doorway with her huge bulk. +</p> + +<p> +“I’m going to take him back with me. Please let me! I’ll take care of him until +the year is up. He shan’t bother you any more.” +</p> + +<p> +“That is impossible,” she said, coldly. “He has been sent here by the court, +for a year, and he must stay here. Besides, he is a stubborn, uncontrollable +child.” +</p> + +<p> +“Uncontrollable! He’s nothing of the kind! Why don’t you treat him as a child +should be treated, instead of like a little animal? You don’t know him! Why, +he’s the most lovable—! And he’s only a baby! Can’t you see that? A baby!” +</p> + +<p> +She only stared her dislike, her little pig eyes grown smaller and more +glittering. +</p> + +<p> +“You great—big—thing!” I shrieked at her, like an infuriated child. With the +tears streaming down my cheeks I unclasped Bennie’s cold hands from about my +neck. He clung to me, frantically, until I had to push him away and run. +</p> + +<p> +The woman swung the door shut, and locked it. But for all its thickness I could +hear Bennie’s helpless fists pounding on its panels as I stumbled down the +stairs, and Bennie’s voice came faintly to my ears, muffled by the heavy door, +as he shrieked to me to take him away to his mother, and to Daddy Arnett. +</p> + +<p> +I blubbered all the way back in the car, until everyone stared, but I didn’t +care. When I reached the office I made straight for Blackie’s smoke-filled +sanctum. When my tale was ended he let me cry all over his desk, with my head +buried in a heap of galley-proofs and my tears watering his paste-pot. He sat +calmly by, smoking. Finally he began gently to philosophize. “Now girl, he’s +prob’ly better off there than he ever was at home with his mother soused all +the time. Maybe he give that warty matron friend of yours all kinds of trouble, +yellin’ for his ma.” +</p> + +<p> +I raised my head from the desk. “Oh, you can talk! You didn’t see him. What do +you care! But if you could have seen him, crouched there—alone—like a little +animal! He was so sweet—and lovable—and—and—he hadn’t been decently washed for +weeks—and his arms clung to me—I can feel his hands about my neck!—” +</p> + +<p> +I buried my head in the papers again. Blackie went on smoking. There was no +sound in the little room except the purr-purring of Blackie’s pipe. Then: +</p> + +<p> +“I done a favor for Wheeling once,” mused he. +</p> + +<p> +I glanced up, quickly. “Oh, Blackie, do you think—” +</p> + +<p> +“No, I don’t. But then again, you can’t never tell. That was four or five years +ago, and the mem’ry of past favors grows dim fast. Still, if you’re through +waterin’ the top of my desk, why I’d like t’ set down and do a little real +brisk talkin’ over the phone. You’re excused.” +</p> + +<p> +Quite humbly I crept away, with hope in my heart. +</p> + +<p> +To this day I do not know what secret string the resourceful Blackie pulled. +But the next afternoon I found a hastily scrawled note tucked into the roll of +my typewriter. It sent me scuttling across the hall to the sporting editor’s +smoke-filled room. And there on a chair beside the desk, surrounded by +scrap-books, lead pencils, paste-pot and odds and ends of newspaper office +paraphernalia, sat Bennie. His hair was parted very smoothly on one side, and +under his dimpled chin bristled a very new and extremely lively green-and-red +plaid silk tie. +</p> + +<p> +The next instant I had swept aside papers, brushes, pencils, books, and Bennie +was gathered close in my arms. Blackie, with a strange glow in his deep-set +black eyes regarded us with an assumed disgust. +</p> + +<p> +“Wimmin is all alike. Ain’t it th’ truth? I used t’ think you was different. +But shucks! It ain’t so. Got t’ turn on the weeps the minute you’re tickled or +mad. Why say, I ain’t goin’ t’ have you comin’ in here an’ dampenin’ up the +whole place every little while! It’s unhealthy for me, sittin’ here in the +wet.” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, shut up, Blackie,” I said, happily. “How in the world did you do it?” +</p> + +<p> +“Never you mind. The question is, what you goin’ t’ do with him, now you’ve got +him? Goin’ t’ have a French bunny for him, or fetch him up by hand? Wheeling +appointed a probation skirt to look after the crowd of us, and we got t’ toe +the mark.” +</p> + +<p> +“Glory be!” I ejaculated. “I don’t know what I shall do with him. I shall have +to bring him down with me every morning, and perhaps you can make a sporting +editor out of him.” +</p> + +<p> +“Nix. Not with that forehead. He’s a high-brow. We’ll make him dramatic critic. +In the meantime, I’ll be little fairy godmother, an’ if you’ll get on your +bonnet I’ll stake you and the young ’un to strawberry shortcake an’ chocolate +ice cream.” +</p> + +<p> +So it happened that a wondering Frau Knapf and a sympathetic Frau Nirlanger +were called in for consultation an hour later. Bennie was ensconced in my room, +very wide-eyed and wondering, but quite content. With the entrance of Frau +Nirlanger the consultation was somewhat disturbed. She made a quick rush at him +and gathered him in her hungry arms. +</p> + +<p> +“Du baby du!” she cried. “Du Kleiner! And she was down on her knees, and +somehow her figure had melted into delicious mother-curves, with Bennie’s head +just fitting into that most gracious one between her shoulder and breast. She +cooed to him in a babble of French and German and English, calling him her +lee-tel Oscar. Bennie seemed miraculously to understand. Perhaps he was +becoming accustomed to having strange ladies snatch him to their breasts. +</p> + +<p> +“So,” said Frau Nirlanger, looking up at us. “Is he not sweet? He shall be my +lee-tel boy, nicht? For one small year he shall be my own boy. Ach, I am but +lonely all the long day here in this strange land. You will let me care for +him, nicht? And Konrad, he will be very angry, but that shall make no bit of +difference. Eh, Oscar?” +</p> + +<p> +And so the thing was settled, and an hour later three anxious-browed women were +debating the weighty question of eggs or bread-and-milk for Bennie’s supper. +Frau Nirlanger was for soft-boiled eggs as being none too heavy after orphan +asylum fare; I was for bread-and-milk, that being the prescribed supper dish +for all the orphans and waifs that I had ever read about, from “The Wide, Wide +World” to “Helen’s Babies,” and back again. Frau Knapf was for both eggs and +bread-and-milk with a dash of meat and potatoes thrown in for good measure, and +a slice or so of Kuchen on the side. We compromised on one egg, one glass of +milk, and a slice of lavishly buttered bread, and jelly. It was a clean, sweet, +sleepy-eyed Bennie that we tucked between the sheets. We three women stood +looking down at him as he lay there in the quaint old blue-painted bed that had +once held the plump little Knapfs. +</p> + +<p> +“You think anyway he had enough supper? mused the anxious-browed Frau Knapf. +</p> + +<p> +“To school he will have to go, yes?” murmured Frau Nirlanger, regretfully. +</p> + +<p> +I tucked in the covers at one side of the bed, not that they needed tucking, +but because it was such a comfortable, satisfying thing to do. +</p> + +<p> +“Just at this minute,” I said, as I tucked, “I’d rather be a newspaper reporter +than anything else in the world. As a profession ’tis so broadenin’, an’ at the +same time, so chancey.” +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap13"></a>CHAPTER XIII.<br/> +THE TEST</h2> + +<p> +Some day the marriageable age for women will be advanced from twenty to thirty, +and the old maid line will be changed from thirty to forty. When that time +comes there will be surprisingly few divorces. The husband of whom we dream at +twenty is not at all the type of man who attracts us at thirty. The man I +married at twenty was a brilliant, morbid, handsome, abnormal creature with +magnificent eyes and very white teeth and no particular appetite at mealtime. +The man whom I could care for at thirty would be the normal, safe and +substantial sort who would come in at six o’clock, kiss me once, sniff the air +twice and say: “Mm! What’s that smells so good, old girl? I’m as hungry as a +bear. Trot it out. Where are the kids?” +</p> + +<p> +These are dangerous things to think upon. So dangerous and disturbing to the +peace of mind that I have decided not to see Ernst von Gerhard for a week or +two. I find that seeing him is apt to make me forget Peter Orme; to forget that +my duty begins with a capital D; to forget that I am dangerously near the +thirty year old mark; to forget Norah, and Max, and the Spalpeens, and the +world, and everything but the happiness of being near him, watching his eyes +say one thing while his lips say another. +</p> + +<p> +At such times I am apt to work myself up into rather a savage frame of mind, +and to shut myself in my room evenings, paying no heed to Frau Nirlanger’s +timid knocking, or Bennie’s good-night message. I uncover my typewriter and set +to work at the thing which may or may not be a book, and am extremely wretched +and gloomy and pessimistic, after this fashion: +</p> + +<p> +“He probably wouldn’t care anything about you if you were free. It is just a +case of the fruit that is out of reach being the most desirable. Men don’t +marry frumpy, snuffy old things of thirty, or thereabouts. Men aren’t marrying +now-a-days, anyway. Certainly not for love. They marry for position, or power, +or money, when they do marry. Think of all the glorious creatures he meets +every day—women whose hair, and finger-nails and teeth and skin are a religion; +women whose clothes are a fine art; women who are free to care only for +themselves; to rest, to enjoy, to hear delightful music, and read charming +books, and eat delicious food. He doesn’t really care about you, with your +rumpled blouses, and your shabby gloves and shoes, and your somewhat doubtful +linen collars. The last time you saw him you were just coming home from the +office after a dickens of a day, and there was a smudge on the end of your +nose, and he told you of it, laughing. But you didn’t laugh. You rubbed it off, +furiously, and you wanted to cry. Cry! You, Dawn O’Hara! Begorra! ’Tis losin’ +your sense av humor you’re after doin’! Get to work.” +</p> + +<p> +After which I would fall upon the book in a furious, futile fashion, writing +many incoherent, irrelevant paragraphs which I knew would be cast aside as +worthless on the sane and reasoning to-morrow. +</p> + +<p> +Oh, it had been easy enough to talk of love in a lofty, superior impersonal way +that New Year’s day. Just the luxury of speaking of it at all, after those +weeks of repression, sufficed. But it is not so easy to be impersonal and lofty +when the touch of a coat sleeve against your arm sends little prickling, +tingling shivers racing madly through thousands of too taut nerves. It is not +so easy to force the mind and tongue into safe, sane channels when they are +forever threatening to rush together in an overwhelming torrent that will carry +misery and destruction in its wake. Invariably we talk with feverish +earnestness about the book; about my work at the office; about Ernst’s +profession, with its wonderful growth; about Norah, and Max and the Spalpeens, +and the home; about the latest news; about the weather; about Peter Orme—and +then silence. +</p> + +<p> +At our last meeting things took a new and startling turn. So startling, so full +of temptation and happiness-that-must-not-be, that I resolved to forbid myself +the pain and joy of being near him until I could be quite sure that my grip on +Dawn O’Hara was firm, unshakable and lasting. +</p> + +<p> +Von Gerhard sports a motor-car, a rakish little craft, built long and low, with +racing lines, and a green complexion, and a nose that cuts through the air like +the prow of a swift boat through water. Von Gerhard had promised me a spin in +it on the first mild day. Sunday turned out to be unexpectedly lamblike, as +only a March day can be, with real sunshine that warmed the end of one’s nose +instead of laughing as it tweaked it, as the lying February sunshine had done. +</p> + +<p> +“But warmly you must dress yourself,” Von Gerhard warned me, “with no gauzy +blouses or sleeveless gowns. The air cuts like a knife, but it feels good +against the face. And a little road-house I know, where one is served great +steaming plates of hot oyster stew. How will that be for a lark, yes?” +</p> + +<p> +And so I had swathed myself in wrappings until I could scarcely clamber into +the panting little car, and we had darted off along the smooth lake drives, +while the wind whipped the scarlet into our cheeks, even while it brought the +tears to our eyes. There was no chance for conversation, even if Von Gerhard +had been in talkative mood, which he was not. He seemed more taciturn than +usual, seated there at the wheel, looking straight ahead at the ribbon of road, +his eyes narrowed down to mere keen blue slits. I realized, without alarm, that +he was driving furiously and lawlessly, and I did not care. Von Gerhard was +that sort of man. One could sit quite calmly beside him while he pulled at the +reins of a pair of runaway horses, knowing that he would conquer them in the +end. +</p> + +<p> +Just when my face began to feel as stiff and glazed as a mummy’s, we swung off +the roadway and up to the entrance of the road-house that was to revive us with +things hot and soupy. +</p> + +<p> +“Another minute,” I said, through stiff lips, as I extricated myself from my +swathings, “and I should have been what Mr. Mantalini described as a demnition +body. For pity’s sake, tell ’em the soup can’t be too hot nor too steaming for +your lady friend. I’ve had enough fresh air to last me the remainder of my +life. May I timidly venture to suggest that a cheese sandwich follow the oyster +stew? I am famished, and this place looks as though it might make a speciality +of cheese sandwiches.” +</p> + +<p> +“By all means a cheese sandwich. Und was noch? That fresh air it has given you +an appetite, nicht wahr?” But there was no sign of a smile on his face, nor was +the kindly twinkle of amusement to be seen in his eyes—that twinkle that I had +learned to look for. +</p> + +<p> +“Smile for the lady,” I mockingly begged when we had been served. “You’ve been +owlish all the afternoon. Here, try a cheese sandwich. Now, why do you suppose +that this mustard tastes so much better than the kind one gets at home?” +</p> + +<p> +Von Gerhard had been smoking a cigarette, the first that I had ever seen in his +fingers. Now he tossed it into the fireplace that yawned black and empty at one +side of the room. He swept aside the plates and glasses that stood before him, +leaned his arms on the table and deliberately stared at me. +</p> + +<p> +“I sail for Europe in June, to be gone a year—probably more,” he said. +</p> + +<p> +“Sail!” I echoed, idiotically; and began blindly to dab clots of mustard on +that ridiculous sandwich. +</p> + +<p> +“I go to study and work with Gluck. It is the opportunity of a lifetime. Gluck +is to the world of medicine what Edison is to the world of electricity. He is a +wizard, a man inspired. You should see him—a little, bent, grizzled, shabby old +man who looks at you, and sees you not. It is a wonderful opportunity, a—” +</p> + +<p> +The mustard and the sandwich and the table and Von Gerhard’s face were very +indistinct and uncertain to my eyes, but I managed to say: “So +glad—congratulate you—very happy—no doubt fortunate—” +</p> + +<p> +Two strong hands grasped my wrists. “Drop that absurd mustard spoon and +sandwich. Na, I did not mean to frighten you, Dawn. How your hands tremble. So, +look at me. You would like Vienna, Kindchen. You would like the gayety, and the +brightness of it, and the music, and the pretty women, and the incomparable +gowns. Your sense of humor would discern the hollowness beneath all the pomp +and ceremony and rigid lines of caste, and military glory; and your writer’s +instinct would revel in the splendor, and color and romance and intrigue.” +</p> + +<p> +I shrugged my shoulders in assumed indifference. “Can’t you convey all this to +me without grasping my wrists like a villain in a melodrama? Besides, it isn’t +very generous or thoughtful of you to tell me all this, knowing that it is not +for me. Vienna for you, and Milwaukee and cheese sandwiches for me. Please pass +the mustard.” +</p> + +<p> +But the hold on my wrists grew firmer. Von Gerhard’s eyes were steady as they +gazed into mine. “Dawn, Vienna, and the whole world is waiting for you, if you +will but take it. Vienna—and happiness—with me—” +</p> + +<p> +I wrenched my wrists free with a dreadful effort and rose, sick, bewildered, +stunned. My world—my refuge of truth, and honor, and safety and sanity that had +lain in Ernst von Gerhard’s great, steady hands, was slipping away from me. I +think the horror that I felt within must have leaped to my eyes, for in an +instant Von Gerhard was beside me, steadying me with his clear blue eyes. He +did not touch the tips of my fingers as he stood there very near me. From the +look of pain on his face I knew that I had misunderstood, somehow. +</p> + +<p> +“Kleine, I see that you know me not,” he said, in German, and the saying it was +as tender as is a mother when she reproves a child that she loves. “This fight +against the world, those years of unhappiness and misery, they have made you +suspicious and lacking in trust, is it not so? You do not yet know the perfect +love that casts out all doubt. Dawn, I ask you in the name of all that is +reasoning, and for the sake of your happiness and mine, to divorce this man +Peter Orme—this man who for almost ten years has not been your husband—who +never can be your husband. I ask you to do something which will bring suffering +to no one, and which will mean happiness to many. Let me make you happy—you +were born to be happy—you who can laugh like a girl in spite of your woman’s +sorrows—” +</p> + +<p> +But I sank into a chair and hid my face in my hands so that I might be spared +the beauty and the tenderness of his eyes. I tried to think of all the sane and +commonplace things in life. Somewhere in my inner consciousness a cool little +voice was saying, over and over again: +</p> + +<p> +“Now, Dawn, careful! You’ve come to the crossroads at last. Right or left? +Choose! Now, Dawn, careful!” and the rest of it all over again. +</p> + +<p> +When I lifted my face from my hands at last it was to meet the tenderness of +Von Gerhard’s gaze with scarcely a tremor. +</p> + +<p> +“You ought to know,” I said, very slowly and evenly, “that a divorce, under +these circumstances, is almost impossible, even if I wished to do what you +suggest. There are certain state laws—” +</p> + +<p> +An exclamation of impatience broke from him. “Laws! In some states, yes. In +others, no. It is a mere technicality—a trifle! There is about it a bit of that +which you call red tape. It amounts to nothing—to that!” He snapped his +fingers. “A few months’ residence in another state, perhaps. These American +laws, they are made to break.” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes; you are quite right,” I said, and I knew in my heart that the cool, +insistent little voice within had not spoken in vain. “But there are other +laws—laws of honor and decency, and right living and conscience—that cannot be +broken with such ease. I cannot marry you. I have a husband.” +</p> + +<p> +“You can call that unfortunate wretch your husband! He does not know that he +has a wife. He will not know that he has lost a wife. Come, Dawn—small one—be +not so foolish. You do not know how happy I will make you. You have never seen +me except when I was tortured with doubts and fears. You do not know what our +life will be together. There shall be everything to make you forget—everything +that thought and love and money can give you. The man there in the barred +room—” +</p> + +<p> +At that I took his dear hands in mine and held them close as I miserably tried +to make him hear what that small, still voice had told me. +</p> + +<p> +“There! That is it! If he were free, if he were able to stand before men that +his actions might be judged fairly and justly, I should not hesitate for one +single, precious moment. If he could fight for his rights, or relinquish them, +as he saw fit, then this thing would not be so monstrous. But, Ernst, can’t you +see? He is there, alone, in that dreadful place, quite helpless, quite +incapable, quite at our mercy. I should as soon think of hurting a little +child, or snatching the pennies from a blind man’s cup. The thing is inhuman! +It is monstrous! No state laws, no red tape can dissolve such a union.” +</p> + +<p> +“You still care for him!” +</p> + +<p> +“Ernst!” +</p> + +<p> +His face was very white with the pallor of repressed emotion, and his eyes were +like the blue flame that one sees flashing above a bed of white-hot coals. +</p> + +<p> +“You do care for him still. But yes! You can stand there, quite cool—but +quite—and tell me that you would not hurt him, not for your happiness, not for +mine. But me you can hurt again and again, without one twinge of regret.” +</p> + +<p> +There was silence for a moment in the little bare dining-room—a miserable +silence on my part, a bitter one for Ernst. Then Von Gerhard seated himself +again at the table opposite and smiled one of the rare smiles that illumined +his face with such sweetness. +</p> + +<p> +“Come, Dawn, almost we are quarreling—we who were to have been so +matter-of-fact and sensible. Let us make an end of this question. You will +think of what I have said, will you not? Perhaps I was too abrupt, too brutal. +Ach, Dawn, you know not how I—Very well, I will not.” +</p> + +<p> +With both hands I was clinging to my courage and praying for strength to endure +this until I should be alone in my room again. +</p> + +<p> +“As for that poor creature who is bereft of reason, he shall lack no care, no +attention. The burden you have borne so long I shall take now upon my +shoulders.” +</p> + +<p> +He seemed so confident, so sure. I could bear it no longer. “Ernst, if you have +any pity, any love for me, stop! I tell you I can never do this. Why do you +make it so terribly hard for me! So pitilessly hard! You always have been so +strong, so sure, such a staff of courage.” +</p> + +<p> +“I say again, and again, and again, you do not care.” +</p> + +<p> +It was then that I took my last vestige of strength and courage together and +going over to him, put my two hands on his great shoulders, looking up into his +drawn face as I spoke. +</p> + +<p> +“Ernst, look at me! You never can know how much I care. I care so much that I +could not bear to have the shadow of wrong fall upon our happiness. There can +be no lasting happiness upon a foundation of shameful deceit. I should hate +myself, and you would grow to hate me. It always is so. Dear one, I care so +much that I have the strength to do as I would do if I had to face my mother, +and Norah tonight. I don’t ask you to understand. Men are not made to +understand these things; not even a man such as you, who are so beautifully +understanding. I only ask that you believe in me—and think of me sometimes—I +shall feel it, and be helped. Will you take me home now, Dr. von Gerhard?” +</p> + +<p> +The ride home was made in silence. The wind was colder, sharper. I was chilled, +miserable, sick. Von Gerhard’s face was quite expressionless as he guided the +little car over the smooth road. When we had stopped before my door, still +without a word, I thought that he was going to leave me with that barrier of +silence unbroken. But as I stepped stiffly to the curbing his hands closed +about mine with the old steady grip. I looked up quickly, to find a smile in +the corners of the tired eyes. +</p> + +<p> +“You—you will let me see you—sometimes?” +</p> + +<p> +But wisdom came to my aid. “Not now. It is better that we go our separate ways +for a few weeks, until our work has served to adjust the balance that has been +disturbed. At the end of that time I shall write you, and from that time until +you sail in June we shall be just good comrades again. And once in Vienna—who +knows?—you may meet the plump blond Fraulein, of excellent family—” +</p> + +<p> +“And no particular imagination—” +</p> + +<p> +And then we both laughed, a bit hysterically, because laughter is, after all, +akin to tears. And the little green car shot off with a whir as I turned to +enter my new world of loneliness. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap14"></a>CHAPTER XIV.<br/> +BENNIE AND THE CHARMING OLD +MAID</h2> + +<p> +There followed a blessed week of work—a “human warious” week, with something +piquant lurking at every turn. A week so busy, so kaleidoscopic in its quick +succession of events that my own troubles and grievances were pushed into a +neglected corner of my mind and made to languish there, unfed by tears or +sighs. +</p> + +<p> +News comes in cycles. There are weeks when a city editor tears his hair in vain +as he bellows for a first-page story. There follow days so bristling with real, +live copy that perfectly good stuff which, in the ordinary course of events +might be used to grace the front sheet, is sandwiched away between the marine +intelligence and the Elgin butter reports. +</p> + +<p> +Such a week was this. I interviewed everything from a red-handed murderer to an +incubator baby. The town seemed to be running over with celebrities. Norberg, +the city editor, adores celebrities. He never allows one to escape +uninterviewed. On Friday there fell to my lot a world-famous prima donna, an +infamous prize-fighter, and a charming old maid. Norberg cared not whether the +celebrity in question was noted for a magnificent high C, or a left +half-scissors hook, so long as the interview was dished up hot and juicy, with +plenty of quotation marks, a liberal sprinkling of adjectives and adverbs, and +a cut of the victim gracing the top of the column. +</p> + +<p> +It was long past the lunch hour when the prima donna and the prize-fighter, +properly embellished, were snapped on the copy hook. The prima donna had +chattered in French; the prize-fighter had jabbered in slang; but the charming +old maid, who spoke Milwaukee English, was to make better copy than a whole +chorus of prima donnas, or a ring full of fighters. Copy! It was such wonderful +stuff that I couldn’t use it. +</p> + +<p> +It was with the charming old maid in mind that Norberg summoned me. +</p> + +<p> +“Another special story for you,” he cheerfully announced. +</p> + +<p> +No answering cheer appeared upon my lunchless features. “A prize-fighter at +ten-thirty, and a prima donna at twelve. What’s the next choice morsel? An +aeronaut with another successful airship? or a cash girl who has inherited a +million?” +</p> + +<p> +Norberg’s plump cheeks dimpled. “Neither. This time it is a nice German old +maid.” +</p> + +<p> +“Eloped with the coachman, no doubt?” +</p> + +<p> +“I said a nice old maid. And she hasn’t done anything yet. You are to find out +how she’ll feel when she does it.” +</p> + +<p> +“Charmingly lucid,” commented I, made savage by the pangs of hunger. +</p> + +<p> +Norberg proceeded to outline the story with characteristic vigor, a cigarette +waggling from the corner of his mouth. +</p> + +<p> +“Name and address on this slip. Take a Greenfield car. Nice old maid has lived +in nice old cottage all her life. Grandfather built it himself about a hundred +years ago. Whole family was born in it, and married in it, and died in it, see? +It’s crammed full of spinning-wheels and mahogany and stuff that’ll make your +eyes stick out. See? Well, there’s no one left now but the nice old maid, all +alone. She had a sister who ran away with a scamp some years ago. Nice old maid +has never heard of her since, but she leaves the gate ajar or the latch-string +open, or a lamp in the window, or something, so that if ever she wanders back +to the old home she’ll know she’s welcome, see?” +</p> + +<p> +“Sounds like a moving picture play,” I remarked. +</p> + +<p> +“Wait a minute. Here’s the point. The city wants to build a branch library or +something on her property, and the nice old party is so pinched for money that +she’ll have to take their offer. So the time has come when she’ll have to leave +that old cottage, with its romance, and its memories, and its lamp in the +window, and go to live in a cheap little flat, see? Where the old four-poster +will choke up the bedroom—” +</p> + +<p> +“And the parlor will be done in red and green,” I put in, eagerly, “and where +there will be an ingrowing sideboard in the dining-room that won’t fit in with +the quaint old dinner-set at all, and a kitchenette just off that, in which the +great iron pots and kettles that used to hold the family dinners will be +monstrously out of place—” +</p> + +<p> +“You’re on,” said Norberg. +</p> + +<p> +Half an hour later I stood before the cottage, set primly in the center of a +great lot that extended for half a square on all sides. A winter-sodden, bare +enough sight it was in the gray of that March day. But it was not long before +Alma Pflugel, standing in the midst of it, the March winds flapping her neat +skirts about her ankles, filled it with a blaze of color. As she talked, a row +of stately hollyhocks, pink, and scarlet, and saffron, reared their heads +against the cottage sides. The chill March air became sweet with the scent of +heliotrope, and Sweet William, and pansies, and bridal wreath. The naked twigs +of the rose bushes flowered into wondrous bloom so that they bent to the ground +with their weight of crimson and yellow glory. The bare brick paths were +overrun with the green of growing things. Gray mounds of dirt grew vivid with +the fire of poppies. Even the rain-soaked wood of the pea-frames miraculously +was hidden in a hedge of green, over which ran riot the butterfly beauty of the +lavender, and pink, and cerise blossoms. Oh, she did marvelous things that dull +March day, did plain German Alma Pflugel! And still more marvelous were the +things that were to come. +</p> + +<p> +But of these things we knew nothing as the door was opened and Alma Pflugel and +I gazed curiously at one another. Surprise was writ large on her honest face as +I disclosed my errand. It was plain that the ways of newspaper reporters were +foreign to the life of this plain German woman, but she bade me enter with a +sweet graciousness of manner. +</p> + +<p> +Wondering, but silent, she led the way down the dim narrow hallway to the +sitting-room beyond. And there I saw that Norberg had known whereof he spoke. +</p> + +<p> +A stout, red-faced stove glowed cheerfully in one corner of the room. Back of +the stove a sleepy cat opened one indolent eye, yawned shamelessly, and rose to +investigate, as is the way of cats. The windows were aglow with the sturdy +potted plants that flower-loving German women coax into bloom. The +low-ceilinged room twinkled and shone as the polished surfaces of tables and +chairs reflected the rosy glow from the plethoric stove. I sank into the depths +of a huge rocker that must have been built for Grosspapa Pflugel’s generous +curves. Alma Pflugel, in a chair opposite, politely waited for this new process +of interviewing to begin, but relaxed in the embrace of that great armchair I +suddenly realized that I was very tired and hungry, and talk-weary, and that +here; was a great peace. The prima donna, with her French, and her paint, and +her pearls, and the prizefighter with his slang, and his cauliflower ear, and +his diamonds, seemed creatures of another planet. My eyes closed. A delicious +sensation of warmth and drowsy contentment stole over me. +</p> + +<p> +“Do listen to the purring of that cat!” I murmured. “Oh, newspapers have no +place in this. This is peace and rest.” +</p> + +<p> +Alma Pflugel leaned forward in her chair. “You—you like it?” +</p> + +<p> +“Like it! This is home. I feel as though my mother were here in this room, +seated in one of those deep chairs, with a bit of sewing in her hand; so near +that I could touch her cheek with my fingers.” +</p> + +<p> +Alma Pflugel rose from her chair and came over to me. She timidly placed her +hand on my arm. “Ah, I am so glad you are like that. You do not laugh at the +low ceilings, and the sunken floors, and the old-fashioned rooms. You do not +raise your eyes in horror and say: ‘No conveniences! And why don’t you try +striped wall paper? It would make those dreadful ceilings seem higher.’ How +nice you are to understand like that!” +</p> + +<p> +My hand crept over to cover her own that lay on my arm. “Indeed, indeed I do +understand,” I whispered. Which, as the veriest cub reporter can testify, is no +way to begin an interview. +</p> + +<p> +A hundred happy memories filled the little low room as Alma Pflugel showed me +her treasures. The cat purred in great content, and the stove cast a rosy glow +over the scene as the simple woman told the story of each precious relic, from +the battered candle-dipper on the shelf, to the great mahogany folding table, +and sewing stand, and carved bed. Then there was the old horn lantern that +Jacob Pflugel had used a century before, and in one corner of the sitting-room +stood Grossmutter Pflugel’s spinning-wheel. Behind cupboard doors were ranged +the carefully preserved blue-and-white china dishes, and on the shelf below +stood the clumsy earthen set that Grosspapa Pflugel himself had modeled for his +young bride in those days of long ago. In the linen chest there still lay, in +neat, fragrant folds, piles of the linen that had been spun on that +time-yellowed spinning-wheel. And because of the tragedy in the honest face +bent over these dear treasures, and because she tried so bravely to hide her +tears, I knew in my heart that this could never be a newspaper story. +</p> + +<p> +“So,” said Alma Pflugel at last, and rose and walked slowly to the window and +stood looking out at the wind-swept garden. That window, with its many tiny +panes, once had looked out across a wilderness, with an Indian camp not far +away. Grossmutter Pflugel had sat at that window many a bitter winter night, +with her baby in her arms, watching and waiting for the young husband who was +urging his ox-team across the ice of Lake Michigan in the teeth of a raging +blizzard. +</p> + +<p> +The little, low-ceilinged room was very still. I looked at Alma Pflugel +standing there at the window in her neat blue gown, and something about the +face and figure—or was it the pose of the sorrowful head?—seemed strangely +familiar. Somewhere in my mind the resemblance haunted me. Resemblance to—what? +Whom? +</p> + +<p> +“Would you like to see my garden?” asked Alma Pflugel, turning from the window. +For a moment I stared in wonderment. But the honest, kindly face was unsmiling. +“These things that I have shown you, I can take with me when I—go. But there,” +and she pointed out over the bare, wind-swept lot, “there is something that I +cannot take. My flowers! You see that mound over there, covered so snug and +warm with burlap and sacking? There my tulips and hyacinths sleep. In a few +weeks, when the covering is whisked off—ah, you shall see! Then one can be +quite sure that the spring is here. Who can look at a great bed of red and pink +and lavender and yellow tulips and hyacinths, and doubt it? Come.” +</p> + +<p> +With a quick gesture she threw a shawl over her head, and beckoned me. Together +we stepped out into the chill of the raw March afternoon. She stood a moment, +silent, gazing over the sodden earth. Then she flitted swiftly down the narrow +path, and halted before a queer little structure of brick, covered with the +skeleton of a creeping vine. Stooping, Alma Pflugel pulled open the rusty iron +door and smiled up at me. +</p> + +<p> +“This was my grandmother’s oven. All her bread she baked in this little brick +stove. Black bread it was, with a great thick crust, and a bitter taste. But it +was sweet, too. I have never tasted any so good. I like to think of +Grossmutter, when she was a bride, baking her first batch of bread in this oven +that Grossvater built for her. And because the old oven was so very difficult +to manage, and because she was such a young thing—only sixteen!—I like to think +that her first loaves were perhaps not so successful, and that Grosspapa joked +about them, and that the little bride wept, so that the young husband had to +kiss away the tears.” +</p> + +<p> +She shut the rusty, sagging door very slowly and gently. “No doubt the workmen +who will come to prepare the ground for the new library will laugh and joke +among themselves when they see the oven, and they will kick it with their +heels, and wonder what the old brick mound could have been.” +</p> + +<p> +There was a little twisted smile on her face as she rose—a smile that brought a +hot mist of tears to my eyes. There was tragedy itself in that spare, homely +figure standing there in the garden, the wind twining her skirts about her. +</p> + +<p> +“You should but see the children peering over the fence to see my flowers in +the summer,” she said. The blue eyes wore a wistful, far-away look. “All the +children know my garden. It blooms from April to October. There I have my sweet +peas; and here my roses—thousands of them! Some are as red as a drop of blood, +and some as white as a bridal wreath. When they are blossoming it makes the +heart ache, it is so beautiful.” +</p> + +<p> +She had quite forgotten me now. For her the garden was all abloom once more. It +was as though the Spirit of the Flowers had touched the naked twigs with fairy +fingers, waking them into glowing life for her who never again was to shower +her love and care upon them. +</p> + +<p> +“These are my poppies. Did you ever come out in the morning to find a hundred +poppy faces smiling at you, and swaying and glistening and rippling in the +breeze? There they are, scarlet and pink, side by side as only God can place +them. And near the poppies I planted my pansies, because each is a lesson to +the other. I call my pansies little children with happy faces. See how this +great purple one winks his yellow eye, and laughs!” +</p> + +<p> +Her gray shawl had slipped back from her face and lay about her shoulders, and +the wind had tossed her hair into a soft fluff about her head. +</p> + +<p> +“We used to come out here in the early morning, my little Schwester and I, to +see which rose had unfolded its petals overnight, or whether this great peony +that had held its white head so high only yesterday, was humbled to the ground +in a heap of ragged leaves. Oh, in the morning she loved it best. And so every +summer I have made the garden bloom again, so that when she comes back she will +see flowers greet her. +</p> + +<p> +“All the way up the path to the door she will walk in an aisle of fragrance, +and when she turns the handle of the old door she will find it unlocked, summer +and winter, day and night, so that she has only to turn the knob and enter.” +</p> + +<p> +She stopped, abruptly. The light died out of her face. She glanced at me, half +defiantly, half timidly, as one who is not quite sure of what she has said. At +that I went over to her, and took her work-worn hands in mine, and smiled down +into the faded blue eyes grown dim with tears and watching. +</p> + +<p> +“Perhaps—who knows?—the little sister may come yet. I feel it. She will walk up +the little path, and try the handle of the door, and it will turn beneath her +fingers, and she will enter.” +</p> + +<p> +With my arm about her we walked down the path toward the old-fashioned arbor, +bare now except for the tendrils that twined about the lattice. The arbor was +fitted with a wooden floor, and there were rustic chairs, and a table. I could +picture the sisters sitting there with their sewing during the long, peaceful +summer afternoons. Alma Pflugel would be wearing one of her neat gingham gowns, +very starched and stiff, with perhaps a snowy apron edged with a border of +heavy crochet done by the wrinkled fingers of Grossmutter Pflugel. On the +rustic table there would be a bowl of flowers, and a pot of delicious Kaffee, +and a plate of German Kaffeekuchen, and through the leafy doorway the scent of +the wonderful garden would come stealing. +</p> + +<p> +I thought of the cheap little flat, with the ugly sideboard, and the bit of +weedy yard in the rear, and the alley beyond that, and the red and green wall +paper in the parlor. The next moment, to my horror, Alma Pflugel had dropped to +her knees before the table in the damp little arbor, her face in her hands, her +spare shoulders shaking. +</p> + +<p> +“Ich kann’s nicht thun!” she moaned. “Ich kann nicht! Ach, kleine Schwester, wo +bist du denn! Nachts und Morgens bete ich, aber doch kommst du nicht.” +</p> + +<p> +A great dry sob shook her. Her hand went to her breast, to her throat, to her +lips, with an odd, stifled gesture. +</p> + +<p> +“Do that again!” I cried, and shook Alma Pflugel sharply by the shoulder. “Do +that again!” +</p> + +<p> +Her startled blue eyes looked into mine. “What do you mean?” she asked. +</p> + +<p> +“That—that gesture. I’ve seen it—somewhere—that trick of pressing the hand to +the breast, to the throat, to the lips—Oh!” +</p> + +<p> +Suddenly I knew. I lifted the drooping head and rumpled its neat braids, and +laughed down into the startled face. +</p> + +<p> +“She’s here!” I shouted, and started a dance of triumph on the shaky floor of +the old arbor. “I know her. From the moment I saw you the resemblance haunted +me.” And then as Alma Pflugel continued to stare, while the stunned +bewilderment grew in her eyes, “Why, I have one-fourth interest in your own +nephew this very minute. And his name is Bennie!” +</p> + +<p> +Whereupon Alma Pflugel fainted quietly away in the chilly little grape arbor, +with her head on my shoulder. +</p> + +<p> +I called myself savage names as I chafed her hands and did all the foolish, +futile things that distracted humans think of at such times, wondering, +meanwhile, if I had been quite mad to discern a resemblance between this +simple, clear-eyed gentle German woman, and the battered, ragged, swaying +figure that had stood at the judge’s bench. +</p> + +<p> +Suddenly Alma Pflugel opened her eyes. Recognition dawned in them slowly. Then, +with a jerk, she sat upright, her trembling hands clinging to me. +</p> + +<p> +“Where is she? Take me to her. Ach, you are sure—sure?” +</p> + +<p> +“Lordy, I hope so! Come, you must let me help you into the house. And where is +the nearest telephone? Never mind; I’ll find one.” +</p> + +<p> +When I had succeeded in finding the nearest drug store I spent a wild ten +minutes telephoning the surprised little probation officer, then Frau +Nirlanger, and finally Blackie, for no particular reason. I shrieked my story +over the wire in disconnected, incoherent sentences. Then I rushed back to the +little cottage where Alma Pflugel and I waited with what patience we could +summon. +</p> + +<p> +Blackie was the first to arrive. He required few explanations. That is one of +the nicest things about Blackie. He understands by leaps and bounds, while +others crawl to comprehension. But when Frau Nirlanger came, with Bennie in +tow, there were tears, and exclamations, followed by a little stricken silence +on the part of Frau Nirlanger when she saw Bennie snatched to the breast of +this weeping woman. So it was that in the midst of the confusion we did not +hear the approach of the probation officer and her charge. They came up the +path to the door, and there the little sister turned the knob, and it yielded +under her fingers, and the old door swung open; and so she entered the house +quite as Alma Pflugel had planned she should, except that the roses were not +blooming along the edge of the sunken brick walk. +</p> + +<p> +She entered the room in silence, and no one could have recognized in this +pretty, fragile creature the pitiful wreck of the juvenile court. And when Alma +Pflugel saw the face of the little sister—the poor, marred, stricken face—her +own face became terrible in its agony. She put Bennie down very gently, rose, +and took the shaking little figure in her strong arms, and held it as though +never to let it go again. There were little broken words of love and pity. She +called her “Lammchen” and “little one,” and so Frau Nirlanger and Blackie and I +stole away, after a whispered consultation with the little probation officer. +</p> + +<p> +Blackie had come in his red runabout, and now he tucked us into it, feigning a +deep disgust. +</p> + +<p> +“I’d like to know where I enter into this little drayma,” he growled. “Ain’t I +got nothin’ t’ do but run around town unitin’ long lost sisters an’ orphans!” +</p> + +<p> +“Now, Blackie, you know you would never have forgiven me if I had left you out +of this. Besides, you must hustle around and see that they need not move out of +that dear little cottage. Now don’t say a word! You’ll never have a greater +chance to act the fairy godmother.” +</p> + +<p> +Frau Nirlanger’s hand sought mine and I squeezed it in silent sympathy. Poor +little Frau Nirlanger, the happiness of another had brought her only sorrow. +And she had kissed Bennie good-by with the knowledge that the little +blue-painted bed, with its faded red roses, would again stand empty in the +gloom of the Knapf attic. +</p> + +<p> +Norberg glanced up quickly as I entered the city room. “Get something good on +that south side story?” he asked. +</p> + +<p> +“Why, no,” I answered. “You were mistaken about that. The—the nice old maid is +not going to move, after all.” +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap15"></a>CHAPTER XV.<br/> +FAREWELL TO KNAPFS</h2> + +<p> +Consternation has corrugated the brows of the aborigines. Consternation twice +confounded had added a wrinkle or two to my collection. We are homeless. That +is, we are Knapfless—we, to whom the Knapfs spelled home. +</p> + +<p> +Herr Knapf, mustache aquiver, and Frau Knapf, cheek bones glistening, broke the +news to us one evening just a week after the exciting day which so changed +Bennie’s life. “Es thut uns sehr, sehr leid,” Herr Knapf had begun. And before +he had finished, protesting German groans mingled with voluble German +explanations. The aborigines were stricken down. They clapped pudgy fists to +knobby foreheads; they smote their breasts, and made wild gestures with their +arms. If my protests were less frenzied than theirs, it was only because my +knowledge of German stops at words of six syllables. +</p> + +<p> +Out of the chaos of ejaculations and interrogation the reason for our expulsion +at last was made clear. The little German hotel had not been remunerative. Our +host and hostess were too hospitable and too polite to state the true reason +for this state of affairs. Perhaps rents were too high. Perhaps, thought I, +Frau Knapf had been too liberal with the butter in the stewed chicken. Perhaps +there had been too many golden Pfannkuchen with real eggs and milk stirred into +them, and with toothsome little islands of ruddy currant jelly on top. Perhaps +there had been too much honest, nourishing food, and not enough boarding-house +victuals. At any rate, the enterprise would have to be abandoned. +</p> + +<p> +It was then that the bare, bright little dining room, with its queer prints of +chin-chucking lieutenants, and its queerer faces, and its German cookery became +very dear to me. I had grown to like Frau Knapf, of the shining cheek bones, +and Herr Knapf, of the heavy geniality. A close bond of friendship had sprung +up between Frau Nirlanger and me. I would miss her friendly visits, and her +pretty ways, and her sparkling conversation. She and I had held many kimonoed +pow-wows, and sometimes—not often—she had given me wonderful glimpses of that +which she had left—of Vienna, the opera, the court, the life which had been +hers. She talked marvelously well, for she had all the charm and vivacity of +the true Viennese. Even the aborigines, bristling pompadours, thick spectacles, +terrifying manner, and all, became as dear as old friends, now that I knew I +must lose them. +</p> + +<p> +The great, high-ceilinged room upstairs had taken on the look of home. The +Blue-beard closet no longer appalled me. The very purpleness of the purple +roses in the rug had grown beautiful in my eyes because they were part of that +little domain which spelled peace and comfort and kindness. How could I live +without the stout yellow brocade armchair! Its plethoric curves were balm for +my tired bones. Its great lap admitted of sitting with knees crossed, +Turk-fashion. Its cushioned back stopped just at the point where the head found +needed support. Its pudgy arms offered rest for tired elbows; its yielding +bosom was made for tired backs. Given the padded comfort of that stout old +chair—a friendly, time-tried book between my fingers—a dish of ruddy apples +twinkling in the fire-light; my mundane soul snuggled in content. And then, +too, the book-in-the-making had grown in that room. It had developed from a +weak, wobbling uncertainty into a lusty full-blooded thing that grew and grew +until it promised soon to become mansize. +</p> + +<p> +Now all this was to be changed. And I knew that I would miss the easy German +atmosphere of the place; the kindness they had shown me; the chattering, +admiring Minna; the taffy-colored dachshund; the aborigines with their +ill-smelling pipes and flappy slippers; the Wienerschnitzel; the +crushed-looking wives and the masterful German husbands; the very darns in the +table-cloths and the very nicks in the china. +</p> + +<p> +We had a last family gathering in token of our appreciation of Herr and Frau +Knapf. And because I had not seen him for almost three weeks; and because the +time for his going was drawing so sickeningly near; and because I was quite +sure that I had myself in hand; and because he knew the Knapfs, and was fond of +them; and because-well, I invited Von Gerhard. He came, and I found myself +dangerously glad to see him, so that I made my greeting as airy and frivolous +as possible. Perhaps I overdid the airy business, for Von Gerhard looked at me +for a long, silent minute, until the nonsense I had been chattering died on my +lips, and I found myself staring up at him like a child that is apprehensive of +being scolded for some naughtiness. +</p> + +<p> +“Not so much chatter, small one,” he said, unsmilingly. “This pretense, it is +not necessary between you and me. So. You are ein bischen blasz, nicht? A +little pale? You have not been ill, Dawn?” +</p> + +<p> +“Ill? Never felt more chipper in my life,” I made flippant answer, “and I adore +these people who are forever telling one how unusually thin, or pale, or +scrawny one is looking.” +</p> + +<p> +“Na, they are not to be satisfied, these women! If I were to tell you how +lovely you look to me to-night you would draw yourself up with chill dignity +and remind me that I am not privileged to say these things to you. So I +discreetly mention that you are looking, interestingly pale, taking care to +keep all tenderness out of my tones, and still you are not pleased.” He +shrugged despairing shoulders. +</p> + +<p> +“Can’t you strike a happy medium between rudeness and tenderness? After all, I +haven’t had a glimpse of your blond beauty for three weeks. And while I don’t +ask you to whisper sweet nothings, still, after twenty-one days—” +</p> + +<p> +“You have been lonely? If only I thought that those weeks have been as +wearisome to you—” +</p> + +<p> +“Not lonely exactly,” I hurriedly interrupted, “but sort of wishing that some +one would pat me on the head and tell me that I was a good doggie. You know +what I mean. It is so easy to become accustomed to thoughtfulness and devotion, +and so dreadfully hard to be happy without it, once one has had it. This has +been a sort of training for what I may expect when Vienna has swallowed you +up.” +</p> + +<p> +“You are still obstinate? These three weeks have not changed you? Ach, Dawn! +Kindchen!—” +</p> + +<p> +But I knew that these were thin spots marked “Danger!” in our conversational +pond. So, “Come,” said I. “I have two new aborigines for you to meet. They are +the very shiniest and wildest of all our shiny-faced and wild aborigines. And +you should see their trousers and neckties! If you dare to come back from +Vienna wearing trousers like these!—” +</p> + +<p> +“And is the party in honor of these new aborigines?” laughed Von Gerhard. “You +did not explain in your note. Merely you asked me to come, knowing that I cared +not if it were a lawn fete or a ball, so long as I might again be with you.” +</p> + +<p> +We were on our way to the dining room, where the festivities were to be held. I +stopped and turned a look of surprise upon him. +</p> + +<p> +“Don’t you know that the Knapfs are leaving? Did I neglect to mention that this +is a farewell party for Herr and Frau Knapf? We are losing our home, and we +have just one week in which to find another.” +</p> + +<p> +“But where will you go? And why did you not tell me this before?” +</p> + +<p> +“I haven’t an idea where I shall lay my poor old head. In the lap of the gods, +probably, for I don’t know how I shall find the time to interview landladies +and pack my belongings in seven short days. The book will have to suffer for +it. Just when it was getting along so beautifully, too.” +</p> + +<p> +There was a dangerous tenderness in Von Gerhard’s eyes as he said: “Again you +are a wanderer, eh—small one? That you, with your love of beautiful things, and +your fastidiousness, should have to live in this way—in these boarding-houses, +alone, with not even the comforts that should be yours. Ach, Kindchen, you were +not made for that. You were intended for the home, with a husband, and kinder, +and all that is truly worth while.” +</p> + +<p> +I swallowed a lump in my throat as I shrugged my shoulders. “Pooh! Any woman +can have a husband and babies,” I retorted, wickedly. “But mighty few women can +write a book. It’s a special curse.” +</p> + +<p> +“And you prefer this life—this existence, to the things that I offer you! You +would endure these hardships rather than give up the nonsensical views which +you entertain toward your—” +</p> + +<p> +“Please. We were not to talk of that. I am enduring no hardships. Since I have +lived in this pretty town I have become a worshiper of the goddess +Gemutlichkeit. Perhaps I shan’t find another home as dear to my heart as this +has been, but at least I shan’t have to sleep on a park bench, and any one can +tell you that park benches have long been the favored resting place of genius. +There is Frau Nirlanger beckoning us. Now do stop scowling, and smile for the +lady. I know you will get on beautifully with the aborigines.” +</p> + +<p> +He did get on with them so beautifully that in less than half an hour they were +swapping stories of Germany, of Austria, of the universities, of student life. +Frau Knapf served a late supper, at which some one led in singing Auld Lang +Syne, although the sounds emanating from the aborigines’ end of the table +sounded suspiciously like Die Wacht am Rhein. Following that the aborigines +rose en masse and roared out their German university songs, banging their +glasses on the table when they came to the chorus until we all caught the +spirit of it and banged our glasses like rathskeller veterans. Then the +red-faced and amorous Fritz, he of the absent Lena, announced his intention of +entertaining the company. Made bold by an injudicious mixture of Herr Knapf’s +excellent beer, and a wonderful punch which Von Gerhard had concocted, Fritz +mounted his chair, placed his plump hand over the spot where he supposed his +heart to be, fastened his watery blue eyes upon my surprised and blushing +countenance, and sang “Weh! Dass Wir Scheiden Mussen!” in an astonishingly +beautiful barytone. I dared not look at Von Gerhard, for I knew that he was +purple with suppressed mirth, so I stared stonily at the sardine sandwich and +dill pickle on my plate, and felt myself growing hot and hysterical, and cold +and tearful by turns. +</p> + +<p> +At the end of the last verse I rose hastily and brought from their hiding-place +the gifts which we of Knapfs’ had purchased as remembrances for Herr and Frau +Knapf. I had been delegated to make the presentation speech, so I grasped in +one hand the too elaborate pipe that was to make Herr Knapf unhappy, and the +too fashionable silk umbrella that was to appall Frau Knapf, and ascended the +little platform at the end of the dining room, and began to speak in what I +fondly thought to be fluent and highsounding German. Immediately the aborigines +went off into paroxysms of laughter. They threw back their heads and roared, +and slapped their thighs, and spluttered. It appeared that they thought I was +making a humorous speech. At that discovery I cast dignity aside and continued +my speech in the language of a German vaudeville comedian, with a dash of Weber +and Field here and there. With the presentation of the silk umbrella Frau Knapf +burst into tears, groped about helplessly for her apron, realized that it was +missing from its accustomed place, and wiped her tears upon her cherished blue +silk sleeve in the utter abandon of her sorrow. We drank to the future health +and prosperity of our tearful host and hostess, and some one suggested drei mal +drei, to which we responded in a manner to make the chin-chucking lieutenant +tremble in his frame on the wall. +</p> + +<p> +When it was all over Frau Nirlanger beckoned me, and she, Dr. von Gerhard and I +stole out into the hall and stood at the foot of the stairway, discussing our +plans for the future, and trying to smile as we talked of this plan and that. +Frau Nirlanger, in the pretty white gown, was looking haggard and distrait. The +oogly husband was still in the dining room, finishing the beer and punch, of +which he had already taken too much. +</p> + +<p> +“A tiny apartment we have taken,” said Frau Nirlanger, softly. “It is better +so. Then I shall have a little housework, a little cooking, a little marketing +to keep me busy and perhaps happy.” Her hand closed over mine. “But that shall +us not separate,” she pleaded. “Without you to make me sometimes laugh what +should I then do? You will bring her often to our little apartment, not?” she +went on, turning appealingly to Von Gerhard. +</p> + +<p> +“As often as Mrs. Orme will allow me,” he answered. +</p> + +<p> +“Ach, yes. So lonely I shall be. You do not know what she has been to me, this +Dawn. She is brave for two. Always laughing she is, and merry, nicht wahr? +Meine kleine Soldatin, I call her. +</p> + +<p> +“Soldatin, eh?” mused Von Gerhard. “Our little soldier. She is well named. And +her battles she fights alone. But quite alone.” His eyes, as they looked down +on me from his great height had that in them which sent the blood rushing and +tingling to my finger-tips. I brought my hand to my head in stiff military +salute. +</p> + +<p> +“Inspection satisfactory, sir?” +</p> + +<p> +He laughed a rueful little laugh. “Eminently. Aber ganz befriedigend.” +</p> + +<p> +He was very tall, and straight and good to look at as he stood there in the +hall with the light from the newel-post illuminating his features and +emphasizing his blondness. Frau Nirlanger’s face wore a drawn little look of +pain as she gazed at him, and from him to the figure of her husband who had +just emerged from the dining room, and was making unsteady progress toward us. +Herr Nirlanger’s face was flushed and his damp, dark hair was awry so that one +lock straggled limply down over his forehead. As he approached he surveyed us +with a surly frown that changed slowly into a leering grin. He lurched over and +placed a hand familiarly on my shoulder. +</p> + +<p> +“We mus’ part,” he announced, dramatically. “O, weh! The bes’ of frien’s m’z +part. Well, g’by, li’l interfering Teufel. F’give you, though, b’cause you’re +such a pretty li’l Teufel.” He raised one hand as though to pat my check and +because of the horror which I saw on the face of the woman beside me I tried to +smile, and did not shrink from him. But with a quick movement Von Gerhard +clutched the swaying figure and turned it so that it faced the stairs. +</p> + +<p> +“Come Nirlanger! Time for hard-working men like you and me to be in bed. Mrs. +Orme must not nod over her desk to-morrow, either. So good-night. Schlafen Sie +wohl.” +</p> + +<p> +Konrad Nirlanger turned a scowling face over his shoulder. Then he forgot what +he was scowling for, and smiled a leering smile. +</p> + +<p> +“Pretty good frien’s, you an’ the li’l Teufel, yes? Guess we’ll have to watch +you, huh, Anna? We’ll watch ’em, won’t we?” +</p> + +<p> +He began to climb the stairs laboriously, with Frau Nirlanger’s light figure +flitting just ahead of him. At the bend in the stairway she turned and looked +down on us a moment, her eyes very bright and big. She pressed her fingers to +her lips and wafted a little kiss toward us with a gesture indescribably +graceful and pathetic. She viewed her husband’s laborious progress, not daring +to offer help. Then the turn in the stair hid her from sight. +</p> + +<p> +In the dim quiet of the little hallway Von Gerhard held out his hands—those +deft, manual hands—those steady, sure, surgeonly hands—hands to cling to, to +steady oneself by, and because I needed them most just then, and because I +longed with my whole soul to place both my weary hands in those strong capable +ones and to bring those dear, cool, sane fingers up to my burning cheeks, I put +one foot on the first stair and held out two chilly fingertips. “Good-night, +Herr Doktor,” I said, “and thank you, not only for myself, but for her. I have +felt what she feels to-night. It is not a pleasant thing to be ashamed of one’s +husband.” +</p> + +<p> +Von Gerhard’s two hands closed over that one of mine. “Dawn, you will let me +help you to find comfortable quarters? You cannot tramp about from place to +place all the week. Let us get a list of addresses, and then, with the machine, +we can drive from one to the other in an hour. It will at least save you time +and strength.” +</p> + +<p> +“Go boarding-house hunting in a stunning green automobile!” I exclaimed. From +my vantage point on the steps I could look down on him, and there came over me +a great longing to run my fingers gently through that crisp blond hair, and to +bring his head down close against my breast for one exquisite moment. +So—“Landladies and oitermobiles!” I laughed. “Never! Don’t you know that if +they got one glimpse, through the front parlor windows, of me stepping +grand-like out of your green motor car, they would promptly over-charge me for +any room in the house? I shall go room-hunting in my oldest hat, with one +finger sticking out of my glove.” +</p> + +<p> +Von Gerhard shrugged despairing shoulders. +</p> + +<p> +“Na, of what use is it to plead with you. Sometimes I wonder if, after all, you +are not merely amusing yourself. Getting copy, perhaps, for the book, or a new +experience to add to your already varied store.” +</p> + +<p> +Abruptly I turned to hide my pain, and began to ascend the stairs. With a bound +Von Gerhard was beside me, his face drawn and contrite. +</p> + +<p> +“Forgive me, Dawn! I know that you are wisest. It is only that I become a +little mad, I think, when I see you battling alone like this, among strangers, +and know that I have not the right to help you. I knew not what I was saying. +Come, raise your eyes and smile, like the little Soldatin that you are. So. Now +I am forgiven, yes?” +</p> + +<p> +I smiled cheerily enough into his blue eyes. “Quite forgiven. And now you must +run along. This is scandalously late. The aborigines will be along saying +‘Morgen!’ instead of ‘Nabben’!’ if we stay here much longer. Good-night.” +</p> + +<p> +“You will give me your new address as soon as you have found a satisfactory +home?” +</p> + +<p> +“Never fear! I probably shall be pestering you with telephone calls, urging you +to have pity upon me in my loneliness. Now goodnight again. I’m as full of +farewells as a Bernhardt.” And to end it I ran up the stairs. At the bend, just +where Frau Nirlanger had turned, I too stopped and looked over my shoulder. Von +Gerhard was standing as I had left him, looking up at me. And like Frau +Nirlanger, I wafted a little kiss in his direction, before I allowed the bend +in the stairs to cut off my view. But Von Gerhard did not signify by look or +word that he had seen it, as he stood looking up at me, one strong white hand +resting on the broad baluster. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap16"></a>CHAPTER XVI.<br/> +JUNE MOONLIGHT, AND A NEW BOARDINGHOUSE</h2> + +<p> +There was a week in which to scurry about for a new home. The days scampered +by, tripping over one another in their haste. My sleeping hours were haunted by +nightmares of landladies and impossible boarding-house bedrooms. Columns of “To +Let, Furnished or Unfurnished” ads filed, advanced, and retreated before my +dizzy eyes. My time after office hours was spent in climbing dim stairways, +interviewing unenthusiastic females in kimonos, and peering into ugly bedrooms +papered with sprawly and impossible patterns and filled with the odors of +dead-and-gone dinners. I found one room less impossible than the rest, only to +be told that the preference was to be given to a man who had “looked” the day +before. +</p> + +<p> +“I d’ruther take gents only,” explained the ample person who carried the keys +to the mansion. “Gents goes early in the morning and comes in late at night, +and that’s all you ever see of ’em, half the time. I’ve tried ladies, an’ they +get me wild, always yellin’ for hot water to wash their hair, or pastin’ +handkerchiefs up on the mirr’r or wantin’ to butt into the kitchen to press +this or that. I’ll let you know if the gent don’t take it, but I got an idea he +will.” +</p> + +<p> +He did. At any rate, no voice summoned me to that haven for gents only. There +were other landladies—landladies fat and German; landladies lean and Irish; +landladies loquacious (regardless of nationality); landladies reserved; +landladies husbandless, wedded, widowed, divorced, and willing; landladies +slatternly; landladies prim; and all hinting of past estates wherein there had +been much grandeur. +</p> + +<p> +At last, when despair gripped me, and I had horrid visions of my trunk, hat-box +and typewriter reposing on the sidewalk while I, homeless, sat perched in the +midst of them, I chanced upon a room which commanded a glorious view of the +lake. True, it was too expensive for my slim purse; true, the owner of it was +sour of feature; true, the room itself was cavernous and unfriendly and +cold-looking, but the view of the great, blue lake triumphed over all these, +although a cautious inner voice warned me that that lake view would cover a +multitude of sins. I remembered, later, how she of the sour visage had dilated +upon the subject of the sunrise over the water. I told her at the time that +while I was passionately fond of sunrises myself, still I should like them just +as well did they not occur so early in the morning. Whereupon she of the +vinegar countenance had sniffed. I loathe landladies who sniff. +</p> + +<p> +My trunk and trusty typewriter were sent on to my new home at noon, +unchaperoned, for I had no time to spare at that hour of the day. Later I +followed them, laden with umbrella, boxes, brown-paper parcels, and other +unfashionable moving-day paraphernalia. I bumped and banged my way up the two +flights of stairs that led to my lake view and my bed, and my heart went down +as my feet went up. By the time the cavernous bedroom was gained I felt +decidedly quivery-mouthed, so that I dumped my belongings on the floor in a +heap and went to the window to gaze on the lake until my spirits should rise. +But it was a gray day, and the lake looked large, and wet and unsociable. You +couldn’t get chummy with it. I turned to my great barn of a room. You couldn’t +get chummy with that, either. I began to unpack, with furious energy. In vain I +turned every gas jet blazing high. They only cast dim shadows in the murky +vastness of that awful chamber. A whole Fourth of July fireworks display, Roman +candles, sky-rockets, pin-wheels, set pieces and all, could not have made that +room take on a festive air. +</p> + +<p> +As I unpacked I thought of my cosy room at Knapfs’, and as I thought I took my +head out of my trunk and sank down on the floor with a satin blouse in one +hand, and a walking boot in the other, and wanted to bellow with loneliness. +There came to me dear visions of the friendly old yellow brocade chair, and the +lamplight, and the fireplace, and Frau Nirlanger, and the Pfannkuchen. I +thought of the aborigines. In my homesick mind their bumpy faces became things +of transcendent beauty. I could have put my head on their combined shoulders +and wept down their blue satin neckties. In my memory of Frau Knapf it seemed +to me that I could discern a dim, misty halo hovering above her tightly wadded +hair. My soul went out to her as I recalled the shining cheek-bones, and the +apron, and the chickens stewed in butter. I would have given a year out of my +life to have heard that good-natured, “Nabben’.” One aborigine had been wont to +emphasize his after-dinner arguments with a toothpick brandished fiercely +between thumb and finger. The brandisher had always annoyed me. Now I thought +of him with tenderness in my heart and reproached myself for my fastidiousness. +I should have wept if I had not had a walking boot in one hand, and a satin +blouse in the other. A walking boot is but a cold comfort. And my thriftiness +denied my tears the soiling of the blouse. So I sat up on my knees and finished +the unpacking. +</p> + +<p> +Just before dinner time I donned a becoming gown to chirk up my courage, groped +my way down the long, dim stairs, and telephoned to Von Gerhard. It seemed to +me that just to hear his voice would instill in me new courage and hope. I gave +the number, and waited. +</p> + +<p> +“Dr. von Gerhard?” repeated a woman’s voice at the other end of the wire. “He +is very busy. Will you leave your name?” +</p> + +<p> +“No,” I snapped. “I’ll hold the wire. Tell him that Mrs. Orme is waiting to +speak to him.” +</p> + +<p> +“I’ll see.” The voice was grudging. +</p> + +<p> +Another wait; then—“Dawn!” came his voice in glad surprise. +</p> + +<p> +“Hello!” I cried, hysterically. “Hello! Oh, talk! Say something nice, for +pity’s sake! I’m sorry that I’ve taken you away from whatever you were doing, +but I couldn’t help it. Just talk please! I’m dying of loneliness.” +</p> + +<p> +“Child, are you ill?” Von Gerhard’s voice was so satisfyingly solicitous. “Is +anything wrong? Your voice is trembling. I can hear it quite plainly. What has +happened? Has Norah written—” +</p> + +<p> +“Norah? No. There was nothing in her letter to upset me. It is only the +strangeness of this place. I shall be all right in a day or so.” +</p> + +<p> +“The new home—it is satisfactory? You have found what you wanted? Your room is +comfortable?” +</p> + +<p> +“It’s—it’s a large room,” I faltered. “And there’s a—a large view of the lake, +too.” +</p> + +<p> +There was a smothered sound at the other end of the wire. Then—“I want you to +meet me down-town at seven o’clock. We will have dinner together,” Von Gerhard +said, “I cannot have you moping up there all alone all evening.” +</p> + +<p> +“I can’t come.” +</p> + +<p> +“Why?” +</p> + +<p> +“Because I want to so very much. And anyway, I’m much more cheerful now. I am +going in to dinner. And after dinner I shall get acquainted with my room. There +are six corners and all the space under the bed that I haven’t explored yet.” +</p> + +<p> +“Dawn!” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes?” +</p> + +<p> +“If you were free to-night, would you marry me? If you knew that the next month +would find you mistress of yourself would you—” +</p> + +<p> +“Ernst!” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes?” +</p> + +<p> +“If the gates of Heaven were opened wide to you, and they had ‘Welcome!’ done +in diamonds over the door, and all the loveliest angel ladies grouped about the +doorway to receive you, and just beyond you could see awaiting you all that was +beautiful, and most exquisite, and most desirable, would you enter?” +</p> + +<p> +And then I hung up the receiver and went in to dinner. I went in to dinner, but +not to dine. Oh, shades of those who have suffered in boarding-houses—that +dining room! It must have been patterned after the dining room at Dotheboys’ +hall. It was bare, and cheerless, and fearfully undressed looking. The diners +were seated at two long, unsociable, boarding-housey tables that ran the length +of the room, and all the women folks came down to dine with white wool shawls +wrapped snugly about their susceptible black silk shoulders. The general effect +was that of an Old People’s Home. I found seat after seat at table was filled, +and myself the youngest thing present. I felt so criminally young that I +wondered they did not strap me in a high chair and ram bread and milk down my +throat. Now and then the door would open to admit another snuffly, ancient, and +be-shawled member of the company. I learned that Mrs. Schwartz, on my right, +did not care mooch for shteak for breakfast, aber a leedle l’mb ch’p she likes. +Also that the elderly party on my left and the elderly party on my right +resented being separated by my person. Conversation between E. P. on right, and +E. P. on left scintillated across my soup, thus: +</p> + +<p> +“How you feel this evening Mis’ Maurer, h’m?” +</p> + +<p> +“Don’t ask me.” +</p> + +<p> +“No wonder you got rheumatism. My room was like a ice-house all day. Yours +too?” +</p> + +<p> +“I don’t complain any more. Much good it does. Barley soup again? In my own +home I never ate it, and here I pay my good money and get four time a week +barley soup. Are those fresh cucumbers? M-m-m-m. They haven’t stood long +enough. Look at Mis’ Miller. She feels good this evening. She should feel good. +Twenty-five cents she won at bridge. I never seen how that woman is got luck.” +</p> + +<p> +I choked, gasped, and fled. +</p> + +<p> +Back in my own mausoleum once more I put things in order, dragged my typewriter +stand into the least murky corner under the bravest gas jet and rescued my +tottering reason by turning out a long letter to Norah. That finished, my +spirits rose. I dived into the bottom of my trunk for the loose sheets of the +book-in-the-making, glanced over the last three or four, discovered that they +did not sound so maudlin as I had feared, and straightway forgot my gloomy +surroundings in the fascination of weaving the tale. +</p> + +<p> +In the midst of my fine frenzy there came a knock at the door. In the hall +stood the anemic little serving maid who had attended me at dinner. She was +almost eclipsed by a huge green pasteboard box. +</p> + +<p> +“You’re Mis’ Orme, ain’t you? This here’s for you.” +</p> + +<p> +The little white-cheeked maid hovered at the threshold while I lifted the box +cover and revealed the perfection of the American beauty buds that lay there, +all dewy and fragrant. The eyes of the little maid were wide with wonder as she +gazed, and because I had known flower-hunger I separated two stately blossoms +from the glowing cluster and held them out to her. +</p> + +<p> +“For me!” she gasped, and brought her lips down to them, gently. Then—“There’s +a high green jar downstairs you can have to stick your flowers in. You ain’t +got nothin’ big enough in here, except your water pitcher. An’ putting these +grand flowers in a water pitcher—why, it’d be like wearing a silk dress over a +flannel petticoat, wouldn’t it?” +</p> + +<p> +When the anemic little boarding-house slavey with the beauty-loving soul had +fetched the green jar, I placed the shining stems in it with gentle fingers. At +the bottom of the box I found a card that read: “For it is impossible to live +in a room with red roses and still be traurig.” +</p> + +<p> +How well he knew! And how truly impossible to be sad when red roses are glowing +for one, and filling the air with their fragrance! +</p> + +<p> +The interruption was fatal to book-writing. My thoughts were a chaos of red +roses, and anemic little maids with glowing eyes, and thoughtful young doctors +with a marvelous understanding of feminine moods. So I turned out all the +lights, undressed by moonlight, and, throwing a kimono about me, carried my jar +of roses to the window and sat down beside them so that their exquisite scent +caressed me. +</p> + +<p> +The moonlight had put a spell of white magic upon the lake. It was a +light-flooded world that lay below my window. Summer, finger on lip, had stolen +in upon the heels of spring. Dim, shadowy figures dotted the benches of the +park across the way. Just beyond lay the silver lake, a dazzling bar of +moonlight on its breast. Motors rushed along the roadway with a roar and a whir +and were gone, leaving a trail of laughter behind them. From the open window of +the room below came the slip-slap of cards on the polished table surface, and +the low buzz of occasional conversation as the players held postmortems. Under +the street light the popcorn vender’s cart made a blot on the mystic beauty of +the scene below. But the perfume of my red roses came to me, and their velvet +caressed my check, and beyond the noise and lights of the street lay that +glorious lake with the bar of moonlight on its soft breast. I gazed and forgave +the sour-faced landlady her dining room; forgave the elderly parties their +shawls and barley soup; forgot for a moment my weary thoughts of Peter Orme; +forgot everything except that it was June, and moonlight and good to be alive. +</p> + +<p> +All the changes and events of that strange, eventful year came crowding to my +mind as I crouched there at the window. Four new friends, tried and true! I +conned them over joyously in my heart. What a strange contrast they made! +Blackie, of the elastic morals, and the still more elastic heart; Frau +Nirlanger, of the smiling lips and the lilting voice and the tragic eyes—she +who had stooped from a great height to pluck the flower of love blooming below, +only to find a worthless weed sullying her hand; Alma Pflugel, with the +unquenchable light of gratefulness in her honest face; Von Gerhard, ready to +act as buffer between myself and the world, tender as a woman, gravely +thoughtful, with the light of devotion glowing in his steady eyes. +</p> + +<p> +“Here’s richness,” said I, like the fat boy in Pickwick Papers. And I thanked +God for the new energy which had sent me to this lovely city by the lake. I +thanked Him that I had not been content to remain a burden to Max and Norah, +growing sour and crabbed with the years. Those years of work and buffeting had +made of me a broader, finer, truer type of womanhood—had caused me to forget my +own little tragedy in contemplating the great human comedy. And so I made a +little prayer there in the moon-flooded room. +</p> + +<p> +“O dear Lord,” I prayed, and I did not mean that it should sound irreverent. “O +dear Lord, don’t bother about my ambitions! Just let me remain strong and well +enough to do the work that is my portion from day to day. Keep me faithful to +my standards of right and wrong. Let this new and wonderful love which has come +into my life be a staff of strength and comfort instead of a burden of +weariness. Let me not grow careless and slangy as the years go by. Let me keep +my hair and complexion and teeth, and deliver me from wearing soiled blouses +and doing my hair in a knob. Amen.” +</p> + +<p> +I felt quite cheerful after that—so cheerful that the strange bumps in the new +bed did not bother me as unfamiliar beds usually did. The roses I put to sleep +in their jar of green, keeping one to hold against my cheek as I slipped into +dreamland. I thought drowsily, just before sleep claimed me: +</p> + +<p> +“To-morrow, after office hours, I’ll tuck up my skirt, and wrap my head in a +towel and have a housecleaning bee. I’ll move the bed where the wash-stand is +now, and I’ll make the chiffonnier swap places with the couch. One feels on +friendlier terms with furniture that one has shoved about a little. How +brilliant the moonlight is! The room is flooded with it. Those +roses—sweet!—sweet!—” +</p> + +<p> +When I awoke it was morning. During the days that followed I looked back +gratefully upon that night, with its moonlight, and its roses, and its great +peace. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap17"></a>CHAPTER XVII.<br/> +THE SHADOW OF TERROR</h2> + +<p> +Two days before the date set for Von Gerhard’s departure the book was finished, +typed, re-read, packed, and sent away. Half an hour after it was gone all its +most glaring faults seemed to marshall themselves before my mind’s eye. Whole +paragraphs, that had read quite reasonably before, now loomed ludicrous in +perspective. I longed to snatch it back; to tidy it here, to take it in there, +to smooth certain rough places neglected in my haste. For almost a year I had +lived with this thing, so close that its faults and its virtues had become +indistinguishable to me. Day and night, for many months, it had been in my +mind. Of late some instinct had prompted me to finish it. I had worked at it +far into the night, until I marveled that the ancient occupants of the +surrounding rooms did not enter a combined protest against the clack-clacking +of my typewriter keys. And now that it was gone I wondered, dully, if I could +feel Von Gerhard’s departure more keenly. +</p> + +<p> +No one knew of the existence of the book except Norah, Von Gerhard, Blackie and +me. Blackie had a way of inquiring after its progress in hushed tones of mock +awe. Also he delighted in getting down on hands and knees and guiding a +yard-stick carefully about my desk with a view to having a fence built around +it, bearing an inscription which would inform admiring tourists that here was +the desk at which the brilliant author had been wont to sit when grinding out +heart-throb stories for the humble Post. He took an impish delight in my +struggles with my hero and heroine, and his inquiries after the health of both +were of such a nature as to make any earnest writer person rise in wrath and +slay him. I had seen little of Blackie of late. My spare hours had been devoted +to the work in hand. On the day after the book was sent away I was conscious of +a little shock as I strolled into Blackie’s sanctum and took my accustomed seat +beside his big desk. There was an oddly pinched look about Blackie’s nostrils +and lips, I thought. And the deep-set black eyes appeared deeper and blacker +than ever in his thin little face. +</p> + +<p> +A week of unseasonable weather had come upon the city. June was going out in a +wave of torrid heat such as August might have boasted. The day had seemed +endless and intolerably close. I was feeling very limp and languid. Perhaps, +thought I, it was the heat which had wilted Blackie’s debonair spirits. +</p> + +<p> +“It has been a long time since we’ve had a talk-talk, Blackie. I’ve missed you. +Also you look just a wee bit green around the edges. I’m thinking a vacation +wouldn’t hurt you.” +</p> + +<p> +Blackie’s lean brown forefinger caressed the bowl of his favorite pipe. His +eyes, that had been gazing out across the roofs beyond his window, came back to +me, and there was in them a curious and quizzical expression as of one who is +inwardly amused. +</p> + +<p> +“I’ve been thinkin’ about a vacation. None of your measly little two weeks’ +affairs, with one week on salary, and th’ other without. I ain’t goin’ t’ take +my vacation for a while—not till fall, p’raps, or maybe winter. But w’en I do +take it, sa-a-ay, girl, it’s goin’ t’ be a real one.” +</p> + +<p> +“But why wait so long?” I asked. “You need it now. Who ever heard of putting +off a vacation until winter!” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, I dunno,” mused Blackie. “I just made my arrangements for that time, and +I hate t’ muss ’em up. You’ll say, w’en the time comes, that my plans are +reasonable.” +</p> + +<p> +There was a sharp ring from the telephone at Blackie’s elbow. He answered it, +then thrust the receiver into my hand. “For you,” he said. +</p> + +<p> +It was Von Gerhard’s voice that came to me. “I have something to tell you,” he +said. “Something most important. If I call for you at six we can drive out to +the bay for supper, yes? I must talk to you.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“That was Von Gerhard,” said I to Blackie, and tried not to look uncomfortable. +</p> + +<p> +“Mm,” grunted Blackie, pulling at his pipe. “Thoughtful, ain’t he?” +</p> + +<p> +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—” +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +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?” +</p> + +<p> +“Not a bit, girl,” smiled Blackie, “not a bit.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“Behute!” Von Gerhard’s tone was solemn. +</p> + +<p> +“Would you be faintly interested in knowing that the book is finished?” +</p> + +<p> +“So? That is well. You were wearing yourself thin over it. It was then quickly +perfected.” +</p> + +<p> +“Perfected!” I groaned. “I turn cold when I think of it. The last chapters got +away from me completely. They lacked the punch.” +</p> + +<p> +Von Gerhard considered that a moment, as I wickedly had intended that he +should. Then—“The punch? What is that then—the punch?” +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +Von Gerhard looked troubled. “But the literary value? Does that not enter—” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +Whereupon Von Gerhard, after a moment’s stiff surprise, gave vent to one of his +heartwarming roars. +</p> + +<p> +“Thanks,” said I. “Now tell me the important news.” +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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!” +</p> + +<p> +“Then, Kindchen?” +</p> + +<p> +“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—” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +When I turned to Von Gerhard my eyes were wet. “I shall have that to remember, +when you are gone.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“What is it?” I cried. “Norah? Max? The children?” +</p> + +<p> +He shook his head. “They 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—” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes?” I urged him on, impatiently. I had never seen him like this. +</p> + +<p> +“I do not sail this week. I shall not be with Gluck in Vienna this year. I +shall stay here.” +</p> + +<p> +“Here! Why? Surely—” +</p> + +<p> +“Because I shall be needed here, Dawn. Because I cannot leave you now. You will +need—some one—a friend—” +</p> + +<p> +I stared at him with eyes that were wide with terror, waiting for I knew not +what. +</p> + +<p> +“Need—some one—for—what?” I stammered. “Why should you—” +</p> + +<p> +In the kindly shadow of the trees Von Gerhard’s hands took my icy ones, and +held them in a close clasp of encouragement. +</p> + +<p> +“Norah is coming to be with you—” +</p> + +<p> +“Norah! Why? Tell me at once! At once!” +</p> + +<p> +“Because Peter Orme has been sent home—cured,” said he. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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—” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“You knew it—how long?” +</p> + +<p> +“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—” +</p> + +<p> +“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?’” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“You!” I cried, and the humor of it was too exquisite for laughter. +</p> + +<p> +“For that I gave up Vienna,” said Von Gerhard, simply. “You, too, must do your +share.” +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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 road-side. +</p> + +<p> +“Careful, Kindchen,” he said, gravely. +</p> + +<p> +“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—” +</p> + +<p> +“Love you?” repeated Ernst, slowly, “yes. Too well—” +</p> + +<p> +“Too well—” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, too well for that, Gott sei dank, small one. Too well for that.” +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap18"></a>CHAPTER XVIII.<br/> +PETER ORME</h2> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“Blackie! It’s only you!” +</p> + +<p> +“Thanks, flatterer,” simpered Blackie, coming to the edge of the walk as I +stepped from the automobile. “Was you expectin’ the landlady?” +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +Von Gerhard laughed ruefully. “Frankly, yes. It is not early. And visitors at +this hour—” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“Bring in the set pieces,” muttered Blackie, as he turned two more gas jets +flaring high. “This parlor just yells for a funeral.” +</p> + +<p> +Von Gerhard was frowning. “Mrs. Orme is not well,” he began. “She has had a +shock—some startling news concerning—” +</p> + +<p> +“Her husband?” inquired Blackie, coolly. I started up with a cry. “How could +you know?” +</p> + +<p> +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?” +</p> + +<p> +“No,” said Von Gerhard, shortly. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“I was up at the Press Club to-night. 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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“Just a minute,” interrupted Von Gerhard. “Does he know where Mrs. Orme is +living?” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“Thank God!” I breathed. +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +I looked up for a moment. “He could make you think that it was a concert grand, +couldn’t he? He hasn’t forgotten even that?” +</p> + +<p> +“Forgotten? Girl, I don’t know what his accomplishments was when you knew him, +but if he was any more fascinatin’ than he is now, then I’m glad I didn’t know +him. He could charm the pay envelope away from a reporter that was Saturday +broke. Somethin’ seemed t’ urge me t’ go up t’ him an’ say: ‘Have a game of +billiards?’ +</p> + +<p> +“‘Don’t care if I do,’ says he, and swung his long legs off the piano stool and +we made for the billiard room, with the whole gang after us. Sa-a-ay, girl, I’m +a modest violet, I am, but I don’t mind mentionin’ that the general opinion up +at the club is that I’m a little wizard with the cue. Well, w’en he got through +with me I looked like little sister when big brother is tryin’ t’ teach her how +to hold the cue in her fingers. He just sent them balls wherever he thought +they’d look pretty. I bet if he’d held up his thumb and finger an’ said, ‘jump +through this!’ them balls would of jumped.” +</p> + +<p> +Von Gerhard took a couple of quick steps in Blackie’s direction. His eyes were +blue steel. +</p> + +<p> +“Is this then necessary?” he asked. “All this leads to what? Has not Mrs. Orme +suffered enough, that she should undergo this idle chatter? It is sufficient +that she knows this—this man is here. It is a time for action, not for words.” +</p> + +<p> +“Action’s comin’ later, Doc,” drawled Blackie, looking impish. “Monologuin’ +ain’t my specialty. I gener’ly let the other gink talk. You never can learn +nothin’ by talkin’. But I got somethin’ t’ say t’ Dawn here. Now, in case +you’re bored the least bit, w’y don’t hesitate one minnit t’—” +</p> + +<p> +“Na, you are quite right, and I was hasty,” said Von Gerhard, and his eyes, +with the kindly gleam in them, smiled down upon the little man. “It is only +that both you and I are over-anxious to be of assistance to this unhappy lady. +Well, we shall see. You talked with this man at the Press Club?” +</p> + +<p> +“He talked. I listened.” +</p> + +<p> +“That would be Peter’s way,” I said, bitterly. “How he used to love to hold +forth, and how I grew to long for blessed silence—for fewer words, and more of +that reserve which means strength!” +</p> + +<p> +“All this time,” continued Blackie, “I didn’t know his name. When we’d finished +our game of billiards he hung up his cue, and then he turned around like +lightning, and faced the boys that were standing around with their hands in +their pockets. He had a odd little smile on his face—a smile with no fun it, if +you know what I mean. Guess you do, maybe, if you’ve seen it. +</p> + +<p> +“‘Boys,’ says he, smilin’ that twisted kind of smile, ‘boys, I’m lookin’ for a +job. I’m not much of a talker, an’ I’m only a amateur at music, and my game of +billiards is ragged. But there’s one thing I can do, fellows, from abc up to +xyz, and that’s write. I can write, boys, in a way to make your pet little +political scribe sound like a high school paper. I don’t promise to stick. As +soon as I get on my feet again I’m going back to New York. But not just yet. +Meanwhile, I’m going to the highest bidder.’ +</p> + +<p> +“Well, you know since Merkle left us we haven’t had a day when we wasn’t +scooped on some political guff. ‘I guess we can use you—some place,’ I says, +tryin’ not t’ look too anxious. If your ideas on salary can take a slump be +tween New York and Milwaukee. Our salaries around here is more what is +elegantly known as a stipend. What’s your name, Bo?’ +</p> + +<p> +“‘Name?’ says he, smiling again, ‘Maybe it’ll be familiar t’ you. That is, it +will if my wife is usin’ it. Orme’s my name—Peter Orme. Know a lady of that +name? Good.’ +</p> + +<p> +“I hadn’t said I did, but those eyes of his had seen the look on my face. +</p> + +<p> +“‘Friends in New York told me she was here,’ he says. ‘Where is she now? Got +her address?’ he says. +</p> + +<p> +“‘She expectin’ you?’ I asked. +</p> + +<p> +“‘N-not exactly,’ he says, with that crooked grin. +</p> + +<p> +“‘Thought not,’ I answered, before I knew what I was sayin’. ‘She’s up north +with her folks on a vacation.’ +</p> + +<p> +“‘The devil she is!’ he says. ‘Well, in that case can you let me have ten until +Monday?’” +</p> + +<p> +Blackie came over to me as I sat cowering in my chair. He patted my shoulder +with one lean brown hand. “Now kid, you dig, see? Beat it. Go home for a week. +I’ll fix it up with Norberg. No tellin’ what a guy like that’s goin’ t’ do. +Send your brother-in-law down here if you want to make it a family affair, and +between us, we’ll see this thing through.” +</p> + +<p> +I looked up at Von Gerhard. He was nodding approval. It all seemed so easy, so +temptingly easy. To run away! Not to face him until I was safe in the shelter +of Norah’s arms! I stood up, resolve lending me new strength and courage. +</p> + +<p> +“I am going. I know it isn’t brave, but I can’t be brave any longer. I’m too +tired—too old—” +</p> + +<p> +I grasped the hand of each of those men who had stood by me so staunchly in the +year that was past. The words of thanks that I had on my lips ended in dry, +helpless sobs. And because Blackie and Von Gerhard looked so pathetically +concerned and so unhappy in my unhappiness my sobs changed to hysterical +laughter, in which the two men joined, after one moment’s bewildered staring. +</p> + +<p> +So it was that we did not hear the front door slam, or the sound of footsteps +in the hall. Our overstrained nerves found relief in laughter, so that Peter +Orme, a lean, ominous figure in the doorway looked in upon a merry scene. +</p> + +<p> +I was the first to see him. And at the sight of the emaciated figure, with its +hollow cheeks and its sunken eyes all terror and hatred left me, and I felt +only a great pity for this wreck of manhood. Slowly I went up to him there in +the doorway. +</p> + +<p> +“Well, Peter?” I said. +</p> + +<p> +“Well, Dawn old girl,” said he “you’re looking wonderfully fit. Grass widowhood +seems to agree with you, eh?” +</p> + +<p> +And I knew then that my dread dream had come true. +</p> + +<p> +Peter advanced into the room with his old easy grace of manner. His eyes glowed +as he looked at Blackie. Then he laughed, showing his even, white teeth. “Why, +you little liar!” he said, in his crisp, clear English. “I’ve a notion to +thwack you. What d’ you mean by telling me my wife’s gone? You’re not sweet on +her yourself, eh?” +</p> + +<p> +Von Gerhard stifled an exclamation, and Orme turned quickly in his direction. +“Who are you?” he asked. “Still another admirer? Jolly time you were having +when I interrupted.” He stared at Von Gerhard deliberately and coolly. A little +frown of dislike came into his face. “You’re a doctor, aren’t you? I knew it. I +can tell by the hands, and the eyes, and the skin, and the smell. Lived with +’em for ten years, damn them! Dawn, tell these fellows they’re excused, will +you? And by the way, you don’t seem very happy to see me?” +</p> + +<p> +I went up to him then, and laid my hand on his arm. “Peter, you don’t +understand. These two gentlemen have been all that is kind to me. I am happy to +know that you are well again. Surely you do not expect me to be joyful at +seeing you. All that pretense was left out of our lives long before +your—illness. It hasn’t been all roses for me since then, Peter. I’ve worked +until I wanted to die with weariness. You know what this newspaper game is for +a woman. It doesn’t grow easier as she grows older and tireder.” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, cut out the melodrama, Dawn,” sneered Peter. “Have either of you fellows +the makin’s about you? Thanks. I’m famished for a smoke.” +</p> + +<p> +The worrying words of ten years ago rose automatically to my lips. “Aren’t you +smoking too much, Peter?” The tone was that of a harassed wife. +</p> + +<p> +Peter stared. Then he laughed his short, mirthless little laugh. “By Jove! +Dawn, I believe you’re as much my wife now as you were ten years ago. I always +said, you know, that you would have become a first-class nagger if you hadn’t +had such a keen sense of humor. That saved you.” He turned his mocking eyes to +Von Gerhard. “Doesn’t it beat the devil, how these good women stick to a man, +once they’re married! There’s a certain dog-like devotion about it that’s +touching.” +</p> + +<p> +There was a dreadful little silence. For the first time in my knowledge of him +I saw a hot, painful red dyeing Blackie’s sallow face. His eyes had a menace in +their depths. Then, very quietly, Von Gerhard stepped forward and stopped +directly before me. +</p> + +<p> +“Dawn,” he said, very softly and gently, “I retract my statement of an hour +ago. If you will give me another chance to do as you asked me, I shall thank +God for it all my life. There is no degradation in that. To live with this +man—that is degradation. And I say you shall not suffer it.” +</p> + +<p> +I looked up into his face, and it had never seemed so dear to me. “The time for +that is past,” I said, my tone as calm and even as his own. “A man like you +cannot burden himself with a derelict like me—mast gone, sails gone, +water-logged, drifting. Five years from now you’ll thank me for what I am +saying now. My place is with this other wreck—tossed about by wind and weather +until we both go down together.” There came a sharp, insistent ring at the +door-bell. No answering sound came from the regions above stairs. The ringing +sounded again, louder than before. +</p> + +<p> +“I’ll be the Buttons,” said Blackie, and disappeared into the hallway. +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, yes, I’ve heard about you,” came to our ears a moment later, in a high, +clear voice—a dear, beloved voice that sent me flying to the door in an agony +of hope. +</p> + +<p> +“Norah!” I cried, “Norah! Norah! Norah!” And as her blessed arms closed about +me the tears that had been denied me before came in a torrent of joy. +</p> + +<p> +“There, there!” murmured she, patting my shoulder with those comforting +mother-pats. “What’s all this about? And why didn’t somebody meet me? I +telegraphed. You didn’t get it? Well, I forgive you. Howdy-do, Peter? I suppose +you are Peter. I hope you haven’t been acting devilish again. That seems to be +your specialty. Now don’t smile that Mephistophelian smile at me. It doesn’t +frighten me. Von Gerhard, take him down to his hotel. I’m dying for my kimono +and bed. And this child is trembling like a race-horse. Now run along, all of +you. Things that look greenery-yallery at night always turn pink in the +morning. Great Heavens! There’s somebody calling down from the second-floor +landing. It sounds like a landlady. Run, Dawn, and tell her your perfectly +respectable sister has come. Peter! Von Gerhard! Mr. Blackie! Shoo!” +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap19"></a>CHAPTER XIX.<br/> +A TURN OF THE WHEEL</h2> + +<p class="poem"> +“You who were ever alert to befriend a man<br/> +You who were ever the first to defend a man,<br/> +You who had always the money to lend a man<br/> +Down on his luck and hard up for a V,<br/> +Sure you’ll be playing a harp in beatitude<br/> +(And a quare sight you will be in that attitude)<br/> +Some day, where gratitude seems but a platitude,<br/> +You’ll find your latitude.” +</p> + +<p> +From my desk I could see Peter standing in the doorway of the news editor’s +room. I shut my eyes for a moment. Then I opened them again, quickly. No, it +was not a dream. He was there, a slender, graceful, hateful figure, with the +inevitable cigarette in his unsteady fingers—the expensive-looking, gold-tipped +cigarette of the old days. Peter was Peter. Ten years had made little +difference. There were queer little hollow places in his cheeks, and under the +jaw-bone, and at the base of the head, and a flabby, parchment-like appearance +about the skin. That was all that made him different from the Peter of the old +days. +</p> + +<p> +The thing had adjusted itself, as Norah had said it would. The situation that +had filled me with loathing and terror the night of Peter’s return had been +transformed into quite a matter-of-fact and commonplace affair under Norah’s +deft management. And now I was back in harness again, and Peter was turning out +brilliant political stuff at spasmodic intervals. He was not capable of any +sustained effort. He never would be again; that was plain. He was growing +restless and dissatisfied. He spoke of New York as though it were Valhalla. He +said that he hadn’t seen a pretty girl since he left Forty-second street. He +laughed at Milwaukee’s quaint German atmosphere. He sneered at our journalistic +methods, and called the newspapers “country sheets,” and was forever talking of +the World, and the Herald, and the Sun, until the men at the Press Club fought +shy of him. Norah had found quiet and comfortable quarters for Peter in a +boarding-house near the lake, and just a square or two distant from my own +boarding-house. He hated it cordially, as only the luxury-loving can hate a +boarding-house, and threatened to leave daily. +</p> + +<p> +“Let’s go back to the big town, Dawn, old girl,” he would say. “We’re buried +alive in this overgrown Dutch village. I came here in the first place on your +account. Now it’s up to you to get me out of it. Think of what New York means! +Think of what I’ve been! And I can write as well as ever.” +</p> + +<p> +But I always shook my head. “We would not last a month in New York, Peter. New +York has hurried on and left us behind. We’re just two pieces of discard. We’ll +have to be content where we are.” +</p> + +<p> +“Content! In this silly hole! You must be mad!” Then, with one of his +unaccountable changes of tone and topic, “Dawn, let me have some money. I’m +strapped. If I had the time I’d get out some magazine stuff. Anything to get a +little extra coin. Tell me, how does that little sport you call Blackie happen +to have so much ready cash? I’ve never yet struck him for a loan that he hasn’t +obliged me. I think he’s sweet on you, perhaps, and thinks he’s doing you a +sort of second-hand favor.” +</p> + +<p> +At times such as these all the old spirit that I had thought dead within me +would rise up in revolt against this creature who was taking from me my pride, +my sense of honor, my friends. I never saw Von Gerhard now. Peter had refused +outright to go to him for treatment, saying that he wasn’t going to be poisoned +by any cursed doctor, particularly not by one who had wanted to run away with +his wife before his very eyes. +</p> + +<p> +Sometimes I wondered how long this could go on. I thought of the old days with +the Nirlangers; of Alma Pflugel’s rose-encircled cottage; of Bennie; of the +Knapfs; of the good-natured, uncouth aborigines, and their many kindnesses. I +saw these dear people rarely now. Frau Nirlanger’s resignation to her +unhappiness only made me rebel more keenly against my own. +</p> + +<p> +If only Peter could become well and strong again, I told myself, bitterly. If +it were not for those blue shadows under his eyes, and the shrunken muscles, +and the withered skin, I could leave him to live his life as he saw fit. But he +was as dependent as a child, and as capricious. What was the end to be? I asked +myself. Where was it all leading me? +</p> + +<p> +And then, in a fearful and wonderful manner, my question was answered. +</p> + +<p> +There came to my desk one day an envelope bearing the letter-head of the +publishing house to which I had sent my story. I balanced it for a moment in my +fingers, woman-fashion, wondering, hoping, surmising. +</p> + +<p> +“Of course they can’t want it,” I told myself, in preparation for any +disappointment that was in store for me. “They’re sending it back. This is the +letter that will tell me so.” +</p> + +<p> +And then I opened it. The words jumped out at me from the typewritten page. I +crushed the paper in my hands, and rushed into Blackie’s little office as I had +been used to doing in the old days. He was at his desk, pipe in mouth. I shook +his shoulder and flourished the letter wildly, and did a crazy little dance +about his chair. +</p> + +<p> +“They want it! They like it! Not only that, they want another, as soon as I can +get it out. Think of it!” +</p> + +<p> +Blackie removed his pipe from between his teeth and wiped his lips with the +back of his hand. “I’m thinkin’,” he said. “Anything t’ oblige you. When you’re +through shovin’ that paper into my face would you mind explainin’ who wants +what?” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, you’re so stupid! So slow! Can’t you see that I’ve written a real live +book, and had it accepted, and that I am going to write another if I have to +run away from a whole regiment of husbands to do it properly? Blackie, can’t +you see what it means! Oh, Blackie, I know I’m maudlin in my joy, but forgive +me. It’s been so long since I’ve had the taste of it.” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, take a good chew while you got th’chance an’ don’t count too high on +this first book business. I knew a guy who wrote a book once, an’ he planned to +take a trip to Europe on it, and build a house when he got home, and maybe a +yacht or so, if he wasn’t too rushed. Sa-a-ay, girl, w’en he got through +gettin’ those royalties for that book they’d dwindled down to fresh wall paper +for the dinin’-room, and a new gas stove for his wife, an’ not enough left over +to take a trolley trip to Oshkosh on. Don’t count too high.” +</p> + +<p> +“I’m not counting at all, Blackie, and you can’t discourage me.” +</p> + +<p> +“Don’t want to. But I’d hate to see you come down with a thud.” Suddenly he sat +up and a grin overspread his thin face. “Tell you what we’ll do, girlie. We’ll +celebrate. Maybe it’ll be the last time. Let’s pretend this is six months ago, +and everything’s serene. You get your bonnet. I’ll get the machine. It’s too +hot to work, anyway. We’ll take a spin out to somewhere that’s cool, and we’ll +order cold things to eat, and cold things to drink, and you can talk about +yourself till you’re tired. You’ll have to take it out on somebody, an’ it +might as well be me.” +</p> + +<p> +Five minutes later, with my hat in my hand, I turned to find Peter at my elbow. +</p> + +<p> +“Want to talk to you,” he said, frowning. +</p> + +<p> +“Sorry, Peter, but I can’t stop. Won’t it do later?” +</p> + +<p> +“No. Got an assignment? I’ll go with you.” +</p> + +<p> +“N-not exactly, Peter. The truth is, Blackie has taken pity on me and has +promised to take me out for a spin, just to cool off. It has been so +insufferably hot.” +</p> + +<p> +Peter turned away. “Count me in on that,” he said, over his shoulder. +</p> + +<p> +“But I can’t, Peter,” I cried. “It isn’t my party. And anyway—” +</p> + +<p> +Peter turned around, and there was an ugly glow in his eyes and an ugly look on +his face, and a little red ridge that I had not noticed before seemed to burn +itself across his forehead. “And anyway, you don’t want me, eh? Well, I’m +going. I’m not going to have my wife chasing all over the country with strange +men. Remember, you’re not the giddy grass widdy you used to be. You can take +me, or stay at home, understand?” +</p> + +<p> +His voice was high-pitched and quavering. Something in his manner struck a +vague terror to my heart. “Why, Peter, if you care that much I shall be glad to +have you go. So will Blackie, I am sure. Come, we’ll go down now. He’ll be +waiting for us.” +</p> + +<p> +Blackie’s keen, clever mind grasped the situation as soon as he saw us +together. His dark face was illumined by one of his rare smiles. “Coming with +us, Orme? Do you good. Pile into the tonneau, you two, and hang on to your +hair. I’m going to smash the law.” +</p> + +<p> +Peter sauntered up to the steering-wheel. “Let me drive,” he said. “I’m not bad +at it.” +</p> + +<p> +“Nix with the artless amateur,” returned Blackie. “This ain’t no demonstration +car. I drive my own little wagon when I go riding, and I intend to until I take +my last ride, feet first.” +</p> + +<p> +Peter muttered something surly and climbed into the front seat next to Blackie, +leaving me to occupy the tonneau in solitary state. +</p> + +<p> +Peter began to ask questions—dozens of them, which Blackie answered, patiently +and fully. I could not hear all that they said, but I saw that Peter was urging +Blackie to greater speed, and that Blackie was explaining that he must first +leave the crowded streets behind. Suddenly Peter made a gesture in the +direction of the wheel, and said something in a high, sharp voice. Blackie’s +answer was quick and decidedly in the negative. The next instant Peter Orme +rose in his place and leaning forward and upward, grasped the wheel that was in +Blackie’s hands. The car swerved sickeningly. I noticed, dully, that Blackie +did not go white as novelists say men do in moments of horror. A dull red flush +crept to the very base of his neck. With a twist of his frail body he tried to +throw off Peter’s hands. I remember leaning over the back of the seat and +trying to pull Peter back as I realized that it was a madman with whom we were +dealing. Nothing seemed real. It was ridiculously like the things one sees in +the moving picture theaters. I felt no fear. +</p> + +<p> +“Sit down, Orme!” Blackie yelled. “You’ll ditch us! Dawn! God!—” +</p> + +<p> +We shot down a little hill. Two wheels were lifted from the ground. The machine +was poised in the air for a second before it crashed into the ditch and turned +over completely, throwing me clear, but burying Blackie and Peter under its +weight of steel and wood and whirring wheels. +</p> + +<p> +I remember rising from the ground, and sinking back again and rising once more +to run forward to where the car lay in the ditch, and tugging at that great +frame of steel with crazy, futile fingers. Then I ran screaming down the road +toward a man who was tranquilly working in a field nearby. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap20"></a>CHAPTER XX.<br/> +BLACKIE’S VACATION COMES</h2> + +<p> +The shabby blue office coat hangs on the hook in the little sporting room where +Blackie placed it. No one dreams of moving it. There it dangles, out at elbows, +disreputable, its pockets burned from many a hot pipe thrust carelessly into +them, its cuffs frayed, its lapels bearing the marks of cigarette, paste-pot +and pen. +</p> + +<p> +It is that faded old garment, more than anything else, which makes us fail to +realize that its owner will never again slip into its comfortable folds. We +cannot believe that a lifeless rag like that can triumph over the man of flesh +and blood and nerves and sympathies. With what contempt do we look upon those +garments during our lifetime! And how they live on, defying time, long, long +after we have been gathered to our last rest. +</p> + +<p> +In some miraculous manner Blackie had lived on for two days after that ghastly +ride. Peter had been killed instantly, the doctors said. They gave no hope for +Blackie. My escape with but a few ridiculous bruises and scratches was due, +they said, to the fact that I had sat in the tonneau. I heard them all, in a +stupor of horror and grief, and wondered what plan Fate had in store for me, +that I alone should have been spared. Norah and Max came, and took things in +charge, and I saw Von Gerhard, but all three appeared dim and shadowy, like +figures in a mist. When I closed my eyes I could see Peter’s tense figure +bending over Blackie at the wheel, and heard his labored breathing as he +struggled in his mad fury, and felt again the helpless horror that had come to +me as we swerved off the road and into the ditch below, with Blackie, rigid and +desperate, still clinging to the wheel. I lived it all over and over in my +mind. In the midst of the blackness I heard a sentence that cleared the fog +from my mind, and caused me to raise myself from my pillows. +</p> + +<p> +Some one—Norah, I think—had said that Blackie was conscious, and that he was +asking for some of the men at the office, and for me. For me! I rose and +dressed, in spite of Norah’s protests. I was quite well, I told them. I must +see him. I shook them off with trembling fingers and when they saw that I was +quite determined they gave in, and Von Gerhard telephoned to the hospital to +learn the hour at which I might meet the others who were to see Blackie for a +brief moment. +</p> + +<p> +I met them in the stiff little waiting room of he hospital—Norberg, Deming, +Schmidt, Holt—men who had known him from the time when they had yelled, “Heh, +boy!” at him when they wanted their pencils sharpened. Awkwardly we followed +the fleet-footed nurse who glided ahead of us down the wide hospital corridors, +past doorways through which we caught glimpses of white beds that were no +whiter than the faces that lay on the pillows. We came at last into a very +still and bright little room where Blackie lay. +</p> + +<p> +Had years passed over his head since I saw him last? The face that tried to +smile at us from the pillow was strangely wizened and old. It was as though a +withering blight had touched it. Only the eyes were the same. They glowed in +the sunken face, beneath the shock of black hair, with a startling luster and +brilliancy. +</p> + +<p> +I do not know what pain he suffered. I do not know what magic medicine gave him +the strength to smile at us, dying as he was even then. +</p> + +<p> +“Well, what do you know about little Paul Dombey?” he piped in a high, thin +voice. The shock of relief was too much. We giggled hysterically, then stopped +short and looked at each other, like scared and naughty children. +</p> + +<p> +“Sa-a-ay, boys and girls, cut out the heavy thinking parts. Don’t make me do +all the social stunts. What’s the news? What kind of a rotten cotton sportin’ +sheet is that dub Callahan gettin’ out? Who won to-day—Cubs or Pirates? +Norberg, you goat, who pinned that purple tie on you?” +</p> + +<p> +He was so like the Blackie we had always known that we were at our ease +immediately. The sun shone in at the window, and some one laughed a little +laugh somewhere down the corridor, and Deming, who is Irish, plunged into a +droll description of a brand-new office boy who had arrived that day. +</p> + +<p> +“S’elp me, Black, the kid wears spectacles and a Norfolk suit, and low-cut +shoes with bows on ’em. On the square he does. Looks like one of those Boston +infants you see in the comic papers. I don’t believe he’s real. We’re saving +him until you get back, if the kids in the alley don’t chew him up before that +time.” +</p> + +<p> +An almost imperceptible shade passed over Blackie’s face. He closed his eyes +for a moment. Without their light his countenance was ashen, and awful. +</p> + +<p> +A nurse in stripes and cap appeared in the doorway. She looked keenly at the +little figure in the bed. Then she turned to us. +</p> + +<p> +“You must go now,” she said. “You were just to see him for a minute or two, you +know.” +</p> + +<p> +Blackie summoned the wan ghost of a smile to his lips. “Guess you guys ain’t +got th’ stimulatin’ effect that a bunch of live wires ought to have. Say, +Norberg, tell that fathead, Callahan, if he don’t keep the third drawer t’ the +right in my desk locked, th’ office kids’ll swipe all the roller rink passes +surest thing you know.” +</p> + +<p> +“I’ll—tell him, Black,” stammered Norberg, and turned away. +</p> + +<p> +They said good-by, awkwardly enough. Not one of them that did not owe him an +unpayable debt of gratitude. Not one that had not the memory of some secret +kindness stored away in his heart. It was Blackie who had furnished the money +that had sent Deming’s sick wife west. It had been Blackie who had rescued +Schmidt time and again when drink got a strangle-hold. Blackie had always said: +“Fire Schmidt! Not much! Why, Schmidt writes better stuff drunk than all the +rest of the bunch sober.” And Schmidt would be granted another reprieve by the +Powers that Were. +</p> + +<p> +Suddenly Blackie beckoned the nurse in the doorway. She came swiftly and bent +over him. +</p> + +<p> +“Gimme two minutes more, that’s a good nursie. There’s something I want to say +t’ this dame. It’s de rigger t’ hand out last messages, ain’t it?” +</p> + +<p> +The nurse looked at me, doubtfully. “But you’re not to excite yourself.” +</p> + +<p> +“Sa-a-ay, girl, this ain’t goin’ t’ be no scene from East Lynne. Be a good kid. +The rest of the bunch can go.” +</p> + +<p> +And so, when the others had gone, I found myself seated at the side of his bed, +trying to smile down at him. I knew that there must be nothing to excite him. +But the words on my lips would come. +</p> + +<p> +“Blackie,” I said, and I struggled to keep my voice calm and emotionless, +“Blackie, forgive me. It is all my fault—my wretched fault.” +</p> + +<p> +“Now, cut that,” interrupted Blackie. “I thought that was your game. That’s why +I said I wanted t’ talk t’ you. Now, listen. Remember my tellin’ you, a few +weeks ago, ’bout that vacation I was plannin’? This is it, only it’s come +sooner than I expected, that’s all. I seen two three doctor guys about it. Your +friend Von Gerhard was one of ’em. They didn’t tell me t’ take no ocean trip +this time. Between ’em, they decided my vacation would come along about +November, maybe. Well, I beat ’em to it, that’s all. Sa-a-ay, girl, I ain’t +kickin’. You can’t live on your nerves and expect t’ keep goin’. Sooner or +later you’ll be suein’ those same nerves for non-support. But, kid, ain’t it a +shame that I got to go out in a auto smashup, in these days when even a airship +exit don’t make a splash on the front page!” +</p> + +<p> +The nervous brown hand was moving restlessly over the covers. Finally it met my +hand, and held it in a tense little grip. +</p> + +<p> +“We’ve been good pals, you and me, ain’t we, kid?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, Blackie.” +</p> + +<p> +“Ain’t regretted it none?” +</p> + +<p> +“Regretted it! I am a finer, truer, better woman for having known you, +Blackie.” +</p> + +<p> +He gave a little contented sigh at that, and his eyes closed. When he opened +them the old, whimsical smile wrinkled his face. +</p> + +<p> +“This is where I get off at. It ain’t been no long trip, but sa-a-ay, girl, +I’ve enjoyed every mile of the road. All kinds of scenery—all kinds of +lan’scape—plain—fancy—uphill—downhill—” +</p> + +<p> +I leaned forward, fearfully. +</p> + +<p> +“Not—yet,” whispered Blackie. “Say Dawn—in the story books—they—always—are +strong on the—good-by kiss, what?” +</p> + +<p> +And as the nurse appeared in the doorway again, disapproval on her face, I +stooped and gently pressed my lips to the pain-lined cheek. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap21"></a>CHAPTER XXI.<br/> +HAPPINESS</h2> + +<p> +We laid Peter to rest in that noisy, careless, busy city that he had loved so +well, and I think his cynical lips would have curled in a bitterly amused +smile, and his somber eyes would have flamed into sudden wrath if he could have +seen how utterly and completely New York had forgotten Peter Orme. He had been +buried alive ten years before—and Newspaper Row has no faith in resurrections. +Peter Orme was not even a memory. Ten years is an age in a city where epochs +are counted by hours. +</p> + +<p> +Now, after two weeks of Norah’s loving care, I was back in the pretty little +city by the lake. I had come to say farewell to all those who had filled my +life so completely in that year. My days of newspaper work were over. The +autumn and winter would be spent at Norah’s, occupied with hours of delightful, +congenial work, for the second book was to be written in the quiet peace of my +own little Michigan town. Von Gerhard was to take his deferred trip to Vienna +in the spring, and I knew that I was to go with him. The thought filled my +heart with a great flood of happiness. +</p> + +<p> +Together Von Gerhard and I had visited Alma Pflugel’s cottage, and the garden +was blooming in all its wonder of color and scent as we opened the little gate +and walked up the worn path. We found them in the cool shade of the arbor, the +two women sewing, Bennie playing with the last wonderful toy that Blackie had +given him. They made a serene and beautiful picture there against the green +canopy of the leaves. We spoke of Frau Nirlanger, and of Blackie, and of the +strange snarl of events which had at last been unwound to knit a close +friendship between us. And when I had kissed them and walked for the last time +in many months up the flower-bordered path, the scarlet and pink, and green and +gold of that wonderful garden swam in a mist before my eyes. +</p> + +<p> +Frau Nirlanger was next. When we spoke of Vienna she caught her breath sharply. +</p> + +<p> +“Vienna!” she repeated, and the longing in her voice was an actual pain. +“Vienna! Gott! Shall I ever see it again? Vienna! My boy is there. Perhaps—” +</p> + +<p> +“Perhaps,” I said, gently. “Stranger things have happened. Perhaps if I could +see them, and talk to them—if I could tell them—they might be made to +understand. I haven’t been a newspaper reporter all these years without +acquiring a golden gift of persuasiveness. Perhaps—who knows?—we may meet again +in Vienna. Stranger things have happened.” +</p> + +<p> +Frau Nirlanger shook her head with a little hopeless sigh. “You do not know +Vienna; you do not know the iron strength of caste, and custom and stiff-necked +pride. I am dead in Vienna. And the dead should rest in peace.” +</p> + +<p> +It was late in the afternoon when Von Gerhard and I turned the corner which led +to the building that held the Post. I had saved that for the last. +</p> + +<p> +“I hope that heaven is not a place of golden streets, and twanging harps and +angel choruses,” I said, softly. “Little, nervous, slangy, restless Blackie, +how bored and ill at ease he would be in such a heaven! How lonely, without his +old black pipe, and his checked waistcoats, and his diamonds, and his sporting +extra. Oh, I hope they have all those comforting, everyday things up there, for +Blackie’s sake.” +</p> + +<p> +“How you grew to understand him in that short year,” mused Von Gerhard. “I +sometimes used to resent the bond between you and this little Blackie whose +name was always on your tongue.” +</p> + +<p> +“Ah, that was because you did not comprehend. It is given to very few women to +know the beauty of a man’s real friendship. That was the bond between Blackie +and me. To me he was a comrade, and to him I was a good-fellow girl—one to whom +he could talk without excusing his pipe or cigarette. Love and love-making were +things to bring a kindly, amused chuckle from Blackie.” +</p> + +<p> +Von Gerhard was silent. Something in his silence held a vague irritation for +me. I extracted a penny from my purse, and placed it in his hand. +</p> + +<p> +“I was thinking,” he said, “that none are so blind as those who will not see.” +</p> + +<p> +“I don’t understand,” I said, puzzled. +</p> + +<p> +“That is well,” answered Von Gerhard, as we entered the building. “That is as +it should be.” And he would say nothing more. +</p> + +<p> +The last edition of the paper had been run off for the day. I had purposely +waited until the footfalls of the last departing reporter should have ceased to +echo down the long corridor. The city room was deserted except for one figure +bent over a pile of papers and proofs. Norberg, the city editor, was the last +to leave, as always. His desk light glowed in the darkness of the big room, and +his typewriter alone awoke the echoes. +</p> + +<p> +As I stood in the doorway he peered up from beneath his green eye-shade, and +waved a cloud of smoke away with the palm of his hand. +</p> + +<p> +“That you, Mrs. Orme?” he called out. “Lord, we’ve missed you! That new woman +can’t write an obituary, and her teary tales sound like they were carved with a +cold chisel. When are you coming back?” +</p> + +<p> +“I’m not coming back,” I replied. “I’ve come to say good-by to you +and—Blackie.” +</p> + +<p> +Norberg looked up quickly. “You feel that way, too? Funny. So do the rest of +us. Sometimes I think we are all half sure that it is only another of his +impish tricks, and that some morning he will pop open the door of the city room +here and call out, ‘Hello, slaves! Been keepin’ m’ memory green?’” +</p> + +<p> +I held out my hand to him, gratefully. He took it in his great palm, and a +smile dimpled his plump cheeks. “Going to blossom into a regular little writer, +h’m? Well, they say it’s a paying game when you get the hang of it. And I guess +you’ve got it. But if ever you feel that you want a real thrill—a touch of the +old satisfying newspaper feeling—a sniff of wet ink—the music of some editorial +cussing—why come up here and I’ll give you the hottest assignment on my list, +if I have to take it away from Deming’s very notebook.” +</p> + +<p> +When I had thanked him I crossed the hall and tried the door of the sporting +editor’s room. Von Gerhard was waiting for me far down at the other end of the +corridor. The door opened and I softly entered and shut it again. The little +room was dim, but in the half-light I could see that Callahan had changed +something—had shoved a desk nearer the window, or swung the typewriter over to +the other side. I resented it. I glanced up at the corner where the shabby old +office coat had been wont to hang. There it dangled, untouched, just as he had +left it. Callahan had not dared to change that. I tip-toed over to the corner +and touched it gently with my fingers. A light pall of dust had settled over +the worn little garment, but I knew each worn place, each ink-spot, each scorch +or burn from pipe or cigarette. I passed my hands over it reverently and +gently, and then, in the dimness of that quiet little room I laid my cheek +against the rough cloth, so that the scent of the old black pipe came back to +me once more, and a new spot appeared on the coat sleeve—a damp, salt spot. +Blackie would have hated my doing that. But he was not there to see, and one +spot more or less did not matter; it was such a grimy, disreputable old coat. +</p> + +<p> +“Dawn!” called Von Gerhard softly, outside the door. “Dawn! Coming, Kindchen?” +</p> + +<p> +I gave the little coat a parting pat. “Goodby,” I whispered, under my breath, +and turned toward the door. +</p> + +<p> +“Coming!” I called, aloud. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div style='display:block; margin-top:4em'>*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK DAWN O’HARA ***</div> +<div style='text-align:left'> + +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> +Updated editions will replace the previous one—the old editions will +be renamed. +</div> + +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> +Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright +law means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works, +so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United +States without permission and without paying copyright +royalties. 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Anyone seeking to utilize +this eBook outside of the United States should confirm copyright +status under the laws that apply to them. diff --git a/README.md b/README.md new file mode 100644 index 0000000..c3702b4 --- /dev/null +++ b/README.md @@ -0,0 +1,2 @@ +Project Gutenberg (https://www.gutenberg.org) public repository for +eBook #1602 (https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/1602) diff --git a/old/1602.txt b/old/1602.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..04aeaa6 --- /dev/null +++ b/old/1602.txt @@ -0,0 +1,7014 @@ +Project Gutenberg's Dawn O'Hara, The Girl Who Laughed, by Edna Ferber + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: Dawn O'Hara, The Girl Who Laughed + +Author: Edna Ferber + +Posting Date: October 1, 2008 [EBook #1602] +Release Date: January, 1999 +Last Updated: July 29, 2016 + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ASCII + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK DAWN O'HARA, THE GIRL WHO LAUGHED *** + + + + +Produced by An Anonymous Volunteer + + + + + +DAWN O'HARA + +THE GIRL WHO LAUGHED + +By Edna Ferber + + + + + TO MY DEAR MOTHER + WHO FREQUENTLY INTERRUPTS + AND TO + MY SISTER FANNIE + WHO SAYS "SH-SH-SH!" OUTSIDE MY DOOR + + + + +CONTENTS + + + I THE SMASH-UP + II MOSTLY EGGS + III GOOD As NEW + IV DAWN DEVELOPS A HEIMWEH + V THE ABSURD BECOMES SERIOUS + VI STEEPED IN GERMAN + VII BLACKIE'S PHILOSOPHY + VIII KAFFEE AND KAFFEEKUCHEN + IX THE LADY FROM VIENNA + X A TRAGEDY OF GOWNS + XI VON GERHARD SPEAKS + XII BENNIE THE CONSOLER + XIII THE TEST + XIV BENNIE AND THE CHARMING OLD MAID + XV FAREWELL TO KNAPFS' + XVI JUNE MOONLIGHT, AND A NEW BOARDING HOUSE + XVII THE SHADOW OF TERROR + XVIII PETER ORME + XIX A TURN OF THE WHEEL + XX BLACKIE'S VACATION COMES + XXI HAPPINESS + + + + +DAWN O'HARA + + + + +CHAPTER I. THE SMASH-UP + + +There are a number of things that are pleasanter than being sick in a +New York boarding-house when one's nearest dearest is a married sister +up in far-away Michigan. + +Some one must have been very kind, for there were doctors, and a +blue-and-white striped nurse, and bottles and things. There was even +a vase of perky carnations--scarlet ones. I discovered that they had a +trick of nodding their heads, saucily. The discovery did not appear to +surprise me. + +"Howdy-do!" said I aloud to the fattest and reddest carnation that +overtopped all the rest. "How in the world did you get in here?" + +The striped nurse (I hadn't noticed her before) rose from some corner +and came swiftly over to my bedside, taking my wrist between her +fingers. + +"I'm very well, thank you," she said, smiling, "and I came in at the +door, of course." + +"I wasn't talking to you," I snapped, crossly, "I was speaking to the +carnations; particularly to that elderly one at the top--the fat one who +keeps bowing and wagging his head at me." + +"Oh, yes," answered the striped nurse, politely, "of course. That one is +very lively, isn't he? But suppose we take them out for a little while +now." + +She picked up the vase and carried it into the corridor, and the +carnations nodded their heads more vigorously than ever over her +shoulder. + +I heard her call softly to some one. The some one answered with a sharp +little cry that sounded like, "Conscious!" + +The next moment my own sister Norah came quietly into the room, and +knelt at the side of my bed and took me in her arms. It did not seem +at all surprising that she should be there, patting me with reassuring +little love pats, murmuring over me with her lips against my check, +calling me a hundred half-forgotten pet names that I had not heard for +years. But then, nothing seemed to surprise me that surprising day. Not +even the sight of a great, red-haired, red-faced, scrubbed looking man +who strolled into the room just as Norah was in the midst of denouncing +newspapers in general, and my newspaper in particular, and calling the +city editor a slave-driver and a beast. The big, red-haired man stood +regarding us tolerantly. + +"Better, eh?" said he, not as one who asks a question, but as though +in confirmation of a thought. Then he too took my wrist between his +fingers. His touch was very firm and cool. After that he pulled down my +eyelids and said, "H'm." Then he patted my cheek smartly once or twice. +"You'll do," he pronounced. He picked up a sheet of paper from the table +and looked it over, keen-eyed. There followed a clinking of bottles and +glasses, a few low-spoken words to the nurse, and then, as she left the +room the big red-haired man seated himself heavily in the chair near the +bedside and rested his great hands on his fat knees. He stared down at +me in much the same way that a huge mastiff looks at a terrier. Finally +his glance rested on my limp left hand. + +"Married, h'm?" + +For a moment the word would not come. I could hear Norah catch her +breath quickly. Then--"Yes," answered I. + +"Husband living?" I could see suspicion dawning in his cold gray eye. + +Again the catch in Norah's throat and a little half warning, half +supplicating gesture. And again, "Yes," said I. + +The dawn of suspicion burst into full glow. + +"Where is he?" growled the red-haired doctor. "At a time like this?" + +I shut my eyes for a moment, too sick at heart to resent his manner. +I could feel, more than see, that Sis was signaling him frantically. I +moistened my lips and answered him, bitterly. + +"He is in the Starkweather Hospital for the insane." + +When the red-haired man spoke again the growl was quite gone from his +voice. + +"And your home is--where?" + +"Nowhere," I replied meekly, from my pillow. But at that Sis put her +hand out quickly, as though she had been struck, and said: + +"My home is her home." + +"Well then, take her there," he ordered, frowning, "and keep her there +as long as you can. Newspaper reporting, h'm? In New York? That's a +devil of a job for a woman. And a husband who... Well, you'll have to +take a six months' course in loafing, young woman. And at the end of +that time, if you are still determined to work, can't you pick out +something easier--like taking in scrubbing, for instance?" + +I managed a feeble smile, wishing that he would go away quickly, so that +I might sleep. He seemed to divine my thoughts, for he disappeared +into the corridor, taking Norah with him. Their voices, low-pitched and +carefully guarded, could be heard as they conversed outside my door. + +Norah was telling him the whole miserable business. I wished, savagely, +that she would let me tell it, if it must be told. How could she paint +the fascination of the man who was my husband? She had never known the +charm of him as I had known it in those few brief months before our +marriage. She had never felt the caress of his voice, or the magnetism +of his strange, smoldering eyes glowing across the smoke-dimmed city +room as I had felt them fixed on me. No one had ever known what he +had meant to the girl of twenty, with her brain full of unspoken +dreams--dreams which were all to become glorious realities in that +wonder-place, New York. + +How he had fired my country-girl imagination! He had been the most +brilliant writer on the big, brilliant sheet--and the most dissolute. +How my heart had pounded on that first lonely day when this Wonder-Being +looked up from his desk, saw me, and strolled over to where I sat before +my typewriter! He smiled down at me, companionably. I'm quite sure that +my mouth must have been wide open with surprise. He had been smoking a +cigarette an expensive-looking, gold-tipped one. Now he removed it from +between his lips with that hand that always shook a little, and dropped +it to the floor, crushing it lightly with the toe of his boot. He threw +back his handsome head and sent out the last mouthful of smoke in a +thin, lazy spiral. I remember thinking what a pity it was that he should +have crushed that costly-looking cigarette, just for me. + +"My name's Orme," he said, gravely. "Peter Orme. And if yours isn't +Shaughnessy or Burke at least, then I'm no judge of what black hair and +gray eyes stand for." + +"Then you're not," retorted I, laughing up at him, "for it happens to be +O'Hara--Dawn O'Hara, if ye plaze." + +He picked up a trifle that lay on my desk--a pencil, perhaps, or a bit +of paper--and toyed with it, absently, as though I had not spoken. +I thought he had not heard, and I was conscious of feeling a bit +embarrassed, and very young. Suddenly he raised his smoldering eyes to +mine, and I saw that they had taken on a deeper glow. His white, even +teeth showed in a half smile. + +"Dawn O'Hara," said he, slowly, and the name had never sounded in the +least like music before, "Dawn O'Hara. It sounds like a rose--a pink +blush rose that is deeper pink at its heart, and very sweet." + +He picked up the trifle with which he had been toying and eyed it +intently for a moment, as though his whole mind were absorbed in it. +Then he put it down, turned, and walked slowly away. I sat staring after +him like a little simpleton, puzzled, bewildered, stunned. That had been +the beginning of it all. + +He had what we Irish call "a way wid him." I wonder now why I did not go +mad with the joy, and the pain, and the uncertainty of it all. Never was +a girl so dazzled, so humbled, so worshiped, so neglected, so courted. +He was a creature of a thousand moods to torture one. What guise would +he wear to-day? Would he be gay, or dour, or sullen, or teasing or +passionate, or cold, or tender or scintillating? I know that my hands +were always cold, and my cheeks were always hot, those days. + +He wrote like a modern Demosthenes, with all political New York to +quiver under his philippics. The managing editor used to send him out +on wonderful assignments, and they used to hold the paper for his stuff +when it was late. Sometimes he would be gone for days at a time, and +when he returned the men would look at him with a sort of admiring awe. +And the city editor would glance up from beneath his green eye-shade and +call out: + +"Say, Orme, for a man who has just wired in about a million dollars' +worth of stuff seems to me you don't look very crisp and jaunty." + +"Haven't slept for a week," Peter Orme would growl, and then he +would brush past the men who were crowded around him, and turn in +my direction. And the old hot-and-cold, happy, frightened, laughing, +sobbing sensation would have me by the throat again. + +Well, we were married. Love cast a glamour over his very vices. His love +of drink? A weakness which I would transform into strength. His white +hot flashes of uncontrollable temper? Surely they would die down at +my cool, tender touch. His fits of abstraction and irritability? Mere +evidences of the genius within. Oh, my worshiping soul was always alert +with an excuse. + +And so we were married. He had quite tired of me in less than a year, +and the hand that had always shaken a little shook a great deal now, +and the fits of abstraction and temper could be counted upon to appear +oftener than any other moods. I used to laugh, sometimes, when I was +alone, at the bitter humor of it all. It was like a Duchess novel come +to life. + +His work began to show slipshod in spots. They talked to him about it +and he laughed at them. Then, one day, he left them in the ditch on the +big story of the McManus indictment, and the whole town scooped him, and +the managing editor told him that he must go. His lapses had become too +frequent. They would have to replace him with a man not so brilliant, +perhaps, but more reliable. + +I daren't think of his face as it looked when he came home to the little +apartment and told me. The smoldering eyes were flaming now. His lips +were flecked with a sort of foam. I stared at him in horror. He strode +over to me, clasped his fingers about my throat and shook me as a dog +shakes a mouse. + +"Why don't you cry, eh?" he snarled. "Why don't you cry!" + +And then I did cry out at what I saw in his eyes. I wrenched myself +free, fled to my room, and locked the door and stood against it with +my hand pressed over my heart until I heard the outer door slam and the +echo of his footsteps die away. + +Divorce! That was my only salvation. No, that would be cowardly now. I +would wait until he was on his feet again, and then I would demand my +old free life back once more. This existence that was dragging me into +the gutter--this was not life! Life was a glorious, beautiful thing, and +I would have it yet. I laid my plans, feverishly, and waited. He did +not come back that night, or the next, or the next, or the next. In +desperation I went to see the men at the office. No, they had not seen +him. Was there anything that they could do? they asked. I smiled, and +thanked them, and said, oh, Peter was so absent-minded! No doubt he had +misdirected his letters, or something of the sort. And then I went back +to the flat to resume the horrible waiting. + +One week later he turned up at the old office which had cast him off. He +sat down at his former desk and began to write, breathlessly, as he +used to in the days when all the big stories fell to him. One of the +men reporters strolled up to him and touched him on the shoulder, +man-fashion. Peter Orme raised his head and stared at him, and the man +sprang back in terror. The smoldering eyes had burned down to an ash. +Peter Orme was quite bereft of all reason. They took him away that +night, and I kept telling myself that it wasn't true; that it was all +a nasty dream, and I would wake up pretty soon, and laugh about it, and +tell it at the breakfast table. + +Well, one does not seek a divorce from a husband who is insane. The busy +men on the great paper were very kind. They would take me back on the +staff. Did I think that I still could write those amusing little human +interest stories? Funny ones, you know, with a punch in 'em. + +Oh, plenty of good stories left in me yet, I assured them. They must +remember that I was only twenty-one, after all, and at twenty-one one +does not lose the sense of humor. + +And so I went back to my old desk, and wrote bright, chatty letters home +to Norah, and ground out very funny stories with a punch in 'em, that +the husband in the insane asylum might be kept in comforts. With both +hands I hung on like grim death to that saving sense of humor, resolved +to make something of that miserable mess which was my life--to make +something of it yet. And now-- + +At this point in my musings there was an end of the low-voiced +conversation in the hall. Sis tiptoed in and looked her disapproval at +finding me sleepless. + +"Dawn, old girlie, this will never do. Shut your eyes now, like a good +child, and go to sleep. Guess what that great brute of a doctor said! +I may take you home with me next week! Dawn dear, you will come, won't +you? You must! This is killing you. Don't make me go away leaving you +here. I couldn't stand it." + +She leaned over my pillow and closed my eyelids gently with her sweet, +cool fingers. "You are coming home with me, and you shall sleep and eat, +and sleep and eat, until you are as lively as the Widow Malone, ohone, +and twice as fat. Home, Dawnie dear, where we'll forget all about New +York. Home, with me." + +I reached up uncertainly, and brought her hand down to my lips and a +great peace descended upon my sick soul. "Home--with you," I said, like +a child, and fell asleep. + + + + +CHAPTER II. MOSTLY EGGS + + +Oh, but it was clean, and sweet, and wonderfully still, that +rose-and-white room at Norah's! No street cars to tear at one's nerves +with grinding brakes and clanging bells; no tramping of restless feet +on the concrete all through the long, noisy hours; no shrieking midnight +joy-riders; not one of the hundred sounds which make night hideous +in the city. What bliss to lie there, hour after hour, in a delicious +half-waking, half-sleeping, wholly exquisite stupor, only rousing myself +to swallow egg-nogg No. 426, and then to flop back again on the big, +cool pillow! + +New York, with its lights, its clangor, its millions, was only a +far-away, jumbled nightmare. The office, with its clacking typewriters, +its insistent, nerve-racking telephone bells, its systematic rush, its +smoke-dimmed city room, was but an ugly part of the dream. + +Back to that inferno of haste and scramble and clatter? Never! Never! I +resolved, drowsily. And dropped off to sleep again. + +And the sheets. Oh, those sheets of Norah's! Why, they were white, +instead of gray! And they actually smelled of flowers. For that matter, +there were rosebuds on the silken coverlet. It took me a week to get +chummy with that rosebud-and-down quilt. I had to explain carefully +to Norah that after a half-dozen years of sleeping under doubtful +boarding-house blankets one does not so soon get rid of a shuddering +disgust for coverings which are haunted by the ghosts of a hundred +unknown sleepers. Those years had taught me to draw up the sheet +with scrupulous care, to turn it down, and smooth it over, so that no +contaminating and woolly blanket should touch my skin. The habit +stuck even after Norah had tucked me in between her fragrant sheets. +Automatically my hands groped about, arranging the old protecting +barrier. + +"What's the matter, Fuss-fuss?" inquired Norah, looking on. "That down +quilt won't bite you; what an old maid you are!" + +"Don't like blankets next to my face," I elucidated, sleepily, "never +can tell who slept under 'em last--" + +"You cat!" exclaimed Norah, making a little rush at me. "If you weren't +supposed to be ill I'd shake you! Comparing my darling rosebud quilt to +your miserable gray blankets! Just for that I'll make you eat an extra +pair of eggs." + +There never was a sister like Norah. But then, who ever heard of a +brother-in-law like Max? No woman--not even a frazzled-out newspaper +woman--could receive the love and care that they gave me, and fail to +flourish under it. They had been Dad and Mother to me since the day when +Norah had tucked me under her arm and carried me away from New York. Sis +was an angel; a comforting, twentieth-century angel, with white apron +strings for wings, and a tempting tray in her hands in place of the hymn +books and palm leaves that the picture-book angels carry. She coaxed the +inevitable eggs and beef into more tempting forms than Mrs. Rorer ever +guessed at. She could disguise those two plain, nourishing articles of +diet so effectually that neither hen nor cow would have suspected either +of having once been part of her anatomy. Once I ate halfway through a +melting, fluffy, peach-bedecked plate of something before I discovered +that it was only another egg in disguise. + +"Feel like eating a great big dinner to-day, Kidlet?" Norah would ask in +the morning as she stood at my bedside (with a glass of egg-something in +her hand, of course). + +"Eat!"--horror and disgust shuddering through my voice--"Eat! Ugh! +Don't s-s-speak of it to me. And for pity's sake tell Frieda to shut +the kitchen door when you go down, will you? I can smell something like +ugh!--like pot roast, with gravy!" And I would turn my face to the wall. + +Three hours later I would hear Sis coming softly up the stairs, +accompanied by a tinkling of china and glass. I would face her, all +protest. + +"Didn't I tell you, Sis, that I couldn't eat a mouthful? Not a +mouthf--um-m-m-m! How perfectly scrumptious that looks! What's that +affair in the lettuce leaf? Oh, can't I begin on that divine-looking +pinky stuff in the tall glass? H'm? Oh, please!" + +"I thought--" Norah would begin; and then she would snigger softly. + +"Oh, well, that was hours ago," I would explain, loftily. "Perhaps I +could manage a bite or two now." + +Whereupon I would demolish everything except the china and doilies. + +It was at this point on the road to recovery, just halfway between +illness and health, that Norah and Max brought the great and +unsmiling Von Gerhard on the scene. It appeared that even New York was +respectfully aware of Von Gerhard, the nerve specialist, in spite of the +fact that he lived in Milwaukee. The idea of bringing him up to look at +me occurred to Max quite suddenly. I think it was on the evening that I +burst into tears when Max entered the room wearing a squeaky shoe. The +Weeping Walrus was a self-contained and tranquil creature compared to me +at that time. The sight of a fly on the wall was enough to make me burst +into a passion of sobs. + +"I know the boy to steady those shaky nerves of yours, Dawn," said Max, +after I had made a shamefaced apology for my hysterical weeping, "I'm +going to have Von Gerhard up here to look at you. He can run up Sunday, +eh, Norah?" + +"Who's Von Gerhard?" I inquired, out of the depths of my ignorance. +"Anyway, I won't have him. I'll bet he wears a Vandyke and spectacles." + +"Von Gerhard!" exclaimed Norah, indignantly. "You ought to be thankful +to have him look at you, even if he wears goggles and a flowing beard. +Why, even that red-haired New York doctor of yours cringed and looked +impressed when I told him that Von Gerhard was a friend of my husband's, +and that they had been comrades at Heidelberg. I must have mentioned him +dozens of times in my letters." + +"Never." + +"Queer," commented Max, "he runs up here every now and then to spend a +quiet Sunday with Norah and me and the Spalpeens. Says it rests him. The +kids swarm all over him, and tear him limb from limb. It doesn't look +restful, but he says it's great. I think he came here from Berlin just +after you left for New York, Dawn. Milwaukee fits him as if it had been +made for him." + +"But you're not going to drag this wonderful being up here just for me!" +I protested, aghast. + +Max pointed an accusing finger at me from the doorway. "Aren't you what +the bromides call a bundle of nerves? And isn't Von Gerhard's specialty +untying just those knots? I'll write to him to-night." + +And he did. And Von Gerhard came. The Spalpeens watched for him, their +noses flattened against the window-pane, for it was raining. As he came +up the path they burst out of the door to meet him. From my bedroom +window I saw him come prancing up the walk like a boy, with the two +children clinging to his coat-tails, all three quite unmindful of the +rain, and yelling like Comanches. + + +Ten minutes later he had donned his professional dignity, entered +my room, and beheld me in all my limp and pea-green beauty. I noted +approvingly that he had to stoop a bit as he entered the low doorway, +and that the Vandyke of my prophecy was missing. + +He took my hand in his own steady, reassuring clasp. Then he +began to talk. Half an hour sped away while we discussed New +York--books--music--theatres--everything and anything but Dawn O'Hara. +I learned later that as we chatted he was getting his story, bit by bit, +from every twitch of the eyelids, from every gesture of the hands that +had grown too thin to wear the hateful ring; from every motion of the +lips; from the color of my nails; from each convulsive muscle; from +every shadow, and wrinkle and curve and line of my face. + +Suddenly he asked: "Are you making the proper effort to get well? You +try to conquer those jumping nerfs, yes?" + +I glared at him. "Try! I do everything. I'd eat woolly worms if I +thought they might benefit me. If ever a girl has minded her big sister +and her doctor, that girl is I. I've eaten everything from pate de foie +gras to raw beef, and I've drunk everything from blood to champagne." + +"Eggs?" queried Von Gerhard, as though making a happy suggestion. + +"Eggs!" I snorted. "Eggs! Thousands of 'em! Eggs hard and soft boiled, +poached and fried, scrambled and shirred, eggs in beer and egg-noggs, +egg lemonades and egg orangeades, eggs in wine and eggs in milk, and +eggs au naturel. I've lapped up iron-and-wine, and whole rivers of milk, +and I've devoured rare porterhouse and roast beef day after day for +weeks. So! Eggs!" + +"Mein Himmel!" ejaculated he, fervently, "And you still live!" A +suspicion of a smile dawned in his eyes. I wondered if he ever laughed. +I would experiment. + +"Don't breathe it to a soul," I whispered, tragically, "but eggs, and +eggs alone, are turning my love for my sister into bitterest hate. She +stalks me the whole day long, forcing egg mixtures down my unwilling +throat. She bullies me. I daren't put out my hand suddenly without +knocking over liquid refreshment in some form, but certainly with an egg +lurking in its depths. I am so expert that I can tell an egg orangeade +from an egg lemonade at a distance of twenty yards, with my left hand +tied behind me, and one eye shut, and my feet in a sack." + +"You can laugh, eh? Well, that iss good," commented the grave and +unsmiling one. + +"Sure," answered I, made more flippant by his solemnity. "Surely I can +laugh. For what else was my father Irish? Dad used to say that a sense +of humor was like a shillaly--an iligent thing to have around handy, +especially when the joke's on you." + +The ghost of a twinkle appeared again in the corners of the German blue +eyes. Some fiend of rudeness seized me. + +"Laugh!" I commanded. + +Dr. Ernst von Gerhard stiffened. "Pardon?" inquired he, as one who is +sure that he has misunderstood. + +"Laugh!" I snapped again. "I'll dare you to do it. I'll double dare you! +You dassen't!" + +But he did. After a moment's bewildered surprise he threw back his +handsome blond head and gave vent to a great, deep infectious roar of +mirth that brought the Spalpeens tumbling up the stairs in defiance of +their mother's strict instructions. + +After that we got along beautifully. He turned out to be quite human, +beneath the outer crust of reserve. He continued his examination only +after bribing the Spalpeens shamefully, so that even their rapacious +demands were satisfied, and they trotted off contentedly. + +There followed a process which reduced me to a giggling heap but which +Von Gerhard carried out ceremoniously. It consisted of certain raps +at my knees, and shins, and elbows, and fingers, and certain commands +to--"look at my finger! Look at the wall! Look at my finger! Look at the +wall!" + +"So!" said Von Gerhard at last, in a tone of finality. I sank my +battered frame into the nearest chair. "This--this newspaper work--it +must cease." He dismissed it with a wave of the hand. + +"Certainly," I said, with elaborate sarcasm. "How should you advise me +to earn my living in the future? In the stories they paint dinner cards, +don't they? or bake angel cakes?" + +"Are you then never serious?" asked Von Gerhard, in disapproval. + +"Never," said I. "An old, worn-out, worked-out newspaper reporter, with +a husband in the mad-house, can't afford to be serious for a minute, +because if she were she'd go mad, too, with the hopelessness of it all." +And I buried my face in my hands. + +The room was very still for a moment. Then the great Von Gerhard came +over, and took my hands gently from my face. "I--I do beg your pardon," +he said. He looked strangely boyish and uncomfortable as he said it. "I +was thinking only of your good. We do that, sometimes, forgetting that +circumstances may make our wishes impossible of execution. So. You will +forgive me?" + +"Forgive you? Yes, indeed," I assured him. And we shook hands, gravely. +"But that doesn't help matters much, after all, does it?" + +"Yes, it helps. For now we understand one another, is it not so? You say +you can only write for a living. Then why not write here at home? Surely +these years of newspaper work have given you a great knowledge of +human nature. Then too, there is your gift of humor. Surely that is a +combination which should make your work acceptable to the magazines. +Never in my life have I seen so many magazines as here in the United +States. But hundreds! Thousands!" + +"Me!" I exploded--"A real writer lady! No more interviews with +actresses! No more slushy Sunday specials! No more teary tales! Oh, my! +When may I begin? To-morrow? You know I brought my typewriter with me. +I've almost forgotten where the letters are on the keyboard." + +"Wait, wait; not so fast! In a month or two, perhaps. But first must +come other things outdoor things. Also housework." + +"Housework!" I echoed, feebly. + +"Naturlich. A little dusting, a little scrubbing, a little sweeping, a +little cooking. The finest kind of indoor exercise. Later you may write +a little--but very little. Run and play out of doors with the children. +When I see you again you will have roses in your cheeks like the German +girls, yes?" + +"Yes," I echoed, meekly, "I wonder how Frieda will like my elephantine +efforts at assisting with the housework. If she gives notice, Norah will +be lost to you." + +But Frieda did not give notice. After I had helped her clean the kitchen +and the pantry I noticed an expression of deepest pity overspreading her +lumpy features. The expression became almost one of agony as she watched +me roll out some noodles for soup, and delve into the sticky mysteries +of a new kind of cake. + +Max says that for a poor working girl who hasn't had time to cultivate +the domestic graces, my cakes are a distinct triumph. Sis sniffs at +that, and mutters something about cups of raisins and nuts and citron +hiding a multitude of batter sins. She never allows the Spalpeens to +eat my cakes, and on my baking days they are usually sent from the table +howling. Norah declares, severely, that she is going to hide the Green +Cook Book. The Green Cook Book is a German one. Norah bought it in +deference to Max's love of German cookery. It is called Aunt Julchen's +cook book, and the author, between hints as to flour and butter, gets +delightfully chummy with her pupil. Her cakes are proud, rich cakes. She +orders grandly: + +"Now throw in the yolks of twelve eggs; one-fourth of a pound +of almonds; two pounds of raisins; a pound of citron; a pound of +orange-peel." + +As if that were not enough, there follow minor instructions as to +trifles like ounces of walnut meats, pounds of confectioner's sugar, and +pints of very rich cream. When cold, to be frosted with an icing made up +of more eggs, more nuts, more cream, more everything. + +The children have appointed themselves official lickers and scrapers of +the spoons and icing pans, also official guides on their auntie's +walks. They regard their Aunt Dawn as a quite ridiculous but altogether +delightful old thing. + +And Norah--bless her! looks up when I come in from a romp with the +Spalpeens and says: "Your cheeks are pink! Actually! And you're losing +a puff there at the back of your ear, and your hat's on crooked. Oh, you +are beginning to look your old self, Dawn dear!" + +At which doubtful compliment I retort, recklessly: "Pooh! What's a puff +more or less, in a worthy cause? And if you think my cheeks are pink +now, just wait until your mighty Von Gerhard comes again. By that time +they shall be so red and bursting that Frieda's, on wash day, will +look anemic by comparison. Say, Norah, how red are German red cheeks, +anyway?" + + + + +CHAPTER III. GOOD AS NEW + +So Spring danced away, and Summer sauntered in. My pillows looked +less and less tempting. The wine of the northern air imparted a cocky +assurance. One blue-and-gold day followed the other, and I spent hours +together out of doors in the sunshine, lying full length on the warm, +sweet ground, to the horror of the entire neighborhood. To be sure, I +was sufficiently discreet to choose the lawn at the rear of the house. +There I drank in the atmosphere, as per doctor's instructions, while the +genial sun warmed the watery blood in my veins and burned the skin off +the end of my nose. + +All my life I had envied the loungers in the parks--those silent, inert +figures that lie under the trees all the long summer day, their shabby +hats over their faces, their hands clasped above their heads, legs +sprawled in uncouth comfort, while the sun dapples down between the +leaves and, like a good fairy godmother, touches their frayed and +wrinkled garments with flickering figures of golden splendor, while they +sleep. They always seemed so blissfully care-free and at ease--those +sprawling men figures--and I, to whom such simple joys were forbidden, +being a woman, had envied them. + +Now I was reveling in that very joy, stretched prone upon the ground, +blinking sleepily up at the sun and the cobalt sky, feeling my very +hair grow, and health returning in warm, electric waves. I even dared +to cross one leg over the other and to swing the pendant member with +nonchalant air, first taking a cautious survey of the neighboring back +windows to see if any one peeked. Doubtless they did, behind those +ruffled curtains, but I grew splendidly indifferent. + +Even the crawling things--and there were myriads of them--added to +the enjoyment of my ease. With my ear so close to the ground the grass +seemed fairly to buzz with them. Everywhere there were crazily busy +ants, and I, patently a sluggard and therefore one of those for whom the +ancient warning was intended, considered them lazily. How they plunged +about, weaving in and out, rushing here and there, helter-skelter, like +bargain-hunting women darting wildly from counter to counter! + +"O, foolish, foolish antics!" I chided them, "stop wearing yourselves +out this way. Don't you know that the game isn't worth the candle, and +that you'll give yourselves nervous jim-jams and then you'll have to go +home to be patched up? Look at me! I'm a horrible example." + +But they only bustled on, heedless of my advice, and showed their +contempt by crawling over me as I lay there like a lady Gulliver. + +Oh, I played what they call a heavy thinking part. It was not only the +ants that came in for lectures. I preached sternly to myself. + +"Well, Dawn old girl, you've made a beautiful mess of it. A smashed-up +wreck at twenty-eight! And what have you to show for it? Nothing! You're +a useless pulp, like a lemon that has been squeezed dry. Von Gerhard was +right. There must be no more newspaper work for you, me girl. Not if you +can keep away from the fascination of it, which I don't think you can." + +Then I would fall to thinking of those years of newspapering--of the +thrills of them, and the ills of them. It had been exhilarating, and +educating, but scarcely remunerative. Mother had never approved. Dad +had chuckled and said that it was a curse descended upon me from the +terrible old Kitty O'Hara, the only old maid in the history of the +O'Haras, and famed in her day for a caustic tongue and a venomed +pen. Dad and Mother--what a pair of children they had been! The very +dissimilarity of their natures had been a bond between them. Dad, +light-hearted, whimsical, care-free, improvident; Mother, gravely sweet, +anxious-browed, trying to teach economy to the handsome Irish husband +who, descendant of a long and royal line of spendthrift ancestors, would +have none of it. + +It was Dad who had insisted that they name me Dawn. Dawn O'Hara! His +sense of humor must have been sleeping. "You were such a rosy, pinky, +soft baby thing," Mother had once told me, "that you looked just like +the first flush of light at sunrise. That is why your father insisted on +calling you Dawn." + +Poor Dad! How could he know that at twenty-eight I would be a yellow +wreck of a newspaper reporter--with a wrinkle between my eyes. If he +could see me now he would say: + +"Sure, you look like the dawn yet, me girl but a Pittsburgh dawn." + +At that, Mother, if she were here, would pat my check where the hollow +place is, and murmur: "Never mind, Dawnie dearie, Mother thinks you are +beautiful just the same." Of such blessed stuff are mothers made. + +At this stage of the memory game I would bury my face in the warm grass +and thank my God for having taken Mother before Peter Orme came into my +life. And then I would fall asleep there on the soft, sweet grass, with +my head snuggled in my arms, and the ants wriggling, unchided, into my +ears. + +On the last of these sylvan occasions I awoke, not with a graceful +start, like the story-book ladies, but with a grunt. Sis was digging +me in the ribs with her toe. I looked up to see her standing over me, +a foaming tumbler of something in her hand. I felt that it was eggy and +eyed it disgustedly. + +"Get up," said she, "you lazy scribbler, and drink this." + +I sat up, eyeing her severely and picking grass and ants out of my hair. + +"D' you mean to tell me that you woke me out of that babe-like slumber +to make me drink that goo? What is it, anyway? I'll bet it's another +egg-nogg." + +"Egg-nogg it is; and swallow it right away, because there are guests to +see you." + +I emerged from the first dip into the yellow mixture and fixed on her as +stern and terrible a look at any one can whose mouth is encircled by a +mustache of yellow foam. + +"Guests!" I roared, "not for me! Don't you dare to say that they came to +see me!" + +"Did too," insists Norah, with firmness, "they came especially to see +you. Asked for you, right from the jump." + +I finished the egg-nogg in four gulps, returned the empty tumbler with +an air of decision, and sank upon the grass. + +"Tell 'em I rave. Tell 'em that I'm unconscious, and that for weeks I +have recognized no one, not even my dear sister. Say that in my present +nerve-shattered condition I--" + +"That wouldn't satisfy them," Norah calmly interrupts, "they know +you're crazy because they saw you out here from their second story back +windows. That's why they came. So you may as well get up and face them. +I promised them I'd bring you in. You can't go on forever refusing to +see people, and you know the Whalens are--" + +"Whalens!" I gasped. "How many of them? Not--not the entire fiendish +three?" + +"All three. I left them champing with impatience." + +The Whalens live just around the corner. The Whalens are omniscient. +They have a system of news gathering which would make the efforts of a +New York daily appear antiquated. They know that Jenny Laffin feeds the +family on soup meat and oat-meal when Mr. Laffin is on the road; they +know that Mrs. Pearson only shakes out her rugs once in four weeks; they +can tell you the number of times a week that Sam Dempster comes home +drunk; they know that the Merkles never have cream with their coffee +because little Lizzie Merkle goes to the creamery every day with just +one pail and three cents; they gloat over the knowledge that Professor +Grimes, who is a married man, is sweet on Gertie Ashe, who teaches +second reader in his school; they can tell you where Mrs. Black got her +seal coat, and her husband only earning two thousand a year; they know +who is going to run for mayor, and how long poor Angela Sims has to +live, and what Guy Donnelly said to Min when he asked her to marry him. + +The three Whalens--mother and daughters--hunt in a group. They send +meaning glances to one another across the room, and at parties they get +together and exchange bulletins in a corner. On passing the Whalen house +one is uncomfortably aware of shadowy forms lurking in the windows, and +of parlor curtains that are agitated for no apparent cause. + +Therefore it was with a groan that I rose and prepared to follow Norah +into the house. Something in my eye caused her to turn at the very door. +"Don't you dare!" she hissed; then, banishing the warning scowl from +her face, and assuming a near-smile, she entered the room and I followed +miserably at her heels. + +The Whalens rose and came forward effusively; Mrs. Whalen, plump, dark, +voluble; Sally, lean, swarthy, vindictive; Flossie, pudgy, powdered, +over-dressed. They eyed me hungrily. I felt that they were searching my +features for signs of incipient insanity. + +"Dear, DEAR girl!" bubbled the billowy Flossie, kissing the end of my +nose and fastening her eye on my ringless left hand. + +Sally contented herself with a limp and fishy handshake. She and I were +sworn enemies in our school-girl days, and a baleful gleam still lurked +in Sally's eye. Mrs. Whalen bestowed on me a motherly hug that enveloped +me in an atmosphere of liquid face-wash, strong perfumery and fried +lard. Mrs. Whalen is a famous cook. Said she: + +"We've been thinking of calling ever since you were brought home, but +dear me! you've been looking so poorly I just said to the girls, wait +till the poor thing feels more like seeing her old friends. Tell me, how +are you feeling now?" + +The three sat forward in their chairs in attitudes of tense waiting. + +I resolved that if err I must it should be on the side of safety. I +turned to sister Norah. + +"How am I feeling anyway, Norah?" I guardedly inquired. + +Norah's face was a study. "Why Dawn dear," she said, sugar-sweet, "no +doubt you know better than I. But I'm sure that you are wonderfully +improved--almost your old self, in fact. Don't you think she looks +splendid, Mrs. Whalen?" + +The three Whalens tore their gaze from my blank countenance to exchange +a series of meaning looks. + +"I suppose," purred Mrs. Whalen, "that your awful trouble was the real +cause of your--a-a-a-sickness, worrying about it and grieving as you +must have." + +She pronounces it with a capital T, and I know she means Peter. I hate +her for it. + +"Trouble!" I chirped. "Trouble never troubles me. I just worked too +hard, that's all, and acquired an awful 'tired.' All work and no play +makes Jill a nervous wreck, you know." + +At that the elephantine Flossie wagged a playful finger at me. "Oh, now, +you can't make us believe that, just because we're from the country! +We know all about you gay New Yorkers, with your Bohemian ways and your +midnight studio suppers, and your cigarettes, and cocktails and high +jinks!" + +Memory painted a swift mental picture of Dawn O'Hara as she used to +tumble into bed after a whirlwind day at the office, too dog-tired to +give her hair even one half of the prescribed one hundred strokes of the +brush. But in turn I shook a reproving forefinger at Flossie. + +"You've been reading some naughty society novel! One of those +millionaire-divorce-actress-automobile novels. Dear, dear! Shall I ever +forget the first New York actress I ever met; or what she said!" + +I felt, more than saw, a warning movement from Sis. But the three +Whalens had hitched forward in their chairs. + +"What did she say?" gurgled Flossie. "Was it something real reezk?" + +"Well, it was at a late supper--a studio supper given in her honor," I +confessed. + +"Yes-s-s-s," hissed the Whalens. + +"And this actress--she was one of those musical comedy actresses, you +know; I remember her part called for a good deal of kicking about in a +short Dutch costume--came in rather late, after the performance. She was +wearing a regal-looking fur-edged evening wrap, and she still wore all +her make-up"--out of the corner of my eye I saw Sis sink back with an +air of resignation--"and she threw open the door and said-- + +"Yes-s-s-s!" hissed the Whalens again, wetting their lips. + +"--said: 'Folks, I just had a wire from mother, up in Maine. The boy has +the croup. I'm scared green. I hate to spoil the party, but don't ask me +to stay. I want to go home to the flat and blubber. I didn't even +stop to take my make-up off. My God! If anything should happen to the +boy!--Well, have a good time without me. Jim's waiting outside.'" A +silence. + +Then--"Who was Jim?" asked Flossie, hopefully. + +"Jim was her husband, of course. He was in the same company." + +Another silence. + +"Is that all?" demanded Sally from the corner in which she had been +glowering. + +"All! You unnatural girl! Isn't one husband enough?" + +Mrs. Whalen smiled an uncertain, wavering smile. There passed among the +three a series of cabalistic signs. They rose simultaneously. + +"How quaint you are!" exclaimed Mrs. Whalen, "and so amusing! Come +girls, we mustn't tire Miss--ah--Mrs.--er--" with another meaning look at +my bare left hand. + +"My husband's name is still Orme," I prompted, quite, quite pleasantly. + +"Oh, certainly. I'm so forgetful. And one reads such queer things in +the newspapers nowa-days. Divorces, and separations, and soul-mates and +things." There was a note of gentle insinuation in her voice. + +Norah stepped firmly into the fray. "Yes, doesn't one? What a comfort it +must be to you to know that your dear girls are safe at home with you, +and no doubt will be secure, for years to come, from the buffeting winds +of matrimony." + +There was a tinge of purple in Mrs. Whalen's face as she moved toward +the door, gathering her brood about her. "Now that dear Dawn is almost +normal again I shall send my little girlies over real often. She must +find it very dull here after her--ah--life in New York." + +"Not at all," I said, hurriedly, "not at all. You see I'm--I'm writing a +book. My entire day is occupied." + +"A book!" screeched the three. "How interesting! What is it? When will +it be published?" + +I avoided Norah's baleful eye as I answered their questions and +performed the final adieux. + +As the door closed, Norah and I faced each other, glaring. + +"Hussies!" hissed Norah. Whereupon it struck us funny and we fell, a +shrieking heap, into the nearest chair. Finally Sis dabbed at her eyes +with her handkerchief, drew a long breath, and asked, with elaborate +sarcasm, why I hadn't made it a play instead of a book, while I was +about it. + +"But I mean it," I declared. "I've had enough of loafing. Max must +unpack my typewriter to-night. I'm homesick for a look at the keys. And +to-morrow I'm to be installed in the cubbyhole off the dining-room and I +defy any one to enter it on peril of their lives. If you value the lives +of your offspring, warn them away from that door. Von Gerhard said that +there was writing in my system, and by the Great Horn Spoon and the +Beard of the Prophet, I'll have it out! Besides, I need the money. Norah +dear, how does one set about writing a book? It seems like such a large +order." + + + + +CHAPTER IV. DAWN DEVELOPS A HEIMWEH + +It's hard trying to develop into a real Writer Lady in the bosom of +one's family, especially when the family refuses to take one seriously. +Seven years of newspaper grind have taught me the fallacy of trying to +write by the inspiration method. But there is such a thing as a train of +thought, and mine is constantly being derailed, and wrecked and pitched +about. + +Scarcely am I settled in my cubby-hole, typewriter before me, the +working plan of a story buzzing about in my brain, when I hear my name +called in muffled tones, as though the speaker were laboring with a +mouthful of hairpins. I pay no attention. I have just given my heroine +a pair of calm gray eyes, shaded with black lashes and hair to match. A +voice floats down from the upstairs regions. + +"Dawn! Oh, Dawn! Just run and rescue the cucumbers out of the top of the +ice-box, will you? The iceman's coming, and he'll squash 'em." + +A parting jab at my heroine's hair and eyes, and I'm off to save the +cucumbers. + +Back at my typewriter once more. Shall I make my heroine petite +or grande? I decide that stateliness and Gibsonesque height should +accompany the calm gray eyes. I rattle away happily, the plot unfolding +itself in some mysterious way. Sis opens the door a little and peers in. +She is dressed for the street. + +"Dawn dear, I'm going to the dressmaker's. Frieda's upstairs cleaning +the bathroom, so take a little squint at the roast now and then, will +you? See that it doesn't burn, and that there's plenty of gravy. Oh, and +Dawn--tell the milkman we want an extra half-pint of cream to-day. The +tickets are on the kitchen shelf, back of the clock. I'll be back in an +hour." + +"Mhmph," I reply. + +Sis shuts the door, but opens it again almost immediately. + +"Don't let the Infants bother you. But if Frieda's upstairs and they +come to you for something to eat, don't let them have any cookies before +dinner. If they're really hungry they'll eat bread and butter." + +I promise, dreamily, my last typewritten sentence still running through +my head. The gravy seems to have got into the heroine's calm gray eyes. +What heroine could remain calm-eyed when her creator's mind is filled +with roast beef? A half-hour elapses before I get back on the track. +Then appears the hero--a tall blond youth, fair to behold. I make him +two yards high, and endow him with a pair of clothing-advertisement +shoulders. + +There assails my nostrils a fearful smell of scorching. The roast! A +wild rush into the kitchen. I fling open the oven door. The roast is +mahogany-colored, and gravyless. It takes fifteen minutes of the most +desperate first-aid-to-the-injured measures before the roast is revived. + +Back to the writing. It has lost its charm. The gray-eyed heroine is a +stick; she moves like an Indian lady outside a cigar shop. The hero is +a milk-and-water sissy, without a vital spark in him. What's the use of +trying to write, anyway? Nobody wants my stuff. Good for nothing except +dubbing on a newspaper! + +Rap! Rap! Rappity-rap-rap! Bing! Milk! + +I dash into the kitchen. No milk! No milkman! I fly to the door. He is +disappearing around the corner of the house. + +"Hi! Mr. Milkman! Say, Mr. Milkman!" with frantic beckonings. + +He turns. He lifts up his voice. "The screen door was locked so I left +youse yer milk on top of the ice-box on the back porch. Thought like the +hired girl was upstairs an' I could git the tickets to-morra." + +I explain about the cream, adding that it is wanted for short-cake. The +explanation does not seem to cheer him. He appears to be a very gloomy +and reserved milkman. I fancy that he is in the habit of indulging in a +little airy persiflage with Frieda o' mornings, and he finds me a poor +substitute for her red-cheeked comeliness. + +The milk safely stowed away in the ice-box, I have another look at the +roast. I am dipping up spoonfuls of brown gravy and pouring them over +the surface of the roast in approved basting style, when there is a +rush, a scramble, and two hard bodies precipitate themselves upon my +legs so suddenly that for a moment my head pitches forward into the +oven. I withdraw my head from the oven, hastily. The basting spoon is +immersed in the bottom of the pan. I turn, indignant. The Spalpeens look +up at me with innocent eyes. + +"You little divils, what do you mean by shoving your old aunt into the +oven! It's cannibals you are!" + +The idea pleases them. They release my legs and execute a savage war +dance around me. The Spalpeens are firm in the belief that I was brought +to their home for their sole amusement, and they refuse to take me +seriously. The Spalpeens themselves are two of the finest examples +of real humor that ever were perpetrated upon parents. Sheila is the +first-born. Norah decided that she should be an Irish beauty, and +bestowed upon her a name that reeks of the bogs. Whereupon Sheila, at +the age of six, is as flaxen-haired and blue-eyed and stolid a little +German madchen as ever fooled her parents, and she is a feminine +reproduction of her German Dad. Two years later came a sturdy boy, and +they named him Hans, in a flaunt of defiance. Hans is black-haired, +gray-eyed and Irish as Killarny. + +"We're awful hungry," announces Sheila. + +"Can't you wait until dinner time? Such a grand dinner!" + +Sheila and Hans roll their eyes to convey to me that, were they to wait +until dinner for sustenance we should find but their lifeless forms. + +"Well then, Auntie will get a nice piece of bread and butter for each of +you." + +"Don't want bread an' butty!" shrieks Hans. "Want tooky!" + +"Cooky!" echoes Sheila, pounding on the kitchen table with the rescued +basting spoon. + +"You can't have cookies before dinner. They're bad for your insides." + +"Can too," disputes Hans. "Fwieda dives us tookies. Want tooky!" +wailingly. + +"Please, ple-e-e-ease, Auntie Dawnie dearie," wheedles Sheila, wriggling +her soft little fingers in my hand. + +"But Mother never lets you have cookies before dinner," I retort +severely. "She knows they are bad for you." + +"Pooh, she does too! She always says, 'No, not a cooky!' And then we beg +and screech, and then she says, 'Oh, for pity's sake, Frieda, give 'em +a cooky and send 'em out. One cooky can't kill 'em.'" Sheila's imitation +is delicious. + +Hans catches the word screech and takes it as his cue. He begins a +series of ear-piercing wails. Sheila surveys him with pride and then +takes the wail up in a minor key. Their teamwork is marvelous. I fly +to the cooky jar and extract two round and sugary confections. I thrust +them into the pink, eager palms. The wails cease. Solemnly they place +one cooky atop the other, measuring the circlets with grave eyes. + +"Mine's a weeny bit bigger'n yours this time," decides Sheila, and holds +her cooky heroically while Hans takes a just and lawful bite out of his +sister's larger share. + +"The blessed little angels!" I say to myself, melting. "The dear, +unselfish little sweeties!" and give each of them another cooky. + +Back to my typewriter. But the words flatly refuse to come now. I make +six false starts, bite all my best finger-nails, screw my hair into a +wilderness of cork-screws and give it up. No doubt a real Lady Writer +could write on, unruffled and unhearing, while the iceman squashed the +cucumbers, and the roast burned to a frazzle, and the Spalpeens perished +of hunger. Possessed of the real spark of genius, trivialities like +milkmen and cucumbers could not dim its glow. Perhaps all successful +Lady Writers with real live sparks have cooks and scullery maids, and +need not worry about basting, and gravy, and milkmen. + +This book writing is all very well for those who have a large faith in +the future and an equally large bank account. But my future will have to +be hand-carved, and my bank account has always been an all too small pay +envelope at the end of each week. It will be months before the book +is shaped and finished. And my pocketbook is empty. Last week Max sent +money for the care of Peter. He and Norah think that I do not know. + +Von Gerhard was here in August. I told him that all my firm resolutions +to forsake newspaperdom forever were slipping away, one by one. + +"I have heard of the fascination of the newspaper office," he said, in +his understanding way. "I believe you have a heimweh for it, not?" + +"Heimweh! That's the word," I had agreed. "After you have been a +newspaper writer for seven years--and loved it--you will be a newspaper +writer, at heart and by instinct at least, until you die. There's no +getting away from it. It's in the blood. Newspaper men have been known +to inherit fortunes, to enter politics, to write books and become +famous, to degenerate into press agents and become infamous, to blossom +into personages, to sink into nonentities, but their news-nose remained +a part of them, and the inky, smoky, stuffy smell of a newspaper office +was ever sweet in their nostrils." + +But, "Not yet," Von Gerhard had said, "It unless you want to have again +this miserable business of the sick nerfs. Wait yet a few months." + +And so I have waited, saying nothing to Norah and Max. But I want to be +in the midst of things. I miss the sensation of having my fingers at the +pulse of the big old world. I'm lonely for the noise and the rush and +the hard work; for a glimpse of the busy local room just before press +time, when the lights are swimming in a smoky haze, and the big presses +downstairs are thundering their warning to hurry, and the men are +breezing in from their runs with the grist of news that will be ground +finer and finer as it passes through the mill of copy-readers' and +editors' hands. I want to be there in the thick of the confusion that +is, after all, so orderly. I want to be there when the telephone bells +are zinging, and the typewriters are snapping, and the messenger boys +are shuffling in and out, and the office kids are scuffling in a corner, +and the big city editor, collar off, sleeves rolled up from his great +arms, hair bristling wildly above his green eye-shade, is swearing +gently and smoking cigarette after cigarette, lighting each fresh one at +the dying glow of the last. I would give a year of my life to hear him +say: + +"I don't mind tellin' you, Beatrice Fairfax, that that was a darn good +story you got on the Millhaupt divorce. The other fellows haven't a word +that isn't re-hash." + +All of which is most unwomanly; for is not marriage woman's highest +aim, and home her true sphere? Haven't I tried both? I ought to know. I +merely have been miscast in this life's drama. My part should have been +that of one who makes her way alone. Peter, with his thin, cruel lips, +and his shaking hands, and his haggard face and his smoldering eyes, is +a shadow forever blotting out the sunny places in my path. I was meant +to be an old maid, like the terrible old Kitty O'Hara. Not one of the +tatting-and-tea kind, but an impressive, bustling old girl, with a +double chin. The sharp-tongued Kitty O'Hara used to say that being an +old maid was a great deal like death by drowning--a really delightful +sensation when you ceased struggling. + +Norah has pleaded with me to be more like other women of my age, and +for her sake I've tried. She has led me about to bridge parties and tea +fights, and I have tried to act as though I were enjoying it all, but I +knew that I wasn't getting on a bit. I have come to the conclusion that +one year of newspapering counts for two years of ordinary, existence, +and that while I'm twenty-eight in the family Bible I'm fully forty +inside. When one day may bring under one's pen a priest, a pauper, +a prostitute, a philanthropist, each with a story to tell, and each +requiring to be bullied, or cajoled, or bribed, or threatened, or +tricked into telling it; then the end of that day's work finds one +looking out at the world with eyes that are very tired and as old as the +world itself. + +I'm spoiled for sewing bees and church sociables and afternoon bridges. +A hunger for the city is upon me. The long, lazy summer days have +slipped by. There is an autumn tang in the air. The breeze has a touch +that is sharp. + +Winter in a little northern town! I should go mad. But winter in the +city! The streets at dusk on a frosty evening; the shop windows arranged +by artist hands for the beauty-loving eyes of women; the rows of lights +like jewels strung on an invisible chain; the glitter of brass +and enamel as the endless procession of motors flashes past; the +smartly-gowned women; the keen-eyed, nervous men; the shrill note of the +crossing policeman's whistle; every smoke-grimed wall and pillar taking +on a mysterious shadowy beauty in the purple dusk, every unsightly blot +obscured by the kindly night. But best of all, the fascination of +the People I'd Like to Know. They pop up now and then in the shifting +crowds, and are gone the next moment, leaving behind them a vague +regret. Sometimes I call them the People I'd Like to Know and sometimes +I call them the People I Know I'd Like, but it means much the same. +Their faces flash by in the crowd, and are gone, but I recognize them +instantly as belonging to my beloved circle of unknown friends. + +Once it was a girl opposite me in a car--a girl with a wide, humorous +mouth, and tragic eyes, and a hole in her shoe. Once it was a big, +homely, red-headed giant of a man with an engineering magazine sticking +out of his coat pocket. He was standing at a book counter reading +Dickens like a schoolboy and laughing in all the right places, I +know, because I peaked over his shoulder to see. Another time it was +a sprightly little, grizzled old woman, staring into a dazzling shop +window in which was displayed a wonderful collection of fashionably +impossible hats and gowns. She was dressed all in rusty black, was the +little old lady, and she had a quaint cast in her left eye that gave +her the oddest, most sporting look. The cast was working overtime as +she gazed at the gowns, and the ridiculous old sprigs on her rusty black +bonnet trembled with her silent mirth. She looked like one of those +clever, epigrammatic, dowdy old duchesses that one reads about in +English novels. I'm sure she had cardamon seeds in her shabby bag, and +a carriage with a crest on it waiting for her just around the corner. I +ached to slip my hand through her arm and ask her what she thought of +it all. I know that her reply would have been exquisitely witty and +audacious, and I did so long to hear her say it. + +No doubt some good angel tugs at my common sense, restraining me from +doing these things that I am tempted to do. Of course it would be +madness for a woman to address unknown red-headed men with the look of +an engineer about them and a book of Dickens in their hands; or perky +old women with nutcracker faces; or girls with wide humorous mouths. Oh, +it couldn't be done, I suppose. They would clap me in a padded cell in +no time if I were to say: + +"Mister Red-headed Man, I'm so glad your heart is young enough for +Dickens. I love him too--enough to read him standing at a book counter +in a busy shop. And do you know, I like the squareness of your jaw, and +the way your eyes crinkle up when you laugh; and as for your being an +engineer--why one of the very first men I ever loved was the engineer in +'Soldiers of Fortune.'" + +I wonder what the girl in the car would have said if I had crossed over +to her, and put my hand on her arm and spoken, thus: + +"Girl with the wide, humorous mouth, and the tragic eyes, and the hole +in your shoe, I think you must be an awfully good sort. I'll wager you +paint, or write, or act, or do something clever like that for a living. +But from that hole in your shoe which you have inked so carefully, +although it persists in showing white at the seams, I fancy you are +stumbling over a rather stony bit of Life's road just now. And from +the look in your eyes, girl, I'm afraid the stones have cut and bruised +rather cruelly. But when I look at your smiling, humorous mouth I know +that you are trying to laugh at the hurts. I think that this morning, +when you inked your shoe for the dozenth time, you hesitated between +tears and laughter, and the laugh won, thank God! Please keep right +on laughing, and don't you dare stop for a minute! Because pretty soon +you'll come to a smooth easy place, and then won't you be glad that you +didn't give up to lie down by the roadside, weary of your hurts?" + +Oh, it would never do. Never. And yet no charm possessed by the people I +know and like can compare with the fascination of those People I'd Like +to Know, and Know I Would Like. + +Here at home with Norah there are no faces in the crowds. There are no +crowds. When you turn the corner at Main street you are quite sure that +you will see the same people in the same places. You know that Mamie +Hayes will be flapping her duster just outside the door of the jewelry +store where she clerks. She gazes up and down Main street as she flaps +the cloth, her bright eyes keeping a sharp watch for stray traveling +men that may chance to be passing. You know that there will be the same +lounging group of white-faced, vacant-eyed youths outside the pool-room. +Dr. Briggs's patient runabout will be standing at his office doorway. +Outside his butcher shop Assemblyman Schenck will be holding forth on +the subject of county politics to a group of red-faced, badly dressed, +prosperous looking farmers and townsmen, and as he talks the circle +of brown tobacco juice which surrounds the group closes in upon them, +nearer and nearer. And there, in a roomy chair in a corner of the public +library reference room, facing the big front window, you will see Old +Man Randall. His white hair forms a halo above his pitiful drink-marred +face. He was to have been a great lawyer, was Old Man Randall. But on +the road to fame he met Drink, and she grasped his arm, and led him down +by-ways, and into crooked lanes, and finally into ditches, and he never +arrived at his goal. There in that library window nook it is cool in +summer, and warm in winter. So he sits and dreams, holding an open +volume, unread, on his knees. Some times he writes, hunched up in his +corner, feverishly scribbling at ridiculous plays, short stories, and +novels which later he will insist on reading to the tittering schoolboys +and girls who come into the library to do their courting and reference +work. Presently, when it grows dusk, Old Man Randall will put away his +book, throw his coat over his shoulders, sleeves dangling, flowing white +locks sweeping the frayed velvet collar. He will march out with his +soldierly tread, humming a bit of a tune, down the street and into +Vandermeister's saloon, where he will beg a drink and a lunch, and some +man will give it to him for the sake of what Old Man Randall might have +been. + +All these things you know. And knowing them, what is left for the +imagination? How can one dream dreams about people when one knows +how much they pay their hired girl, and what they have for dinner on +Wednesdays? + + + + +CHAPTER V. THE ABSURD BECOMES SERIOUS + +I can understand the emotions of a broken-down war horse that is hitched +to a vegetable wagon. I am going to Milwaukee to work! It is a thing to +make the gods hold their sides and roll down from their mountain peaks +with laughter. After New York--Milwaukee! + +Of course Von Gerhard is to blame. But I think even he sees the humor +of it. It happened in this way, on a day when I was indulging in a +particularly greenery-yallery fit of gloom. Norah rushed into my room. +I think I was mooning over some old papers, or letters, or ribbons, or +some such truck in the charming, knife-turning way that women have when +they are blue. + +"Out wid yez!" cried Norah. "On with your hat and coat! I've just had +a wire from Ernst von Gerhard. He's coming, and you look like an +under-done dill pickle. You aren't half as blooming as when he was here +in August, and this is October. Get out and walk until your cheeks are +so red that Von Gerhard will refuse to believe that this fiery-faced +puffing, bouncing creature is the green and limp thing that huddled in a +chair a few months ago. Out ye go!" + +And out I went. Hatless, I strode countrywards, leaving paved streets +and concrete walks far behind. There were drifts of fallen leaves all +about, and I scuffled through them drearily, trying to feel gloomy, and +old, and useless, and failing because of the tang in the air, and +the red-and-gold wonder of the frost-kissed leaves, and the regular +pump-pump of good red blood that was coursing through my body as per +Norah's request. + +In a field at the edge of the town, just where city and country begin to +have a bowing acquaintance, the college boys were at football practice. +Their scarlet sweaters made gay patches of color against the dull +gray-brown of the autumn grass. + +"Seven-eighteen-two-four!" called a voice. There followed a scuffle, a +creaking of leather on leather, a thud. I watched them, a bit enviously, +walking backwards until a twist in the road hid them from view. That +same twist transformed my path into a real country road--a brown, dusty, +monotonous Michigan country road that went severely about its business, +never once stopping to flirt with the blushing autumn woodland at its +left, or to dally with the dimpling ravine at its right. + +"Now if that were an English country road," thought I, "a sociably +inclined, happy-go-lucky, out-for-pleasure English country road, one +might expect something of it. On an English country road this would +be the psychological moment for the appearance of a blond god, in gray +tweed. What a delightful time of it Richard Le Gallienne's hero had on +his quest! He could not stroll down the most innocent looking lane, he +might not loiter along the most out-of-the-way path, he never ambled +over the barest piece of country road, that he did not come face to +face with some witty and lovely woman creature, also in search of things +unconventional, and able to quote charming lines from Chaucer to him." + +Ah, but that was England, and this is America. I realize it sadly as I +step out of the road to allow a yellow milk wagon to rattle past. The +red letters on the yellow milk cart inform the reader that it is +the property of August Schimmelpfennig, of Hickory Grove. The +Schimmelpfennig eye may be seen staring down upon me from the bit of +glass in the rear as the cart rattles ahead, doubtless being suspicious +of hatless young women wandering along country roads at dusk, alone. +There was that in the staring eye to which I took exception. It wore +an expression which made me feel sure that the mouth below it was all +a-grin, if I could but have seen it. It was bad enough to be stared +at by the fishy Schimmelpfennig eye, but to be grinned at by the +Schimmelpfennig mouth!--I resented it. In order to show my resentment I +turned my back on the Schimmelpfennig cart and pretended to look up the +road which I had just traveled. + +I pretended to look up the road, and then I did look in earnest. +No wonder the Schimmelpfennig eye and mouth had worn the leering +expression. The blond god in gray tweed was swinging along toward me! I +knew that he was blond because he wore no hat and the last rays of the +October sun were making a little halo effect about his head. I knew +that his gray clothes were tweed because every well regulated hero on a +country road wears tweed. It's almost a religion with them. He was not +near enough to make a glance at his features possible. I turned +around and continued my walk. The yellow cart, with its impudent +Schimmelpfennig leer, was disappearing in a cloud of dust. Shades of +the "Duchess" and Bertha M. Clay! How does one greet a blond god in gray +tweed on a country road, when one has him! + +The blond god solved the problem for me. + +"Hi!" he called. I did not turn. There was a moment's silence. Then +there came a shrill, insistent whistle, of the kind that is made by +placing four fingers between the teeth. It is a favorite with the +gallery gods. I would not have believed that gray tweed gods stooped to +it. + +"Hi!" called the voice again, very near now. "Lieber Gott! Never have I +seen so proud a young woman!" + +I whirled about to face Von Gerhard; a strangely boyish and +unprofessional looking Von Gerhard. + +"Young man," I said severely, "have you been a-follerin' of me?" + +"For miles," groaned he, as we shook hands. "You walk like a grenadier. +I am sent by the charming Norah to tell you that you are to come home +to mix the salad dressing, for there is company for supper. I am the +company." + +I was still a bit dazed. "But how did you know which road to take? And +when--" + +"Wunderbar, nicht wahr?" laughed Von Gerhard. "But really quite simple. +I come in on an earlier train than I had expected, chat a moment with +sister Norah, inquire after the health of my patient, and am told that +she is running away from a horde of blue devils!--quote your charming +sister--that have swarmed about her all day. What direction did her +flight take? I ask. Sister Norah shrugs her shoulders and presumes that +it is the road which shows the reddest and yellowest autumn colors. That +road will be your road. So!" + +"Pooh! How simple! That is the second disappointment you have given me +to-day." + +"But how is that possible? The first has not had time to happen." + +"The first was yourself," I replied, rudely. + +"I had been longing for an adventure. And when I saw you 'way up the +road, such an unusual figure for our Michigan country roads, I forgot +that I was a disappointed old grass widder with a history, and I grew +young again, and my heart jumped up into my throat, and I sez to mesilf, +sez I: 'Enter the hero!' And it was only you." + +Von Gerhard stared a moment, a curious look on his face. Then he +laughed one of those rare laughs of his, and I joined him because I was +strangely young, light, and happy to be alive. + +"You walk and enjoy walking, yes?" asked Von Gerhard, scanning my face. +"Your cheeks they are like--well, as unlike the cheeks of the German +girls as Diana's are unlike a dairy maid's. And the nerfs? They no +longer jump, eh?" + +"Oh, they jump, but not with weariness. They jump to get into action +again. From a life of too much excitement I have gone to the other +extreme. I shall be dead of ennui in another six months." + +"Ennui?" mused he, "and you are--how is it?--twenty-eight years, yes? +H'm!" + +There was a world of exasperation in the last exclamation. + +"I am a thousand years old," it made me exclaim, "a million!" + +"I will prove to you that you are sixteen," declared Von Gerhard, +calmly. + +We had come to a fork in the road. At the right the narrower road ran +between two rows of great maples that made an arch of golden splendor. +The frost had kissed them into a gorgeous radiance. + +"Sunshine Avenue," announced Von Gerhard. "It beckons us away from home, +and supper and salad dressing and duty, but who knows what we shall find +at the end of it!" + +"Let's explore," I suggested. "It is splendidly golden enough to be +enchanted." + +We entered the yellow canopied pathway. + +"Let us pretend this is Germany, yes?" pleaded Von Gerhard. "This golden +pathway will end in a neat little glass-roofed restaurant, with +tables and chairs outside, and comfortable German papas and mammas and +pig-tailed children sitting at the tables, drinking coffee or beer. +There will be stout waiters, and a red-faced host. And we will seat +ourselves at one of the tables, and I will wave my hand, and one of the +stout waiters will come flying. 'Will you have coffee, _Fraulein_, or +beer?' It sounds prosaic, but it is very, very good, as you will see. +Pathways in Germany always end in coffee and Kuchen and waiters in white +aprons." + +But, "Oh, no!" I exclaimed, for his mood was infectious. "This is +France. Please! The golden pathway will end in a picturesque little +French farm, with a dairy. And in the doorway of the farmhouse there +will be a red-skirted peasant woman, with a white cap! and a baby on her +arm! and sabots! Oh, surely she will wear sabots!" + +"Most certainly she will wear sabots," Von Gerhard said, heatedly, "and +blue knitted stockings. And the baby's name is Mimi!" + +We had taken hands and were skipping down the pathway now, like two +excited children. + +"Let's run," I suggested. And run we did, like two mad creatures, until +we rounded a gentle curve and brought up, panting, within a foot of a +decrepit rail fence. The rail fence enclosed a stubbly, lumpy field. The +field was inhabited by an inquiring cow. Von Gerhard and I stood quite +still, hand in hand, gazing at the cow. Then we turned slowly and looked +at each other. + +"This pathway of glorified maples ends in a cow," I said, solemnly. At +which we both shrieked with mirth, leaning on the decrepit fence and +mopping our eyes with our handkerchiefs. + +"Did I not say you were sixteen?" taunted Von Gerhard. We were getting +surprisingly well acquainted. + +"Such a scolding as we shall get! It will be quite dark before we are +home. Norah will be tearing her hair." + +It was a true prophecy. As we stampeded up the steps the door was flung +open, disclosing a tragic figure. + +"Such a steak!" wailed Norah, "and it has been done for hours and hours, +and now it looks like a piece of fried ear. Where have you two driveling +idiots been? And mushrooms too." + +"She means that the ruined steak was further enhanced by mushrooms," I +explained in response to Von Gerhard's bewildered look. We marched into +the house, trying not to appear like sneak thieves. Max, pipe in mouth, +surveyed us blandly. + +"Fine color you've got, Dawn," he remarked. + +"There is such a thing as overdoing this health business," snapped +Norah, with a great deal of acidity for her. "I didn't tell you to make +them purple, you know." + +Max turned to Von Gerhard. "Now what does she mean by that do you +suppose, eh Ernst?" + +"Softly, brother, softly!" whispered Von Gerhard. "When women exchange +remarks that apparently are simple, and yet that you, a man, cannot +understand, then know there is a woman's war going on, and step softly, +and hold your peace. Aber ruhig!" + +Calm was restored with the appearance of the steak, which was found +to have survived the period of waiting, and to be incredibly juicy and +tender. Presently we were all settled once more in the great beamed +living room, Sis at the piano, the two men smoking their after-dinner +cigars with that idiotic expression of contentment which always adorns +the masculine face on such occasions. + +I looked at them--at those three who had done so much for my happiness +and well being, and something within me said: "Now! Speak now!" Norah +was playing very softly, so that the Spalpeens upstairs might not be +disturbed. I took a long breath and made the plunge. + +"Norah, if you'll continue the slow music, I'll be much obliged. 'The +time has come, the Walrus said, to talk of many things.'" + +"Don't be absurd," said Norah, over her shoulder, and went on playing. + +"I never was more serious in my life, good folkses all. I've got to be. +This butterfly existence has gone on long enough. Norah, and Max, and +Mr. Doctor Man, I am going away." + +Norah's hands crashed down on the piano keys with a jangling discord. +She swung about to face me. + +"Not New York again, Dawn! Not New York!" + +"I am afraid so," I answered. + +Max--bless his great, brotherly heart--rose and came over to me and put +a hand on my shoulder. + +"Don't you like it here, girlie? Want to be hauled home on a shutter +again, do you? You know that as long as we have a home, you have one. We +need you here." + +But I shook my head. From his chair at the other side of the room I +could feel Von Gerhard's gaze fixed upon us. He had said nothing. + +"Need me! No one needs me. Don't worry; I'm not going to become maudlin +about it. But I don't belong here, and you know, it. I have my work to +do. Norah is the best sister that a woman ever had. And Max, you're +an angel brother-in-law. But how can I stay on here and keep my +self-respect?" I took Max's big hand in mine and gathered courage from +it. + +"But you have been working," wailed Norah, "every morning. And I thought +the book was coming on beautifully. And I'm sure it will be a wonderful +book, Dawn dear. You are so clever." + +"Oh, the book--it is too uncertain. Perhaps it will go, but perhaps it +won't. And then--what? It will be months before the book is properly +polished off. And then I may peddle it around for more months. No; I +can't afford to trifle with uncertainties. Every newspaper man or woman +writes a book. It's like having the measles. There is not a newspaper +man living who does not believe, in his heart, that if he could only +take a month or two away from the telegraph desk or the police run, he +could write the book of the year, not to speak of the great American +Play. Why, just look at me! I've only been writing seriously for a few +weeks, and already the best magazines in the country are refusing my +manuscripts daily." + +"Don't joke," said Norah, coming over to me, "I can't stand it." + +"Why not? Much better than weeping, isn't it? And anyway, I'm no subject +for tears any more. Dr. von Gerhard will tell you how well and strong I +am. Won't you, Herr Doktor?" + +"Well," said Von Gerhard, in his careful, deliberate English, "since you +ask me, I should say that you might last about one year, in New York." + +"There! What did I tell you!" cried Norah. + +"What utter blither!" I scoffed, turning to glare at Von Gerhard. + +"Gently," warned Max. "Such disrespect to the man who pulled you back +from the edge of the yawning grave only six months ago!" + +"Yawning fiddlesticks!" snapped I, elegantly. "There was nothing wrong +with me except that I wanted to be fussed over. And I have been. And +I've loved it. But it must stop now." I rose and walked over to the +table and faced Von Gerhard, sitting there in the depths of a great +chair. "You do not seem to realize that I am not free to come and go, +and work and play, and laugh and live like other women. There is my +living to make. And there is--Peter Orme. Do you think that I could stay +on here like this? Oh, I know that Max is not a poor man. But he is +not a rich man, either. And there are the children to be educated, and +besides, Max married Norah O'Hara, not the whole O'Hara tribe. I want to +go to work. I am not a free woman, but when I am working, I forget, and +am almost happy. I tell you I must be well again! I will be well! I am +well!" + +At the end of which dramatic period I spoiled the whole effect by bowing +my head on the table and giving way to a fit of weeping such as I had +not had since the days of my illness. + +"Looks like it," said Max, at which I decided to laugh, and the +situation was saved. + +It was then that Von Gerhard proposed the thing that set us staring at +him in amused wonder. He came over and stood looking down at us, his +hands outspread upon the big library table, his body bent forward in an +attitude of eager intentness. I remember thinking what wonderful hands +they were, true indexes of the man's character; broad, white, surgeonly +hands; the fingers almost square at the tips. They were hands as +different from those slender, nervous, unsteady, womanly hands of Peter +Orme as any hands could be, I thought. They were hands made for work +that called for delicate strength, if such a paradox could be; hands to +cling to; to gain courage from; hands that spelled power and reserve. I +looked at them, fascinated, as I often had done before, and thought that +I never had seen such SANE hands. + +"You have done me the honor to include me in this little family +conclave," began Ernst von Gerhard. "I am going to take advantage of +your trust. I shall give you some advice--a thing I usually keep for +unpleasant professional occasions. Do not go back to New York." + +"But I know New York. And New York--the newspaper part of it--knows me. +Where else can I go?" + +"You have your book to finish. You could never finish it there, is it +not so?" + +I'm afraid I shrugged my shoulders. It was all so much harder than I had +expected. What did they want me to do? I asked myself, bitterly. + +Von Gerhard went on. "Why not go where the newspaper work will not be so +nerve-racking? where you still might find time for this other work that +is dear to you, and that may bring its reward in time." He reached out +and took my hand, into his great, steady clasp. "Come to the happy, +healthy, German town called Milwaukee, yes? Ach, you may laugh. But +newspaper work is newspaper work the world over, because men and women +are just men and women the world over. But there you could live sanely, +and work not too hard, and there would be spare hours for the book that +is near your heart. And I--I will speak of you to Norberg, of the Post. +And on Sundays, if you are good, I may take you along the marvelous lake +drives in my little red runabout, yes? Aber wunderbar, those drives are! +So." + +Then--"Milwaukee!" shrieked Max and Norah and I, together. "After New +York--Milwaukee!" + +"Laugh," said Von Gerhard, quite composedly. "I give you until to-morrow +morning to stop laughing. At the end of that time it will not seem quite +so amusing. No joke is so funny after one has contemplated it for twelve +hours." + +The voice of Norah, the temptress, sounded close to my ear. "Dawn dear, +just think how many million miles nearer you would be to Max, and me, +and home." + +"Oh, you have all gone mad! The thing is impossible. I shan't go back to +a country sheet in my old age. I suppose that in two more years I shall +be editing a mothers' column on an agricultural weekly." + +"Norberg would be delighted to get you," mused Von Gerhard, "and it +would be day work instead of night work." + +"And you would send me a weekly bulletin on Dawn's health, wouldn't you, +Ernst?" pleaded Norah. "And you'd teach her to drink beer and she shall +grow so fat that the Spalpeens won't know their auntie." + +At last--"How much do they pay?" I asked, in desperation. And the thing +that had appeared so absurd at first began to take on the shape of +reality. + +Von Gerhard did speak to Norberg of the Post. And I am to go to +Milwaukee next week. The skeleton of the book manuscript is stowed +safely away in the bottom of my trunk and Norah has filled in the +remaining space with sundry flannels, and hot water bags and medicine +flasks, so that I feel like a schoolgirl on her way to boarding-school, +instead of like a seasoned old newspaper woman with a capital PAST and a +shaky future. I wish that I were chummier with the Irish saints. I need +them now. + + + + +CHAPTER VI. STEEPED IN GERMAN + +I am living at a little private hotel just across from the court house +square with its scarlet geraniums and its pretty fountain. The house +is filled with German civil engineers, mechanical engineers, and +Herr Professors from the German academy. On Sunday mornings we have +Pfannkuchen with currant jelly, and the Herr Professors come down to +breakfast in fearful flappy German slippers. I'm the only creature +in the place that isn't just over from Germany. Even the dog is a +dachshund. It is so unbelievable that every day or two I go down to +Wisconsin Street and gaze at the stars and stripes floating from the +government building, in order to convince myself that this is America. +It needs only a Kaiser or so, and a bit of Unter den Linden to be quite +complete. + +The little private hotel is kept by Herr and Frau Knapf. After one has +seen them, one quite understands why the place is steeped in a German +atmosphere up to its eyebrows. + +I never would have found it myself. It was Doctor von Gerhard who had +suggested Knapf's, and who had paved the way for my coming here. + +"You will find it quite unlike anything you have ever tried before," +he warned me. "Very German it is, and very, very clean, and most +inexpensive. Also I think you will find material there--how is it you +call it?--copy, yes? Well, there should be copy in plenty; and types! +But you shall see." + +From the moment I rang the Knapf doorbell I saw. The dapper, cheerful +Herr Knapf, wearing a disappointed Kaiser Wilhelm mustache, opened the +door. I scarcely had begun to make my wishes known when he interrupted +with a large wave of the hand, and an elaborate German bow. + +"Ach yes! You would be the lady of whom the Herr Doktor has spoken. +Gewiss! Frau Orme, not? But so a young lady I did not expect to see. A +room we have saved for you--aber wunderhubsch! It makes me much pleasure +to show. Folgen Sie mir, bitte." + +"You--you speak English?" I faltered, with visions of my evenings spent +in expressing myself in the sign language. + +"Englisch? But yes. Here in Milwaukee it gives aber mostly German. And +then too, I have been only twenty years in this country. And always in +Milwaukee. Here is it gemutlich--and mostly it gives German." + +I tried not to look frightened, and followed him up to the "but +wonderfully beautiful" room. To my joy I found it high-ceilinged, airy, +and huge, with a great vault of a clothes closet bristling with hooks, +and boasting an unbelievable number of shelves. My trunk was swallowed +up in it. Never in all my boarding-house experience have I seen such a +room, or such a closet. The closet must have been built for a bride's +trousseau in the days of hoop-skirts and scuttle bonnets. There was a +separate and distinct hook for each and every one of my most obscure +garments. I tried to spread them out. I used two hooks to every +petticoat, and three for my kimono, and when I had finished there were +rows of hooks to spare. Tiers of shelves yawned for hat-boxes which I +possessed not. Bluebeard's wives could have held a family reunion +in that closet and invited all of Solomon's spouses. Finally, in +desperation, I gathered all my poor garments together and hung them in a +sociable bunch on the hooks nearest the door. How I should have loved +to have shown that closet to a select circle of New York boarding-house +landladies! + +After wrestling in vain with the forest of hooks, I turned my attention +to my room. I yanked a towel thing off the center table and replaced +it with a scarf that Peter had picked up in the Orient. I set up my +typewriter in a corner near a window and dug a gay cushion or two and a +chafing-dish out of my trunk. I distributed photographs of Norah and Max +and the Spalpeens separately, in couples, and in groups. Then I bounced +up and down in a huge yellow brocade chair and found it unbelievably +soft and comfortable. Of course, I reflected, after the big veranda, +and the apple tree at Norah's, and the leather-cushioned comfort of her +library, and the charming tones of her Oriental rugs and hangings-- + +"Oh, stop your carping, Dawn!" I told myself. "You can't expect charming +tones, and Oriental do-dads and apple trees in a German boarding-house. +Anyhow there's running water in the room. For general utility purposes +that's better than a pink prayer rug." + +There was a time when I thought that it was the luxuries that made life +worth living. That was in the old Bohemian days. + +"Necessities!" I used to laugh, "Pooh! Who cares about the necessities! +What if the dishpan does leak? It is the luxuries that count." + +Bohemia and luxuries! Half a dozen lean boarding-house years have +steered me safely past that. After such a course in common sense you +don't stand back and examine the pictures of a pink Moses in a nest of +purple bullrushes, or complain because the bureau does not harmonize +with the wall paper. Neither do you criticize the blue and saffron roses +that form the rug pattern. 'Deedy not! Instead you warily punch the +mattress to see if it is rock-stuffed, and you snoop into the clothes +closet; you inquire the distance to the nearest bath room, and whether +the payments are weekly or monthly, and if there is a baby in the room +next door. Oh, there's nothing like living in a boarding-house for +cultivating the materialistic side. + +But I was to find that here at Knapf's things were quite different. Not +only was Ernst von Gerhard right in saying that it was "very German, +and very, very clean;" he recognized good copy when he saw it. Types! I +never dreamed that such faces existed outside of the old German woodcuts +that one sees illustrating time-yellowed books. + +I had thought myself hardened to strange boarding-house dining rooms, +with their batteries of cold, critical women's eyes. I had learned +to walk unruffled in the face of the most carping, suspicious and the +fishiest of these batteries. Therefore on my first day at Knapf's I +went down to dinner in the evening, quite composed and secure in the +knowledge that my collar was clean and that there was no flaw to find in +the fit of my skirt in the back. + +As I opened the door of my room I heard sounds as of a violent +altercation in progress downstairs. I leaned over the balusters and +listened. The sounds rose and fell and swelled and boomed. They were +German sounds that started in the throat, gutturally, and spluttered +their way up. They were sounds such as I had not heard since the night +I was sent to cover a Socialist meeting in New York. I tip-toed down the +stairs, although I might have fallen down and landed with a thud without +having been heard. The din came from the direction of the dining room. +Well, come what might, I would not falter. After all, it could not +be worse than that awful time when I had helped cover the teamsters' +strike. I peered into the dining room. + +The thunder of conversation went on as before. But there was no +bloodshed. Nothing but men and women sitting at small tables, eating +and talking. When I say eating and talking I do not mean that those acts +were carried on separately. Not at all. The eating and the talking went +on simultaneously, neither interrupting the other. A fork full of food +and a mouthful of ten-syllabled German words met, wrestled, and passed +one another, unscathed. I stood in the doorway, fascinated, until +Herr Knapf spied me, took a nimble skip in my direction, twisted the +discouraged mustaches into temporary sprightliness, and waved me toward +a table in the center of the room. + +Then a frightful thing happened. When I think of it now I turn cold. +The battery was not that of women's eyes, but of men's. And conversation +ceased! The uproar and the booming of vowels was hushed. The silence was +appalling. I looked up in horror to find that what seemed to be millions +of staring blue eyes were fixed on me. The stillness was so thick that +you could cut it with a knife. Such men! Immediately I dubbed them +the aborigines, and prayed that I might find adjectives with which to +describe their foreheads. + +It appeared that the aborigines were especially favored in that they +were all placed at one long, untidy table at the head of the room. +The rest of us sat at small tables. Later I learned that they were +all engineers. At meals they discuss engineering problems in the most +awe-inspiring German. After supper they smoke impossible German pipes +and dozens of cigarettes. They have bulging, knobby foreheads and +bristling pompadours, and some of the rawest of them wear wild-looking +beards, and thick spectacles, and cravats and trousers that Lew Fields +never even dreamed of. They are all graduates of high-sounding foreign +universities and are horribly learned and brilliant, but they are the +worst mannered lot I ever saw. + +In the silence that followed my entrance a red-cheeked maid approached +me and asked what I would have for supper. Supper? I asked. Was not +dinner served in the evening? The aborigines nudged each other and +sniggered like fiendish little school-boys. + +The red-cheeked maid looked at me pityingly. Dinner was served in the +middle of the day, naturlich. For supper there was Wienerschnitzel, and +kalter Aufschnitt, also Kartoffel Salat, and fresh Kaffeekuchen. + +The room hung breathless on my decision. I wrestled with a horrible +desire to shriek and run. Instead I managed to mumble an order. The +aborigines turned to one another inquiringly. + +"Was hat sie gesagt?" they asked. "What did she say?" Whereupon they +fell to discussing my hair and teeth and eyes and complexion in German +as crammed with adjectives as was the rye bread over which I was choking +with caraway. The entire table watched me with wide-eyed, unabashed +interest while I ate, and I advanced by quick stages from red-faced +confusion to purple mirth. It appeared that my presence was the +ground for a heavy German joke in connection with the youngest of the +aborigines. He was a very plump and greasy looking aborigine with a +doll-like rosiness of cheek and a scared and bristling pompadour and +very small pig-eyes. The other aborigines clapped him on the back and +roared: + +"Ai Fritz! Jetzt brauchst du nicht zu weinen! Deine Lena war aber nicht +so huebsch, eh?" + +Later I learned that Fritz was the newest arrival and that since coming +to this country he had been rather low in spirits in consequence of a +certain flaxen-haired Lena whom he had left behind in the fatherland. + +An examination of the dining room and its other occupants served to keep +my mind off the hateful long table. The dining room was a double one, +the floor carpetless and clean. There was a little platform at one +end with hardy-looking plants in pots near the windows. The wall was +ornamented with very German pictures of very plump, bare-armed German +girls being chucked under the chin by very dashing, mustachioed German +lieutenants. It was all very bare, and strange and foreign to my eyes, +and yet there was something bright and comfortable about it. I felt +that I was going to like it, aborigines and all. The men drink beer with +their supper and read the Staats-Zeitung and the Germania and foreign +papers that I never heard of. It is uncanny, in these United States. But +it is going to be bully for my German. + +After my first letter home Norah wrote frantically, demanding to know +if I was the only woman in the house. I calmed her fears by assuring +her that, while the men were interesting and ugly with the fascinating +ugliness of a bulldog, the women were crushed looking and uninteresting +and wore hopeless hats. I have written Norah and Max reams about this +household, from the aborigines to Minna, who tidies my room and serves +my meals, and admires my clothes. Minna is related to Frau Knapf, whom +I have never seen. Minna is inordinately fond of dress, and her remarks +anent my own garments are apt to be a trifle disconcerting, especially +when she intersperses her recital of dinner dishes with admiring +adjectives directed at my blouse or hat. Thus: + +"Wir haben roast beef, und spareribs mit Sauerkraut, und schicken--ach, +wie schon, Frau Orme! Aber ganz prachtvoll!" Her eyes and hands are +raised toward heaven. + +"What's prachtful?" I ask, startled. "The chicken?" + +"Nein; your waist. Selbst gemacht?" + +I am even becoming hardened to the manners of the aborigines. It used to +fuss me to death to meet one of them in the halls. They always stopped +short, brought heels together with a click, bent stiffly from the waist, +and thundered: "Nabben', Fraulein!" + +I have learned to take the salutation quite calmly, and even the +wildest, most spectacled and knobby-browed aborigine cannot startle me. +Nonchalantly I reply, "Nabben'," and wish that Norah could but see me in +the act. + +When I told Ernst von Gerhard about them, he laughed a little and +shrugged his shoulders and said: + +"Na, you should not look so young, and so pretty, and so unmarried. In +Germany a married woman brushes her hair quite smoothly back, and pins +it in a hard knob. And she knows nothing of such bewildering collars +and fluffy frilled things in the front of the blouse. How do you call +them--jabots?" + +Von Gerhard has not behaved at all nicely. I did not see him until two +weeks after my arrival in Milwaukee, although he telephoned twice to ask +if there was anything that he could do to make me comfortable. + +"Yes," I had answered the last time that I heard his voice over the +telephone. "It would be a whole heap of comfort to me just to see you. +You are the nearest thing to Norah that there is in this whole German +town, and goodness knows you're far from Irish." + +He came. The weather had turned suddenly cold and he was wearing a +fur-lined coat with a collar of fur. He looked most amazingly handsome +and blond and splendidly healthy. The clasp of his hands was just as big +and sure as ever. + +"You have no idea how glad I am to see you," I told him. "If you had, +you would have been here days ago. Aren't you rather ill-mannered and +neglectful, considering that you are responsible for my being here?" + +"I did not know whether you, a married woman, would care to have me +here," he said, in his composed way. "In a place like this people are +not always kind enough to take the trouble to understand. And I would +not have them raise their eyebrows at you, not for--" + +"Married!" I laughed, some imp of willfulness seizing me, "I'm not +married. What mockery to say that I am married simply because I must +write madam before my name! I am not married, and I shall talk to whom I +please." + +And then Von Gerhard did a surprising thing. He took two great steps +over to my chair, and grasped my hands and pulled me to my feet. I +stared up at him like a silly creature. His face was suffused with a +dull red, and his eyes were unbelievably blue and bright. He had my +hands in his great grip, but his voice was very quiet and contained. + +"You are married," he said. "Never forget that for a moment. You are +bound, hard and fast and tight. And you are for no man. You are married +as much as though that poor creature in the mad house were here working +for you, instead of the case being reversed as it is. So." + +"What do you mean!" I cried, wrenching myself away indignantly. "What +right have you to talk to me like this? You know what my life has been, +and how I have tried to smile with my lips and stay young in my heart! I +thought you understood. Norah thought so too, and Max--" + +"I do understand. I understand so well that I would not have you talk as +you did a moment ago. And I said what I said not so much for your sake, +as for mine. For see, I too must remember that you write madam before +your name. And sometimes it is hard for me to remember." + +"Oh," I said, like a simpleton, and stood staring after him as he +quietly gathered up his hat and gloves and left me standing there. + + + + +CHAPTER VII. BLACKIE'S PHILOSOPHY + +I did not write Norah about Von Gerhard. After all, I told myself, there +was nothing to write. And so I was the first to break the solemn pact +that we had made. + +"You will write everything, won't you, Dawn dear?" Norah had pleaded, +with tears in her pretty eyes. "Promise me. We've been nearer to each +other in these last few months than we have been since we were girls. +And I've loved it so. Please don't do as you did during those miserable +years in New York, when you were fighting your troubles alone and we +knew nothing of it. You wrote only the happy things. Promise me you'll +write the unhappy ones too--though the saints forbid that there should +be any to write! And Dawn, don't you dare to forget your heavy underwear +in November. Those lake breezes!--Well, some one has to tell you, and I +can't leave those to Von Gerhard. He has promised to act as monitor over +your health." + +And so I promised. I crammed my letters with descriptions of the Knapf +household. I assured her that I was putting on so much weight that the +skirts which formerly hung about me in limp, dejected folds now refused +to meet in the back, and all the hooks and eyes were making faces at +each other. My cheeks, I told her, looked as if I were wearing plumpers, +and I was beginning to waddle and puff as I walked. + +Norah made frantic answer: + +"For mercy's sake child, be careful or you'll be FAT!" + +To which I replied: "Don't care if I am. Rather be hunky and healthy +than skinny and sick. Have tried both." + +It is impossible to avoid becoming round-cheeked when one is working on +a paper that allows one to shut one's desk and amble comfortably home +for dinner at least five days in the week. Everybody is at least plump +in this comfortable, gemutlich town, where everybody placidly locks his +shop or office and goes home at noon to dine heavily on soup and meat +and vegetables and pudding, washed down by the inevitable beer and +followed by forty winks on the dining room sofa with the German Zeitung +spread comfortably over the head as protection against the flies. + +There is a fascination about the bright little city. There is about it +something quaint and foreign, as though a cross-section of the old world +had been dumped bodily into the lap of Wisconsin. It does not seem at +all strange to hear German spoken everywhere--in the streets, in the +shops, in the theaters, in the street cars. One day I chanced upon a +sign hung above the doorway of a little German bakery over on the north +side. There were Hornchen and Kaffeekuchen in the windows, and a brood +of flaxen-haired and sticky children in the back of the shop. I stopped, +open-mouthed, to stare at the worn sign tacked over the door. + +"Hier wird Englisch gesprochen," it announced. + +I blinked. Then I read it again. I shut my eyes, and opened them again +suddenly. The fat German letters spoke their message as before--"English +spoken here." + +On reaching the office I told Norberg, the city editor, about my +find. He was not impressed. Norberg never is impressed. He is the most +soul-satisfying and theatrical city editor that I have ever met. He +is fat, and unbelievably nimble, and keen-eyed, and untiring. He says, +"Hell!" when things go wrong; he smokes innumerable cigarettes, inhaling +the fumes and sending out the thin wraith of smoke with little explosive +sounds between tongue and lips; he wears blue shirts, and no collar to +speak of, and his trousers are kept in place only by a miracle and an +inefficient looking leather belt. + +When he refused to see the story in the little German bakery sign I +began to argue. + +"But man alive, this is America! I think I know a story when I see it. +Suppose you were traveling in Germany, and should come across a sign +over a shop, saying: 'Hier wird Deutsch gesprochen.' Wouldn't you think +you were dreaming?" + +Norberg waved an explanatory hand. "This isn't America. This is +Milwaukee. After you've lived here a year or so you'll understand what +I mean. If we should run a story of that sign, with a two-column cut, +Milwaukee wouldn't even see the joke." + +But it was not necessary that I live in Milwaukee a year or so in order +to understand its peculiarities, for I had a personal conductor and +efficient guide in the new friend that had come into my life with the +first day of my work on the Post. Surely no woman ever had a stronger +friend than little "Blackie" Griffith, sporting editor of the Milwaukee +Post. We became friends, not step by step, but in one gigantic leap such +as sometimes triumphs over the gap between acquaintance and liking. + +I never shall forget my first glimpse of him. He strolled into the city +room from his little domicile across the hall. A shabby, disreputable, +out-at-elbows office coat was worn over his ultra-smart street clothes, +and he was puffing at a freakish little pipe in the shape of a miniature +automobile. He eyed me a moment from the doorway, a fantastic, elfin +little figure. I thought that I had never seen so strange and so ugly a +face as that of this little brown Welshman with his lank, black hair and +his deep-set, uncanny black eyes. Suddenly he trotted over to me with +a quick little step. In the doorway he had looked forty. Now a smile +illumined the many lines of his dark countenance, and in some miraculous +way he looked twenty. + +"Are you the New York importation?" he, asked, his great black eyes +searching my face. + +"I'm what's left of it," I replied, meekly. + +"I understand you've been in for repairs. Must of met up with somethin' +on the road. They say the goin' is full of bumps in N' York." + +"Bumps!" I laughed, "it's uphill every bit of the road, and yet you've +got to go full speed to get anywhere. But I'm running easily again, +thank you." + +He waved away a cloud of pipe-smoke, and knowingly squinted through the +haze. "We don't speed up much here. And they ain't no hill climbin' t' +speak of. But say, if you ever should hit a nasty place on the route, +toot your siren for me and I'll come. I'm a regular little human garage +when it comes to patchin' up those aggravatin' screws that need oilin'. +And, say, don't let Norberg bully you. My name's Blackie. I'm goin' t' +like you. Come on over t' my sanctum once in a while and I'll show you +my scrapbook and let you play with the office revolver." + +And so it happened that I had not been in Milwaukee a month before +Blackie and I were friends. + +Norah was horrified. My letters were full of him. I told her that she +might get a more complete mental picture of him if she knew that he +wore the pinkest shirts, and the purplest neckties, and the blackest and +whitest of black-and-white checked vests that ever aroused the envy +of an office boy, and beneath them all, the gentlest of hearts. And +therefore one loves him. There is a sort of spell about the illiterate +little slangy, brown Welshman. He is the presiding genius of the place. +The office boys adore him. The Old Man takes his advice in selecting +a new motor car; the managing editor arranges his lunch hour to suit +Blackie's and they go off to the Press club together, arm in arm. It is +Blackie who lends a sympathetic ear to the society editor's tale of +woe. He hires and fires the office boys; boldly he criticizes the +news editor's makeup; he receives delegations of tan-coated, red-faced +prizefighting-looking persons; he gently explains to the photographer +why that last batch of cuts make their subjects look as if afflicted +with the German measles; he arbitrates any row that the newspaper may +have with such dignitaries as the mayor or the chief of police; he +manages boxing shows; he skims about in a smart little roadster; he +edits the best sporting page in the city; and at four o'clock of an +afternoon he likes to send around the corner for a chunk of devil's food +cake with butter filling from the Woman's Exchange. Blackie never went +to school to speak of. He doesn't know was from were. But he can "see" +a story quicker, and farther and clearer than any newspaper man I ever +knew--excepting Peter Orme. + +There is a legend about to the effect that one day the managing editor, +who is Scotch and without a sense of humor, ordered that Blackie should +henceforth be addressed by his surname of Griffith, as being a more +dignified appellation for the use of fellow reporters, hangers-on, copy +kids, office boys and others about the big building. + +The day after the order was issued the managing editor summoned a +freckled youth and thrust a sheaf of galley proofs into his hand. + +"Take those to Mr. Griffith," he ordered without looking up. + +"T' who?" + +"To Mr. Griffith," said the managing editor, laboriously, and scowling a +bit. + +The boy took three unwilling steps toward the door. Then he turned a +puzzled face toward the managing editor. + +"Say, honest, I ain't never heard of dat guy. He must be a new one. +W'ere'll I find him?" + +"Oh, damn! Take those proofs to Blackie!" roared the managing editor. +And thus ended Blackie's enforced flight into the realms of dignity. + +All these things, and more, I wrote to the scandalized Norah. I informed +her that he wore more diamond rings and scarf pins and watch fobs than a +railroad conductor, and that his checked top-coat shrieked to Heaven. + +There came back a letter in which every third word was underlined, and +which ended by asking what the morals of such a man could be. + +Then I tried to make Blackie more real to Norah who, in all her +sheltered life, had never come in contact with a man like this. + +"... As for his morals--or what you would consider his morals, Sis--they +probably are a deep crimson; but I'll swear there is no yellow streak. +I never have heard anything more pathetic than his story. Blackie sold +papers on a down-town corner when he was a baby six years old. Then he +got a job as office boy here, and he used to sharpen pencils, and run +errands, and carry copy. After office hours he took care of some horses +in an alley barn near by, and after that work was done he was employed +about the pressroom of one of the old German newspaper offices. +Sometimes he would be too weary to crawl home after working half the +night, and so he would fall asleep, a worn, tragic little figure, on a +pile of old papers and sacks in a warm corner near the presses. He was +the head of a household, and every penny counted. And all the time he +was watching things, and learning. Nothing escaped those keen black +eyes. He used to help the photographer when there was a pile of plates +to develop, and presently he knew more about photography than the man +himself. So they made him staff photographer. In some marvelous way +he knew more ball players, and fighters and horsemen than the sporting +editor. He had a nose for news that was nothing short of wonderful. He +never went out of the office without coming back with a story. They used +to use him in the sporting department when a rush was on. Then he became +one of the sporting staff; then assistant sporting editor; then sporting +editor. He knows this paper from the basement up. He could operate a +linotype or act as managing editor with equal ease. + +"No, I'm afraid that Blackie hasn't had much time for morals. But, Norah +dear, I wish that you could hear him when he talks about his mother. He +may follow doubtful paths, and associate with questionable people, and +wear restless clothes, but I wouldn't exchange his friendship for that +of a dozen of your ordinary so-called good men. All these years of work +and suffering have made an old man of little Blackie, although he is +young in years. But they haven't spoiled his heart any. He is able to +distinguish between sham and truth because he has been obliged to do +it ever since he was a child selling papers on the corner. But he still +clings to the office that gave him his start, although he makes more +money in a single week outside the office than his salary would amount +to in half a year. He says that this is a job that does not interfere +with his work." + +Such is Blackie. Surely the oddest friend a woman ever had. He possesses +a genius for friendship, and a wonderful understanding of suffering, +born of those years of hardship and privation. Each learned the other's +story, bit by bit, in a series of confidences exchanged during that +peaceful, beatific period that follows just after the last edition has +gone down. Blackie's little cubby-hole of an office is always blue +with smoke, and cluttered with a thousand odds and ends--photographs, +souvenirs, boxing-gloves, a litter of pipes and tobacco, a wardrobe of +dust-covered discarded coats and hats, and Blackie in the midst of it +all, sunk in the depths of his swivel chair, and looking like an amiable +brown gnome, or a cheerful little joss-house god come to life. There is +in him an uncanny wisdom which only the streets can teach. He is one +of those born newspaper men who could not live out of sight of the +ticker-tape, and the copy-hook and the proof-sheet. + +"Y' see, girl, it's like this here," Blackie explained one day. "W're +all workin' for some good reason. A few of us are workin' for the glory +of it, and most of us are workin' t' eat, and lots of us are pluggin' +an' savin' in the hopes that some day we'll have money enough to get +back at some people we know; but there is some few workin' for the pure +love of the work--and I guess I'm one of them fools. Y' see, I started +in at this game when I was such a little runt that now it's a ingrowing +habit, though it is comfortin' t' know you got a place where you c'n +always come in out of the rain, and where you c'n have your mail sent." + +"This newspaper work is a curse," I remarked. "Show me a clever +newspaper man and I'll show you a failure. There is nothing in it but +the glory--and little of that. We contrive and scheme and run about all +day getting a story. And then we write it at fever heat, searching our +souls for words that are cleancut and virile. And then we turn it in, +and what is it? What have we to show for our day's work? An ephemeral +thing, lacking the first breath of life; a thing that is dead before +it is born. Why, any cub reporter, if he were to put into some other +profession the same amount of nerve, and tact, and ingenuity and +finesse, and stick-to-it-iveness that he expends in prying a single +story out of some unwilling victim, could retire with a fortune in no +time." + +Blackie blew down the stem of his pipe, preparatory to re-filling the +bowl. There was a quizzical light in his black eyes. The little heap of +burned matches at his elbow was growing to kindling wood proportions. It +was common knowledge that Blackie's trick of lighting pipe or cigarette +and then forgetting to puff at it caused his bill for matches to exceed +his tobacco expense account. + +"You talk," chuckled Blackie, "like you meant it. But sa-a-ay, girl, +it's a lonesome game, this retirin' with a fortune. I've noticed that +them guys who retire with a barrel of money usually dies at the end of +the first year, of a kind of a lingerin' homesickness. You c'n see +their pictures in th' papers, with a pathetic story of how they was +just beginnin' t' enjoy life when along comes the grim reaper an' claims +'em." + +Blackie slid down in his chair and blew a column of smoke ceilingward. + +"I knew a guy once--newspaper man, too--who retired with a fortune. +He used to do the city hall for us. Well, he got in soft with the new +administration before election, and made quite a pile in stocks that was +tipped off to him by his political friends. His wife was crazy for +him to quit the newspaper game. He done it. An' say, that guy kept on +gettin' richer and richer till even his wife was almost satisfied. But +sa-a-ay, girl, was that chap lonesome! One day he come up here looking +like a dog that's run off with the steak. He was just dyin' for a kind +word, an' he sniffed the smell of the ink and the hot metal like it was +June roses. He kind of wanders over to his old desk and slumps down in +the chair, and tips it back, and puts his feet on the desk, with his hat +tipped back, and a bum stogie in his mouth. And along came a kid with +a bunch of papers wet from the presses and sticks one in his hand, +and--well, girl, that fellow, he just wriggled he was so happy. You know +as well as I do that every man on a morning paper spends his day off +hanging around the office wishin' that a mob or a fire or somethin' big +would tear lose so he could get back into the game. I guess I told you +about the time Von Gerhard sent me abroad, didn't I?" + +"Von Gerhard!" I repeated, startled. "Do you know him?" + +"Well, he ain't braggin' about it none," Blackie admitted. "Von Gerhard, +he told me I had about five years or so t' live, about two, three years +ago. He don't approve of me. Pried into my private life, old Von Gerhard +did, somethin' scand'lous. I had sort of went to pieces about that time, +and I went t' him to be patched up. He thumps me fore 'an' aft, firing +a volley of questions, lookin' up the roof of m' mouth, and squintin' +at m' finger nails an' teeth like I was a prize horse for sale. Then he +sits still, lookin' at me for about half a minute, till I begin t' feel +uncomfortable. Then he says, slow: 'Young man, how old are you?' + +"'O, twenty-eight or so,' I says, airy. + +"'My Gawd!' said he. 'You've crammed twice those years into your life, +and you'll have to pay for it. Now you listen t' me. You got t' quit +workin', an' smokin', and get away from this. Take a ocean voyage,' he +says, 'an' try to get four hours sleep a night, anyway.' + +"Well say, mother she was scared green. So I tucked her under m' arm, +and we hit it up across the ocean. Went t' Germany, knowin' that it +would feel homelike there, an' we took in all the swell baden, and +chased up the Jungfrau--sa-a-ay, that's a classy little mountain, that +Jungfrau. Mother, she had some swell time I guess. She never set down +except for meals, and she wrote picture postals like mad. But sa-a-ay, +girl, was I lonesome! Maybe that trip done me good. Anyway, I'm livin' +yet. I stuck it out for four months, an' that ain't so rotten for a guy +who just grew up on printer's ink ever since he was old enough to hold +a bunch of papers under his arm. Well, one day mother an' me was sittin' +out on one of them veranda cafes they run to over there, w'en somebody +hits me a crack on the shoulder, an' there stands old Ryan who used +t' do A. P. here. He was foreign correspondent for some big New York +syndicate papers over there. + +"'Well if it ain't Blackie!' he says. 'What in Sam Hill are you doing +out of your own cell when Milwaukee's just got four more games t' win +the pennant?' + +"Sa-a-a-ay, girl, w'en I got through huggin' him around the neck an' +buyin' him drinks I knew it was me for the big ship. 'Mother,' I says, +'if you got anybody on your mind that you neglected t' send picture +postals to, now's' your last chance. 'F I got to die I'm going out with +m' scissors in one mitt, and m' trusty paste-pot by m' side!' An' we +hits it up for old Milwaukee. I ain't been away since, except w'en I +was out with the ball team, sending in sportin' extry dope for the pink +sheet. The last time I was in at Baumbach's in comes Von Gerhard an'--" + +"Who are Baumbach's?" I interrupted. + +Blackie regarded me pityingly. "You ain't never been to Baumbach's? +Why girl, if you don't know Baumbach's, you ain't never been properly +introduced to Milwaukee. No wonder you ain't hep to the ways of this +little community. There ain't what the s'ciety editor would call the +proper ontong cordyal between you and the natives if you haven't had +coffee at Baumbach's. It ain't hardly legal t' live in Milwaukee all +this time without ever having been inside of B--" + +"Stop! If you do not tell me at once just where this wonderful place +may be found, and what one does when one finds it, and how I happened to +miss it, and why it is so necessary to the proper understanding of the +city--" + +"I'll tell you what I'll do," said Blackie, grinning, "I'll romp you +over there to-morrow afternoon at four o'clock. Ach Himmel! What will +that for a grand time be, no?" + +"Blackie, you're a dear to be so polite to an old married cratur' like +me. Did you notice--that is, does Ernst von Gerhard drop in often at +Baumbach's?" + + + + +CHAPTER VIII. KAFFEE AND KAFFEEKUCHEN + +I have visited Baumbach's. I have heard Milwaukee drinking its afternoon +Kaffee. + +O Baumbach's, with your deliciously crumbling butter cookies and your +kaffee kuchen, and your thick cream, and your thicker waitresses and +your cockroaches, and your dinginess and your dowdy German ladies and +your black, black Kaffee, where in this country is there another like +you! + +Blackie, true to his promise, had hailed me from the doorway on the +afternoon of the following day. In the rush of the day's work I had +quite forgotten about Blackie and Baumbach's. + +"Come, Kindchen!" he called. "Get your bonnet on. We will by Baumbach's +go, no?" + +Ruefully I gazed at the grimy cuffs of my blouse, and felt of my +dishevelled hair. "Oh, I'm afraid I can't go. I look so mussy. Haven't +had time to brush up." + +"Brush up!" scoffed Blackie, "the only thing about you that will need +brushin' up is your German. I was goin' t' warn you to rumple up your +hair a little so you wouldn't feel overdressed w'en you got there. Come +on, girl." + +And so I came. And oh, I'm so glad I came! + +I must have passed it a dozen times without once noticing it--just a +dingy little black shop nestling between two taller buildings, almost +within the shadow of the city hall. Over the sidewalk swung a shabby +black sign with gilt letters that spelled, "Franz Baumbach." + +Blackie waved an introductory hand in the direction of the sign. "There +he is. That's all you'll ever see of him." + +"Dead?" asked I, regretfully, as we entered the narrow doorway. + +"No; down in the basement baking Kaffeekuchen." + +Two tiny show-windows faced the street--such queer, old-fashioned +windows in these days of plate glass. At the back they were quite +open to the shop, and in one of them reposed a huge, white, immovable +structure--a majestic, heavy, nutty, surely indigestible birthday cake. +Around its edge were flutings and scrolls of white icing, and on its +broad breast reposed cherries, and stout butterflies of jelly, and +cunning traceries of colored sugar. It was quite the dressiest cake I +had ever beheld. Surely no human hand could be wanton enough to guide +a knife through all that magnificence. But in the center of all +this splendor was an inscription in heavy white letters of icing: +"Charlottens Geburtstag." + +Reluctantly I tore my gaze from this imposing example of the German +confectioner's art, for Blackie was tugging impatiently at my sleeve. + +"But Blackie," I marveled, "do you honestly suppose that that structure +is intended for some Charlotte's birthday?" + +"In Milwaukee," explained Blackie, "w'en you got a birthday you got t' +have a geburtstag cake, with your name on it, and all the cousins and +aunts and members of the North Side Frauen Turner Verein Gesellchaft, in +for the day. It ain't considered decent if you don't. Are you ready to +fight your way into the main tent?" + +It was holiday time, and the single narrow aisle of the front shop was +crowded. It was not easy to elbow one's way through the packed little +space. Men and women were ordering recklessly of the cakes of every +description that were heaped in cases and on shelves. + +Cakes! What a pale; dry name to apply to those crumbling, melting, +indigestible German confections! Blackie grinned with enjoyment while I +gazed. There were cakes the like of which I had never seen and of which +I did not even know the names. There were little round cup cakes made of +almond paste that melts in the mouth; there were Schnecken glazed with +a delicious candied brown sugar; there were Bismarcks composed of layer +upon layer of flaky crust inlaid with an oozy custard that evades the +eager consumer at the first bite, and that slides down one's collar +when chased with a pursuing tongue. There were Pfeffernusse; there, +were Lebkuchen; there were cheese-kuchen; plum-kuchen, peach-kuchen, +Apfelkuchen, the juicy fruit stuck thickly into the crust, the whole +dusted over with powdered sugar. There were Torten, and Hornchen, and +butter cookies. + +Blackie touched my arm, and I tore my gaze from a cherry-studded +Schaumtorte that was being reverently packed for delivery. + +"My, what a greedy girl! Now get your mind all made up. This is your +chance. You know you're supposed t' take a slant at th' things an' make +up your mind w'at you want before you go back w'ere th' tables are. +Don't fumble this thing. When Olga or Minna comes waddlin' up t' you +an' says: 'Nu, Fraulein?' you gotta tell her whether your heart says +plum-kuchen oder Nusstorte, or both, see? Just like that. Now make up +your mind. I'd hate t' have you blunder. Have you decided?" + +"Decided! How can I?" I moaned, watching a black-haired, black-eyed +Alsatian girl behind the counter as she rolled a piece of white paper +into a cone and dipped a spoonful of whipped cream from a great brown +bowl heaped high with the snowy stuff. She filled the paper cone, +inserted the point of it into one end of a hollow pastry horn, and +gently squeezed. Presto! A cream-filled Hornchen! + +"Oh, Blackie!" I gasped. "Come on. I want to go in and eat." + +As we elbowed our way to the rear room separated from the front shop +only by a flimsy wooden partition, I expected I know not what. + +But surely this was not Blackie's much-vaunted Baumbach's! This long, +narrow, dingy room, with its bare floor and its iron-legged tables whose +bare marble tops were yellow with age and use! I said nothing as we +seated ourselves. Blackie was watching me out of the tail of his eye. +My glance wandered about the shabby, smoke-filled room, and slowly and +surely the charm of that fusty, dingy little cafe came upon me. + +A huge stove glowed red in one corner. On the wall behind the stove +was suspended a wooden rack, black with age, its compartments holding +German, Austrian and Hungarian newspapers. Against the opposite wall +stood an ancient walnut mirror, and above it hung a colored print +of Bismarck, helmeted, uniformed, and fiercely mustached. The clumsy +iron-legged tables stood in two solemn rows down the length of the +narrow room. Three or four stout, blond girls plodded back and forth, +from tables to front shop, bearing trays of cakes and steaming cups of +coffee. There was a rumble and clatter of German. Every one seemed to +know every one else. A game of chess was in progress at one table, and +between moves each contestant would refresh himself with a long-drawn, +sibilant mouthful of coffee. There was nothing about the place or its +occupants to remind one of America. This dim, smoky, cake-scented cafe +was Germany. + +"Time!" said Blackie. "Here comes Rosie to take our order. You can take +your choice of coffee or chocolate. That's as fancy as they get here." + +An expansive blond girl paused at our table smiling a broad welcome at +Blackie. + +"Wie geht's, Roschen?" he greeted her. Roschen's smile became still more +pervasive, so that her blue eyes disappeared in creases of good humor. +She wiped the marble table top with a large and careless gesture that +precipitated stray crumbs into our laps. "Gut!" murmured she, coyly, and +leaned one hand on a portly hip in an attitude of waiting. + +"Coffee?" asked Blackie, turning to me. I nodded. + +"Zweimal Kaffee?" beamed Roschen, grasping the idea. + +"Now's your time to speak up," urged Blackie. "Go ahead an' order all +the cream gefillte things that looked good to you out in front." + +But I leaned forward, lowering my voice discreetly. "Blackie, before I +plunge in too recklessly, tell me, are their prices very--" + +"Sa-a-ay, child, you just can't spend half a dollar here if you try. +The flossiest kind of thing they got is only ten cents a order. They'll +smother you in whipped cream f'r a quarter. You c'n come in here an' eat +an' eat an' put away piles of cakes till you feel like a combination +of Little Jack Horner an' old Doc Johnson. An' w'en you're all through, +they hand yuh your check, an', say--it says forty-five cents. You can't +beat it, so wade right in an' spoil your complexion." + +With enthusiasm I turned upon the patient Rosie. "O, bring me some of +those cunning little round things with the cream on 'em, you know--two +of those, eh Blackie? And a couple of those with the flaky crust and +the custard between, and a slice of that fluffy-looking cake and some of +those funny cocked-hat shaped cookies--" + +But a pall of bewilderment was slowly settling over Rosie's erstwhile +smiling face. Her plump shoulders went up in a helpless shrug, and she +turned her round blue eyes appealingly to Blackie. + +"Was meint sie alles?" she asked. + +So I began all over again, with the assistance of Blackie. We went +into minute detail. We made elaborate gestures. We drew pictures of our +desired goodies on the marble-topped table, using a soft-lead pencil. +Rosie's countenance wore a distracted look. In desperation I was about +to accompany her to the crowded shop, there to point out my chosen +dainties when suddenly, as they would put it here, a light went her +over. + +"Ach, yes-s-s-s! Sie wollten vielleicht abgeruhrter Gugelhopf haben, und +auch Schaumtorte, und Bismarcks, und Hornchen mit cream gefullt, nicht?" + +"Certainly," I murmured, quite crushed. Roschen waddled merrily off to +the shop. + +Blackie was rolling a cigarette. He ran his funny little red tongue +along the edge of the paper and glanced up at me in glee. "Don't +bother about me," he generously observed. "Just set still and let the +atmosphere soak in." + +But already I was lost in contemplation of a red-faced, pompadoured +German who was drinking coffee and reading the Fliegende Blatter at a +table just across the way. There were counterparts of my aborigines +at Knapf's--thick spectacled engineers with high foreheads--actors and +actresses from the German stock company--reporters from the English +and German newspapers--business men with comfortable German +consciences--long-haired musicians--dapper young lawyers--a giggling +group of college girls and boys--a couple of smartly dressed women +nibbling appreciatively at slices of Nusstorte--low-voiced lovers whose +coffee cups stood untouched at their elbows, while no fragrant cloud of +steam rose to indicate that there was warmth within. Their glances grow +warmer as the neglected Kaffee grows colder. The color comes and goes in +the girl's face and I watch it, a bit enviously, marveling that the old +story still should be so new. + +At a large square table near the doorway a group of eight men were +absorbed in an animated political discussion, accompanied by much waving +of arms, and thundering of gutturals. It appeared to be a table of +importance, for the high-backed bench that ran along one side was +upholstered in worn red velvet, and every newcomer paused a moment to +nod or to say a word in greeting. It was not of American politics that +they talked, but of the politics of Austria and Hungary. Finally the +argument resolved itself into a duel of words between a handsome, +red-faced German whose rosy skin seemed to take on a deeper tone in +contrast to the whiteness of his hair and mustache, and a swarthy young +fellow whose thick spectacles and heavy mane of black hair gave him the +look of a caricature out of an illustrated German weekly. The red-faced +man argued loudly, with much rapping of bare knuckles on the table +top. But the dark man spoke seldom, and softly, with a little twisted +half-smile on his lips; and whenever he spoke the red-faced man grew +redder, and there came a huge laugh from the others who sat listening. + +"Say, wouldn't it curdle your English?" Blackie laughed. + +Solemnly I turned to him. "Blackie Griffith, these people do not even +realize that there is anything unusual about this." + +"Sure not; that's the beauty of it. They don't need to make no +artificial atmosphere for this place; it just grows wild, like +dandelions. Everybody comes here for their coffee because their aunts +an' uncles and Grossmutters and Grosspapas used t' come, and come +yet, if they're livin'! An', after all, what is it but a little German +bakery?" + +"But O, wise Herr Baumbach down in the kitchen! O, subtle Frau Baumbach +back of the desk!" said I. "Others may fit their shops with mirrors, +and cut-glass chandeliers and Oriental rugs and mahogany, but you sit +serenely by, and you smile, and you change nothing. You let the brown +walls grow dimmer with age; you see the marble-topped tables turning +yellow; you leave bare your wooden floor, and you smile, and smile, and +smile." + +"Fine!" applauded Blackie. "You're on. And here comes Rosie." + +Rosie, the radiant, placed on the table cups and saucers of an +unbelievable thickness. She set them down on the marble surface with a +crash as one who knows well that no mere marble or granite could shatter +the solidity of those stout earthenware receptacles. Napkins there were +none. I was to learn that fingers were rid of any clinging remnants of +cream or crumb by the simple expedient of licking them. + +Blackie emptied his pitcher of cream into his cup of black, black +coffee, sugared it, stirred, tasted, and then, with a wicked gleam in +his black eyes he lifted the heavy cup to his lips and took a long, +gurgling mouthful. + +"Blackie," I hissed, "if you do that again I shall refuse to speak to +you!" + +"Do what?" demanded he, all injured innocence. + +"Snuffle up your coffee like that." + +"Why, girl, that's th' proper way t' drink coffee here. Listen t' +everybody else." And while I glared he wrapped his hand lovingly about +his cup, holding the spoon imprisoned between first and second fingers, +and took another sibilant mouthful. "Any more of your back talk and I'll +drink it out of m' saucer an' blow on it like the hefty party over there +in the earrings is doin'. Calm yerself an' try a Bismarck." + +I picked up one of the flaky confections and eyed it in despair. There +were no plates except that on which the cakes reposed. + +"How does one eat them?" I inquired. + +"Yuh don't really eat 'em. The motion is more like inhalin'. T' eat +'em successful you really ought t' get into a bath-tub half-filled with +water, because as soon's you bite in at one end w'y the custard stuff +slides out at the other, an' no human mouth c'n be two places at oncet. +Shut your eyes girl, an' just wade in." + +I waded. In silence I took a deep delicious bite, nimbly chased the coy +filling around a corner with my tongue, devoured every bit down to the +last crumb and licked the stickiness off my fingers. Then I investigated +the interior of the next cake. + +"I'm coming here every day," I announced. + +"Better not. Ruin your complexion and turn all your lines into bumps. +Look at the dame with the earrings. I've been keepin' count an' I've +seen her eat three Schnecken, two cream puffs, a Nusshornchen and a +slice of Torte with two cups of coffee. Ain't she a horrible example! +And yet she's got th' nerve t' wear a princess gown!" + +"I don't care," I replied, recklessly, my voice choked with whipped +cream and butteriness. "I can just feel myself getting greasy. Haven't I +done beautifully for a new hand? Now tell me about some of these people. +Who is the funny little man in the checked suit with the black braid +trimming, and the green cravat, and the white spats, and the tan hat and +the eyeglasses?" + +"Ain't them th' dizzy habiliments?" A note of envy crept into Blackie's +voice. "His name is Hugo Luders. Used t' be a reporter on the Germania, +but he's reformed and gone into advertisin', where there's real money. +Some say he wears them clo'es on a bet, and some say his taste in dress +is a curse descended upon him from Joseph, the guy with the fancy coat, +but I think he wears 'em because he fancies 'em. He's been coming here +ever' afternoon for twelve years, has a cup of coffee, game of chess, +and a pow-wow with a bunch of cronies. If Baumbach's ever decide +to paint the front of their shop or put in cut glass fixtures and +handpainted china, Hugo Luders would serve an injunction on 'em. Next!" + +"Who's the woman with the leathery complexion and the belt to match, and +the untidy hair and the big feet? I like her face. And why does she sit +at a table with all those strange-looking men? And who are all the men? +And who is the fur-lined grand opera tenor just coming in--Oh!" + +Blackie glanced over his shoulder just as the tall man in the doorway +turned his face toward us. "That? Why, girl, that's Von Gerhard, the man +who gives me one more year t' live. Look at everybody kowtowing to him. +He don't favor Baumbach's often. Too busy patching up the nervous wrecks +that are washed up on his shores." + +The tall figure in the doorway was glancing from table to table, nodding +here and there to an acquaintance. His eyes traveled the length of the +room. Now they were nearing us. I felt a sudden, inexplicable tightening +at heart and throat, as though fingers were clutching there. Then +his eyes met mine, and I felt the blood rushing to my face as he came +swiftly over to our table and took my hand in his. + +"So you have discovered Baumbach's," he said. "May I have my coffee and +cigar here with you?" + +"Blackie here is responsible for my being initiated into the sticky +mysteries of Baumbach's. I never should have discovered it if he had not +offered to act as personal conductor. You know one another, I believe?" + +The two men shook hands across the table. There was something forced +and graceless about the act. Blackie eyed Von Gerhard through a misty +curtain of cigarette smoke. Von Gerhard gazed at Blackie through +narrowed lids as he lighted his cigar. "I'm th' gink you killed off two +or three years back," Blackie explained. + +"I remember you perfectly," Von Gerhard returned, courteously. "I +rejoice to see that I was mistaken." + +"Well," drawled Blackie, a wicked gleam in his black eyes, "I'm +some rejoiced m'self, old top. Angel wings and a white kimono, worn +bare-footy, would go some rotten with my Spanish style of beauty, what? +Didn't know that you and m'dame friend here was acquainted. Known each +other long?" + +I felt myself flushing again. + +"I knew Dr. von Gerhard back home. I've scarcely seen him since I +have been here. Famous specialists can't be bothered with middle-aged +relatives of their college friends, can they, Herr Doktor?" + +And now it was Von Gerhard's face that flushed a deep and painful +crimson. He looked at me, in silence, and I felt very little, and +insignificant, and much like an impudent child who has stuck out its +tongue at its elders. Silent men always affect talkative women in that +way. + +"You know that what you say is not true," he said, slowly. + +"Well, we won't quibble. We--we were just about to leave, weren't we +Blackie?" + +"Just," said Blackie, rising. "Sorry t' see you drinkin' Baumbach's +coffee, Doc. It ain't fair t' your patients." + +"Quite right," replied Von Gerhard; and rose with us. "I shall not drink +it. I shall walk home with Mrs. Orme instead, if she will allow me. That +will be more stimulating than coffee, and twice as dangerous, perhaps, +but--" + +"You know how I hate that sort of thing," I said, coldly, as we passed +from the warmth of the little front shop where the plump girls were +still filling pasteboard boxes with holiday cakes, to the brisk chill of +the winter street. The little black-and-gilt sign swung and creaked in +the wind. Whimsically, and with the memory of that last cream-filled +cake fresh in my mind, I saluted the letters that spelled "Franz +Baumbach." + +Blackie chuckled impishly. "Just the same, try a pinch of soda +bicarb'nate when you get home, Dawn," he advised. "Well, I'm off to the +factory again. Got t' make up for time wasted on m' lady friend. Auf +wiedersehen!" + +And the little figure in the checked top-coat trotted off. + +"But he called you--Dawn," broke from Von Gerhard. + +"Mhum," I agreed. "My name's Dawn." + +"Surely not to him. You have known him but a few weeks. I would not have +presumed--" + +"Blackie never presumes," I laughed. "Blackie's just--Blackie. Imagine +taking offense at him! He knows every one by their given name, from Jo, +the boss of the pressroom, to the Chief, who imports his office coats +from London. Besides, Blackie and I are newspaper men. And people don't +scrape and bow in a newspaper office--especially when they're fond of +one another. You wouldn't understand." + +As I looked at Von Gerhard in the light of the street lamp I saw a +tense, drawn look about the little group of muscles which show when the +teeth are set hard. When he spoke those muscles had relaxed but little. + +"One man does not talk ill of another. But this is different. I want to +ask you--do you know what manner of man this--this Blackie is? I ask +you because I would have you safe and sheltered always from such as +he--because I--" + +"Safe! From Blackie? Now listen. There never was a safer, saner, truer, +more generous friend. Oh, I know what his life has been. But what else +could it have been, beginning as he did? I have no wish to reform him. +I tried my hand at reforming one man, and made a glorious mess of it. So +I'll just take Blackie as he is, if you please--slang, wickedness, pink +shirt, red necktie, diamond rings and all. If there's any bad in him, +we all know it, for it's right down on the table, face up. You're just +angry because he called you Doc." + +"Small one," said Von Gerhard, in his quaint German idiom, "we will not +quarrel, you and I. If I have been neglectful it was because edged +tools were never a chosen plaything of mine. Perhaps your little Blackie +realizes that he need have no fear of such things, for the Great Fear is +upon him." + +"The Great Fear! You mean!--" + +"I mean that there are too many fine little lines radiating from the +corners of the sunken eyes, and that his hand-clasp leaves a moisture +in the palm. Ach! you may laugh. Come, we will change the subject to +something more cheerful, yes? Tell me, how grows the book?" + +"By inches. After working all day on a bulletin paper whose city editor +is constantly shouting: 'Boil it now, fellows! Keep it down! We're +crowded!' it is too much of a wrench to find myself seated calmly before +my own typewriter at night, privileged to write one hundred thousand +words if I choose. I can't get over the habit of crowding the story all +into the first paragraph. Whenever I flower into a descriptive passage +I glance nervously over my shoulder, expecting to find Norberg stationed +behind me, scissors and blue pencil in hand. Consequently the book, +thus far, sounds very much like a police reporter's story of a fire four +minutes before the paper is due to go to press." + +Von Gerhard's face was unsmiling. "So," he said, slowly. "You burn the +candle at both ends. All day you write, is it not so? And at night you +come home to write still more? Ach, Kindchen!--Na, we shall change all +that. We will be better comrades, we two, yes? You remember that gay +little walk of last autumn, when we explored the Michigan country lane +at dusk? I shall be your Sunday Schatz, and there shall be more rambles +like that one, to bring the roses into your cheeks. We shall be +good Kameraden, as you and this little Griffith are--what is it they +say--good fellows? That is it--good fellows, yes? So, shall we shake +hands on it?" + +But I snatched my hand away. "I don't want to be a good fellow," I +cried. "I'm tired of being a good fellow. I've been a good fellow for +years and years, while every other married woman in the world has been +happy in her own home, bringing up her babies. When I am old I want some +sons to worry me, too, and to stay awake nights for, and some daughters +to keep me young, and to prevent me from doing my hair in a knob and +wearing bonnets! I hate good-fellow women, and so do you, and so does +every one else! I--I--" + +"Dawn!" cried Von Gerhard. But I ran up the steps and into the house and +slammed the door behind me, leaving him standing there. + + + + +CHAPTER IX. THE LADY FROM VIENNA + + +Two more aborigines have appeared. One of them is a lady aborigine. They +made their entrance at supper and I forgot to eat, watching them. The +new-comers are from Vienna. He is an expert engineer and she is a woman +of noble birth, with a history. Their combined appearance is calculated +to strike terror to the heart. He is daringly ugly, with a chin that +curves in under his lip and then out in a peak, like pictures of Punch. +She wore a gray gown of a style I never had seen before and never expect +to see again. It was fastened with huge black buttons all the way down +the breathlessly tight front, and the upper part was composed of that +pre-historic garment known as a basque. She curved in where she should +have curved out, and she bulged where she should have had "lines." About +her neck was suspended a string of cannon-ball beads that clanked as she +walked. On her forehead rested a sparse fringe. + +"Mein Himmel!" thought I. "Am I dreaming? This isn't Wisconsin. This is +Nurnberg, or Strassburg, with a dash of Heidelberg and Berlin thrown in. +Dawn, old girl, it's going to be more instructive than a Cook's tour." + +That turned out to be the truest prophecy I ever made. + +The first surprising thing that the new-comers did was to seat +themselves at the long table with the other aborigines, the lady +aborigine being the only woman among the twelve men. It was plain that +they had known one another previous to this meeting, for they became +very good friends at once, and the men grew heavily humorous about there +being thirteen at table. + +At that the lady aborigine began to laugh. Straightway I forgot the +outlandish gown, forgot the cannon-ball beads, forgot the sparse fringe, +forgave the absence of "lines." Such a voice! A lilting, melodious +thing. She broke into a torrent of speech, with bewildering gestures, +and I saw that her hands were exquisitely formed and as expressive as +her voice. Her German was the musical tongue of the Viennese, possessing +none of the gutturals and sputterings. When she crowned it with the gay +little trilling laugh my views on the language underwent a lightning +change. It seemed the most natural thing in the world to see her open +the flat, silver case that dangled at the end of the cannon-ball chain, +take out a cigarette, light it, and smoke it there in that little German +dining room. She wore the most gracefully nonchalant air imaginable as +she blew little rings and wreaths, and laughed and chatted brightly with +her husband and the other men. Occasionally she broke into French, her +accent as charmingly perfect as it had been in her native tongue. +There was a moment of breathless staring on the part of the respectable +middle-class Frauen at the other tables. Then they shrugged their +shoulders and plunged into their meal again. There was a certain little +high-born air of assurance about that cigarette-smoking that no amount +of staring could ruffle. + +Watching the new aborigines grew to be a sort of game. The lady +aborigine of the golden voice, and the ugly husband of the peaked chin +had a strange fascination for me. I scrambled downstairs at meal time in +order not to miss them, and I dawdled over the meal so that I need +not leave before they. I discovered that when the lady aborigine was +animated, her face was that of a young woman, possessing a certain +high-bred charm, but that when in repose the face of the lady aborigine +was that of a very old and tired woman indeed. Also that her husband +bullied her, and that when he did that she looked at him worshipingly. + +Then one evening, a week or so after the appearance of the new +aborigines, there came a clumping at my door. I was seated at my +typewriter and the book was balkier than usual, and I wished that the +clumper at the door would go away. + +"Come!" I called, ungraciously enough. Then, on second thought: +"Herein!" + +The knob turned slowly, and the door opened just enough to admit the top +of a head crowned with a tight, moist German knob of hair. I searched my +memory to recognize the knob, failed utterly and said again, this time +with mingled curiosity and hospitality: + +"Won't you come in?" + +The apparently bodiless head thrust itself forward a bit, disclosing an +apologetically smiling face, with high check bones that glistened with +friendliness and scrubbing. + +"Nabben', Fraulein," said the head. + +"Nabben'," I replied, more mystified than ever. "Howdy do! Is there +anything--" + +The head thrust itself forward still more, showing a pair of plump +shoulders as its support. Then the plump shoulders heaved into the room, +disclosing a stout, starched gingham body. + +"Ich bin Frau Knapf," announced the beaming vision. + +Now up to this time Frau Knapf had maintained a Mrs. Harris-like +mysteriousness. I had heard rumors of her, and I had partaken of certain +crispy dishes of German extraction, reported to have come from her deft +hands, but I had not even caught a glimpse of her skirts whisking around +a corner. + +Therefore: "Frau Knapf!" I repeated. "Nonsense! There ain't no sich +person--that is, I'm glad to see you. Won't you come in and sit down?" + +"Ach, no!" smiled the substantial Frau Knapf, clinging tightly to the +door knob. "I got no time. It gives much to do to-night yet. Kuchen +dough I must set, und ich weiss nicht was. I got no time." + +Bustling, red-cheeked Frau Knapf! This was why I had never had a glimpse +of her. Always, she got no time. For while Herr Knapf, dapper and +genial, welcomed new-comers, chatted with the diners, poured a glass of +foaming Doppel-brau for Herr Weber or, dexterously carved fowl for +the aborigines' table, Frau Knapf was making the wheels go round. +I discovered that it was she who bakes the melting, golden German +Pfannkuchen on Sunday mornings; she it is who fries the crisp and +hissing Wienerschnitzel; she it is who prepares the plump ducklings, and +the thick gravies, and the steaming lentil soup and the rosy sausages +nestling coyly in their bed of sauerkraut. All the week Frau Knapf bakes +and broils and stews, her rosy cheeks taking on a twinkling crimson from +the fire over which she bends. But on Sunday night Frau Knapf sheds her +huge apron and rolls down the sleeves from her plump arms. On Sunday +evening she leaves pots and pans and cooking, and is a transformed Frau +Knapf. Then does she don a bright blue silk waist and a velvet coat +that is dripping with jet, and a black bonnet on which are perched +palpitating birds and weary-looking plumes. Then she and Herr Knapf +walk comfortably down to the Pabst theater to see the German play by the +German stock company. They applaud their favorite stout, blond, German +comedienne as she romps through the acts of a sprightly German comedy, +and after the play they go to their favorite Wein-stube around the +corner. There they have sardellen and cheese sandwiches and a great deal +of beer, and for one charmed evening Frau Knapf forgets all about the +insides of geese and the thickening for gravies, and is happy. + +Many of these things Frau Knapf herself told me, standing there by the +door with the Kuchen heavy on her mind. Some of them I got from Ernst +von Gerhard when I told him about my visitor and her errand. The errand +was not disclosed until Frau Knapf had caught me casting a despairing +glance at my last typewritten page. + +"Ach, see! you got no time for talking to, ain't it?" she apologized. + +"Heaps of time," I politely assured her, "don't hurry. But why not have +a chair and be comfortable?" + +Frau Knapf was not to be deceived. "I go in a minute. But first it is +something I like to ask you. You know maybe Frau Nirlanger?" + +I shook my head. + +"But sure you must know. From Vienna she is, with such a voice like a +bird." + +"And the beads, and the gray gown, and the fringe, and the cigarettes?" + +"And the oogly husband," finished Frau Knapf, nodding. + +"Oogly," I agreed, "isn't the name for it. And so she is Frau Nirlanger? +I thought there would be a Von at the very least." + +Whereupon my visitor deserted the doorknob, took half a dozen stealthy +steps in my direction and lowered her voice to a hissing whisper of +confidence. + +"It is more as a Von. I will tell you. Today comes Frau Nirlanger by +me and she says: 'Frau Knapf, I wish to buy clothes, aber echt +Amerikanische. Myself, I do not know what is modish, and I cannot go +alone to buy.'" + +"That's a grand idea," said I, recalling the gray basque and the +cannon-ball beads. + +"Ja, sure it is," agreed Frau Knapf. "Soo-o-o, she asks me was it some +lady who would come with her by the stores to help a hat and suit and +dresses to buy. Stylish she likes they should be, and echt Amerikanisch. +So-o-o-o, I say to her, I would go myself with you, only so awful +stylish I ain't, and anyway I got no time. But a lady I know who is got +such stylish clothes!" Frau Knapf raised admiring hands and eyes toward +heaven. "Such a nice lady she is, and stylish, like anything! And her +name is Frau Orme." + +"Oh, really, Frau Knapf--" I murmured in blushing confusion. + +"Sure, it is so," insisted Frau Knapf, coming a step nearer, and sinking +her, voice one hiss lower. "You shouldn't say I said it, but Frau +Nirlanger likes she should look young for her husband. He is much +younger as she is--aber much. Anyhow ten years. Frau Nirlanger does not +tell me this, but from other people I have found out." Frau Knapf shook +her head mysteriously a great many times. "But maybe you ain't got such +an interest in Frau Nirlanger, yes?" + +"Interest! I'm eaten up with curiosity. You shan't leave this room alive +until you've told me!" + +Frau Knapf shook with silent mirth. "Now you make jokings, ain't? Well, +I tell you. In Vienna, Frau Nirlanger was a widow, from a family aber +hoch edel--very high born. From the court her family is, and friends +from the Emperor, und alles. Sure! Frau Nirlanger, she is different from +the rest. Books she likes, und meetings, und all such komisch things. +And what you think!" + +"I don't know," I gasped, hanging on her words, "what DO I think?" + +"She meets this here Konrad Nirlanger, and falls with him in love. Und +her family is mad! But schrecklich mad! Forty years old she is, and +from a noble family, and Konrad Nirlanger is only a student from a +university, and he comes from the Volk. Sehr gebildet he is, but not +high born. So-o-o-o-o, she runs with him away and is married." + +Shamelessly I drank it all in. "You don't mean it! Well, then what +happened? She ran away with him--with that chin! and then what?" + +Frau Knapf was enjoying it as much as I. She drew a long breath, felt of +the knob of hair, and plunged once more into the story. + +"Like a story-book it is, nicht? Well, Frau Nirlanger, she has already a +boy who is ten years old, and a fine sum of money that her first husband +left her. Aber when she runs with this poor kerl away from her family, +and her first husband's family is so schrecklich mad that they try by +law to take from her her boy and her money, because she has her highborn +family disgraced, you see? For a year they fight in the courts, and then +it stands that her money Frau Nirlanger can keep, but her boy she cannot +have. He will be taken by her highborn family and educated, and he must +forget all about his mamma. To cry it is, ain't it? Das arme Kind! Well, +she can stand it no longer to live where her boy is, and not to see him. +So-o-o-o, Konrad Nirlanger he gets a chance to come by Amerika where +there is a big engineering plant here in Milwaukee, and she begs her +husband he should come, because this boy she loves very much--Oh, she +loves her young husband too, but different, yes?" + +"Oh, yes," I agreed, remembering the gay little trilling laugh, and the +face that was so young when animated, and so old and worn in repose. +"Oh, yes. Quite, quite different." + +Frau Knapf smoothed her spotless skirt and shook her head slowly and +sadly. "So-o-o-o, by Amerika they come. And Konrad Nirlanger he is maybe +a little cross and so, because for a year they have been in the courts, +and it might have been the money they would lose, and for money Konrad +Nirlanger cares--well, you shall see. But Frau Nirlanger must not mourn +and cry. She must laugh and sing, and be gay for her husband. But Frau +Nirlanger has no grand clothes, for first she runs away with Konrad +Nirlanger, and then her money is tied in the law. Now she has again her +money, and she must be young--but young!" + +With a gesture that expressed a world of pathos and futility Frau Knapf +flung out her arms. "He must not see that she looks different as the +ladies in this country. So Frau Nirlanger wants she should buy here in +the stores new dresses--echt Amerikanische. All new and beautiful things +she would have, because she must look young, ain't it? And perhaps her +boy will remember her when he is a fine young man, if she is yet young +when he grows up, you see? And too, there is the young husband. First, +she gives up her old life, and her friends and her family for this man, +and then she must do all things to keep him. Men, they are but children, +after all," spake the wise Frau Knapf in conclusion. "They war and cry +and plead for that which they would have, and when they have won, then +see! They are amused for a moment, and the new toy is thrown aside." + +"Poor, plain, vivacious, fascinating little Frau Nirlanger!" I said. "I +wonder just how much of pain and heartache that little musical laugh of +hers conceals?" + +"Ja, that is so," mused Frau Knapf. "Her eyes look like eyes that have +wept much, not? And so you will be so kind and go maybe to select the so +beautiful clothes?" + +"Clothes?" I repeated, remembering the original errand. "But dear lady! +How, does one select clothes for a woman of forty who would not weary +her husband? That is a task for a French modiste, a wizard, and a fairy +godmother all rolled into one." + +"But you will do it, yes?" urged Frau Knapf. + +"I'll do it," I agreed, a bit ruefully, "if only to see the face of the +oogly husband when his bride is properly corseted and shod." + +Whereupon Frau Knapf, in a panic, remembered the unset Kuchen dough and +rushed away, with her hand on her lips and her eyes big with secrecy. +And I sat staring at the last typewritten page stuck in my typewriter +and I found that the little letters on the white page were swimming in a +dim purple haze. + + + + +CHAPTER X. A TRAGEDY OF GOWNS + +From husbands in general, and from oogly German husbands in particular +may Hymen defend me! Never again will I attempt to select "echt +Amerikanische" clothes for a woman who must not weary her young husband. +But how was I to know that the harmless little shopping expedition +would resolve itself into a domestic tragedy, with Herr Nirlanger as the +villain, Frau Nirlanger as the persecuted heroine, and I as--what is it +in tragedy that corresponds to the innocent bystander in real life? That +would be my role. + +The purchasing of the clothes was a real joy. Next to buying pretty +things for myself there is nothing I like better than choosing them for +some one else. And when that some one else happens to be a fascinating +little foreigner who coos over the silken stuffs in a delightful mixture +of German and English; and especially when that some one else must be +made to look so charming that she will astonish her oogly husband, then +does the selecting of those pretty things cease to be a task, and become +an art. + +It was to be a complete surprise to Herr Nirlanger. He was to know +nothing of it until everything was finished and Frau Nirlanger, dressed +in the prettiest of the pretty Amerikanisch gowns, was ready to astound +him when he should come home from the office of the vast plant where he +solved engineering problems. + +"From my own money I buy all this," Frau Nirlanger confided to me, with +a gay little laugh of excitement, as we started out. "From Vienna it +comes. Always I have given it at once to my husband, as a wife should. +Yesterday it came, but I said nothing, and when my husband said to me, +'Anna, did not the money come as usual to-day? It is time,' I told a +little lie--but a little one, is it not? Very amusing it was. Almost I +did laugh. Na, he will not be cross when he see how his wife like the +Amerikanische ladies will look. He admires very much the ladies of +Amerika. Many times he has said so." + +("I'll wager he has--the great, ugly boor!" I thought, in parenthesis.) +"We'll show him!" I said, aloud. "He won't know you. Such a lot of +beautiful clothes as we can buy with all this money. Oh, dear Frau +Nirlanger, it's going to be slathers of fun! I feel as excited about it +as though it were a trousseau we were buying." + +"So it is," she replied, a little shadow of sadness falling across +the brightness of her face. "I had no proper clothes when we were +married--but nothing! You know perhaps my story. In America, everyone +knows everything. It is wonderful. When I ran away to marry Konrad +Nirlanger I had only the dress which I wore; even that I borrowed from +one of the upper servants, on a pretext, so that no one should recognize +me. Ach Gott! I need not have worried. So! You see, it will be after all +a trousseau." + +Why, oh, why should a woman with her graceful carriage and pretty +vivacity have been cursed with such an ill-assorted lot of features! +Especially when certain boorish young husbands have expressed an +admiration for pink-and-white effects in femininity. + +"Never mind, Mr. Husband, I'll show yez!" I resolved as the elevator +left us at the floor where waxen ladies in shining glass cases smiled +amiably all the day. + +There must be no violent pinks or blues. Brown was too old. She was not +young enough for black. Violet was too trying. And so the gowns began to +strew tables and chairs and racks, and still I shook my head, and Frau +Nirlanger looked despairing, and the be-puffed and real Irish-crocheted +saleswoman began to develop a baleful gleam about the eyes. + +And then we found it! It was a case of love at first sight. The +unimaginative would have called it gray. The thoughtless would have +pronounced it pink. It was neither, and both; a soft, rosily-gray +mixture of the two, like the sky that one sometimes sees at winter +twilight, the pink of the sunset veiled by the gray of the snow clouds. +It was of a supple, shining cloth, simple in cut, graceful in lines. + +"There! We've found it. Let's pray that it will not require too much +altering." + +But when it had been slipped over her head we groaned at the inadequacy +of her old-fashioned stays. There followed a flying visit to the +department where hips were whisked out of sight in a jiffy, and where +lines miraculously took the place of curves. Then came the gown +once more, over the new stays this time. The effect was magical. +The Irish-crocheted saleswoman and I clasped hands and fell back in +attitudes of admiration. Frau Nirlanger turned this way and that before +the long mirror and chattered like a pleased child. Her adjectives grew +into words of six syllables. She cooed over the soft-shining stuff in +little broken exclamations in French and German. + +Then came a straight and simple street suit of blue cloth, a lingerie +gown of white, hats, shoes and even a couple of limp satin petticoats. +The day was gone before we could finish. + +I bullied them into promising the pinky-gray gown for the next +afternoon. + +"Sooch funs!" giggled Frau Nirlanger, "and how it makes one tired. +So kind you were, to take this trouble for me. Me, I could never have +warred with that Fraulein who served us--so haughty she was, nicht? But +it is good again pretty clothes to have. Pretty gowns I lofe--you also, +not?" + +"Indeed I do lofe 'em. But my money comes to me in a yellow pay +envelope, and it is spent before it reaches me, as a rule. It doesn't +leave much of a margin for general recklessness." + +A tiny sigh came from Frau Nirlanger. "There will be little to give to +Konrad this time. So much money they cost, those clothes! But Konrad, he +will not care when he sees the so beautiful dresses, is it not so?" + +"Care!" I cried with a great deal of bravado, although a tiny inner +voice spake in doubt. "Certainly not. How could he?" + +Next day the boxes came, and we smuggled them into my room. The +unwrapping of the tissue paper folds was a ceremony. We reveled in the +very crackle of it. I had scuttled home from the office as early as +decency would permit, in order to have plenty of time for the dressing. +It must be quite finished before Herr Nirlanger should arrive. Frau +Nirlanger had purchased three tickets for the German theater, also as a +surprise, and I was to accompany the happily surprised husband and the +proud little wife of the new Amerikanische clothes. + +I coaxed her to let me do things to her hair. Usually she wore a stiff +and ugly coiffure that could only be described as a chignon. I do not +recollect ever having seen a chignon, but I know that it must look like +that. I was thankful for my Irish deftness of fingers as I stepped back +to view the result of my labors. The new arrangement of the hair gave +her features a new softness and dignity. + +We came to the lacing of the stays, with their exaggerated length. +"Aber!" exclaimed Frau Nirlanger, not daring to laugh because of the +strange snugness. "Ach!" and again, "Aber to laugh it is!" + +We had decided the prettiest of the new gowns must do honor to the +occasion. "This shade is called ashes of roses," I explained, as I +slipped it over her head. + +"Ashes of roses!" she echoed. "How pretty, yes? But a little sad too, is +it not so? Like rosy hopes that have been withered. Ach, what a foolish +talk! So, now you will fasten it please. A real trick it is to button +such a dress--so sly they are, those fastenings." + +When all the sly fastenings were secure I stood at gaze. + +"Nose is shiny," I announced, searching in a drawer for chamois and +powder. + +Frau Nirlanger raised an objecting hand. "But Konrad does not approve of +such things. He has said so. He has--" + +"You tell your Konrad that a chamois skin isn't half as objectionable +as a shiny one. Come here and let me dust this over your nose and chin, +while I breathe a prayer of thanks that I have no overzealous husband +near to forbid me the use of a bit of powder. There! If I sez it mesilf +as shouldn't, yez ar-r-re a credit t' me, me darlint." + +"You are satisfied. There is not one small thing awry? Ach, how we shall +laugh at Konrad's face." + +"Satisfied! I'd kiss you if I weren't afraid that I should muss you +up. You're not the same woman. You look like a girl! And so pretty! +Now skedaddle into your own rooms, but don't you dare to sit down for a +moment. I'm going down to get Frau Knapf before your husband arrives." + +"But is there then time?" inquired Frau Nirlanger. "He should be here +now." + +"I'll bring her up in a jiffy, just for one peep. She won't know you! +Her face will be a treat! Don't touch your hair--it's quite perfect. And +f'r Jawn's sake! Don't twist around to look at yourself in the back +or something will burst, I know it will. I'll be back in a minute. Now +run!" + +The slender, graceful figure disappeared with a gay little laugh, and I +flew downstairs for Frau Knapf. She was discovered with a spoon in one +hand and a spluttering saucepan in the other. I detached her from +them, clasped her big, capable red hands and dragged her up the stairs, +explaining as I went. + +"Now don't fuss about that supper! Let 'em wait. You must see her before +Herr Nirlanger comes home. He's due any minute. She looks like a girl. +So young! And actually pretty! And her figure--divine! Funny what a +difference a decent pair of corsets, and a gown, and some puffs will +make, h'm?" + +Frau Knapf was panting as I pulled her after me in swift eagerness. +Between puffs she brought out exclamations of surprise and unbelief such +as: "Unmoglich! (Puff! Puff!) Aber--wunderbar! (Puff! Puff!)" + +We stopped before Frau Nirlanger's door. I struck a dramatic pose. +"Prepare!" I cried grandly, and threw open the door with a bang. + +Crouched against the wall at a far corner of the room was Frau +Nirlanger. Her hands were clasped over her breast and her eyes were +dilated as though she had been running. In the center of the room stood +Konrad Nirlanger, and on his oogly face was the very oogliest look that +I have ever seen on a man. He glanced at us as we stood transfixed +in the doorway, and laughed a short, sneering laugh that was like a +stinging blow on the cheek. + +"So!" he said; and I would not have believed that men really said "So!" +in that way outside of a melodrama. "So! You are in the little surprise, +yes? You carry your meddling outside of your newspaper work, eh? I leave +behind me an old wife in the morning and in the evening, presto! I find +a young bride. Wonderful!--but wonderful!" He laughed an unmusical and +mirthless laugh. + +"But--don't you like it?" I asked, like a simpleton. + +Frau Nirlanger seemed to shrink before our very eyes, so that the pretty +gown hung in limp folds about her. + +I stared, fascinated, at Konrad Nirlanger's cruel face with its little +eyes that were too close together and its chin that curved in below the +mouth and out again so grotesquely. + +"Like it?" sneered Konrad Nirlanger. "For a young girl, yes. But how +useless, this belated trousseau. What a waste of good money! For see, +a young wife I do not want. Young women one can have in plenty, always. +But I have an old woman married, and for an old woman the gowns need be +few--eh, Frau Orme? And you too, Frau Knapf?" + +Frau Knapf, crimson and staring, was dumb. There came a little shivering +moan from the figure crouched in the corner, and Frau Nirlanger, her +face queerly withered and ashen, crumpled slowly in a little heap on the +floor and buried her shamed head in her arms. + +Konrad Nirlanger turned to his wife, the black look on his face growing +blacker. + +"Come, get up Anna," he ordered, in German. "These heroics become not a +woman of your years. And too, you must not ruin the so costly gown that +will be returned to-morrow." + +Frau Nirlanger's white face was lifted from the shelter of her arms. +The stricken look was still upon it, but there was no cowering in her +attitude now. Slowly she rose to her feet. I had not realized that she +was so tall. + +"The gown does not go back," she said. + +"So?" he snarled, with a savage note in his voice. "Now hear me. There +shall be no more buying of gowns and fripperies. You hear? It is for +the wife to come to the husband for the money; not for her to waste it +wantonly on gowns, like a creature of the streets. You," his voice was +an insult, "you, with your wrinkles and your faded eyes in a gown of--" +he turned inquiringly toward me--"How does one call it, that color, Frau +Orme?" + +There came a blur of tears to my eyes. "It is called ashes of roses," I +answered. "Ashes of roses." + +Konrad Nirlanger threw back his head and laughed a laugh as stinging as +a whip-lash. "Ashes of roses! So? It is well named. For my dear wife +it is poetically fit, is it not so? For see, her roses are but withered +ashes, eh Anna?" + +Deliberately and in silence Anna Nirlanger walked to the mirror and +stood there, gazing at the woman in the glass. There was something +dreadful and portentous about the calm and studied deliberation with +which she critically viewed that reflection. She lifted her arms slowly +and patted into place the locks that had become disarranged, turning her +head from side to side to study the effect. Then she took from a drawer +the bit of chamois skin that I had given her, and passed it lightly over +her eyelids and cheeks, humming softly to herself the while. No music +ever sounded so uncanny to my ears. The woman before the mirror looked +at the woman in the mirror with a long, steady, measuring look. Then, +slowly and deliberately, the long graceful folds of her lovely gown +trailing behind her, she walked over to where her frowning husband +stood. So might a queen have walked, head held high, gaze steady. She +stopped within half a foot of him, her eyes level with his. For a long +half-minute they stood thus, the faded blue eyes of the wife gazing into +the sullen black eyes of the husband, and his were the first to drop, +for all the noble blood in Anna Nirlanger's veins, and all her long +line of gently bred ancestors were coming to her aid in dealing with her +middle-class husband. + +"You forget," she said, very slowly and distinctly. "If this were +Austria, instead of Amerika, you would not forget. In Austria people of +your class do not speak in this manner to those of my caste." + +"Unsinn!" laughed Konrad Nirlanger. "This is Amerika." + +"Yes," said Anna Nirlanger, "this is Amerika. And in Amerika all things +are different. I see now that my people knew of what they spoke when +they called me mad to think of wedding a clod of the people, such as +you." + +For a moment I thought that he was going to strike her. I think he would +have, if she had flinched. But she did not. Her head was held high, and +her eyes did not waver. + +"I married you for love. It is most comical, is it not? With you +I thought I should find peace, and happiness and a re-birth of the +intellect that was being smothered in the splendor and artificiality +and the restrictions of my life there. Well, I was wrong. But wrong. +Now hear me!" Her voice was tense with passion. "There will be gowns--as +many and as rich as I choose. You have said many times that the ladies +of Amerika you admire. And see! I shall be also one of those so-admired +ladies. My money shall go for gowns! For hats! For trifles of lace and +velvet and fur! You shall learn that it is not a peasant woman whom you +have married. This is Amerika, the land of the free, my husband. And +see! Who is more of Amerika than I? Who?" + +She laughed a high little laugh and came over to me, taking my hands in +her own. + +"Dear girl, you must run quickly and dress. For this evening we go to +the theater. Oh, but you must. There shall be no unpleasantness, that I +promise. My husband accompanies us--with joy. Is it not so, Konrad? With +joy? So!" + +Wildly I longed to decline, but I dared not. So I only nodded, for fear +of the great lump in my throat, and taking Frau Knapf's hand I turned +and fled with her. Frau Knapf was muttering: + +"Du Hund! Du unverschamter Hund du!" in good Billingsgate German, and +wiping her eyes with her apron. And I dressed with trembling fingers +because I dared not otherwise face the brave little Austrian, the plucky +little aborigine who, with the donning of the new Amerikanische gown had +acquired some real Amerikanisch nerve. + + + + +CHAPTER XI. VON GERHARD SPEAKS + +Of Von Gerhard I had not had a glimpse since that evening of my +hysterical outburst. On Christmas day there had come a box of roses so +huge that I could not find vases enough to hold its contents, although +I pressed into service everything from Mason jars from the kitchen to +hand-painted atrocities from the parlor. After I had given posies to +Frau Nirlanger, and fastened a rose in Frau Knapf's hard knob of hair, +where it bobbed in ludicrous discomfort, I still had enough to fill the +washbowl. My room looked like a grand opera star's boudoir when she is +expecting the newspaper reporters. I reveled in the glowing fragrance +of the blossoms and felt very eastern and luxurious and popular. It had +been a busy, happy, work-filled week, in which I had had to snatch odd +moments for the selecting of certain wonderful toys for the Spalpeens. +There had been dolls and doll-clothes and a marvelous miniature kitchen +for the practical and stolid Sheila, and ingenious bits of mechanism +that did unbelievable things when wound up, for the clever, imaginative +Hans. I was not to have the joy of seeing their wide-eyed delight, but +I knew that there would follow certain laboriously scrawled letters, +filled with topsy-turvy capitals and crazily leaning words of thanks to +the doting old auntie who had been such good fun the summer before. + +Boarding-house Christmases had become an old story. I had learned to +accept them, even to those obscure and foreign parts of turkey which +are seen only on boarding-house plates, and which would be recognized +nowhere else as belonging to that stately bird. + +Christmas at Knapf's had been a happy surprise; a day of hearty good +cheer and kindness. There had even been a Christmas tree, hung with +stodgy German angels and Pfeffernuesse and pink-frosted cakes. I found +myself the bewildered recipient of gifts from everyone--from the Knapfs, +and the aborigines and even from one of the crushed-looking wives. +The aborigine whom they called Fritz had presented me with a huge and +imposing Lebkuchen, reposing in a box with frilled border, ornamented +with quaint little red-and-green German figures in sugar, and labeled +Nurnberg in stout letters, for it had come all the way from that +kuchen-famous city. The Lebkuchen I placed on my mantel shelf as +befitted so magnificent a work of art. It was quite too elaborate and +imposing to be sent the way of ordinary food, although it had a certain +tantalizingly spicy scent that tempted one to break off a corner here +and there. + +On the afternoon of Christmas day I sat down to thank Dr. von Gerhard +for the flowers as prettily as might be. Also I asked his pardon, a +thing not hard to do with the perfume of his roses filling the room. + +"For you," I wrote, "who are so wise in the ways of those tricky things +called nerves, must know that it was only a mild hysteria that made me +say those most unladylike things. I have written Norah all about it. +She has replied, advising me to stick to the good-fellow role but not to +dress the part. So when next you see me I shall be a perfectly safe and +sane comrade in petticoats. And I promise you--no more outbursts." + +So it happened that on the afternoon of New Year's day Von Gerhard and +I gravely wished one another many happy and impossible things for the +coming year, looking fairly and squarely into each other's eyes as we +did so. + +"So," said Von Gerhard, as one who is satisfied. "The nerfs are steady +to-day. What do you say to a brisk walk along the lake shore to put us +in a New Year frame of mind, and then a supper down-town somewhere, with +a toast to Max and Norah?" + +"You've saved my life! Sit down here in the parlor and gaze at the +crepe-paper oranges while I powder my nose and get into some street +clothes. I have such a story to tell you! It has made me quite contented +with my lot." + +The story was that of the Nirlangers; and as we struggled against a +brisk lake breeze I told it, and partly because of the breeze, and +partly because of the story, there were tears in my eyes when I had +finished. Von Gerhard stared at me, aghast. + +"But you are--crying!" he marveled, watching a tear slide down my nose. + +"I'm not," I retorted. "Anyway I know it. I think I may blubber if I +choose to, mayn't I, as well as other women?" + +"Blubber?" repeated Von Gerhard, he of the careful and cautious English. +"But most certainly, if you wish. I had thought that newspaper women did +not indulge in the luxury of tears." + +"They don't--often. Haven't the time. If a woman reporter were to burst +into tears every time she saw something to weep over she'd be going +about with a red nose and puffy eyelids half the time. Scarcely a day +passes that does not bring her face to face with human suffering in some +form. Not only must she see these things, but she must write of them +so that those who read can also see them. And just because she does +not wail and tear her hair and faint she popularly is supposed to be a +flinty, cigarette-smoking creature who rampages up and down the land, +seeking whom she may rend with her pen and gazing, dry-eyed, upon scenes +of horrid bloodshed." + +"And yet the little domestic tragedy of the Nirlangers can bring tears +to your eyes?" + +"Oh, that was quite different. The case of the Nirlangers had nothing to +do with Dawn O'Hara, newspaper reporter. It was just plain Dawn O'Hara, +woman, who witnessed that little tragedy. Mein Himmel! Are all German +husbands like that?" + +"Not all. I have a very good friend named Max--" + +"O, Max! Max is an angel husband. Fancy Max and Norah waxing tragic on +the subject of a gown! Now you--" + +"I? Come, you are sworn to good-fellowship. As one comrade to another, +tell me, what sort of husband do you think I should make, eh? The +boorish Nirlanger sort, or the charming Max variety. Come, tell me--you +who always have seemed so--so damnably able to take care of yourself." +His eyes were twinkling in the maddening way they had. + +I looked out across the lake to where a line of white-caps was piling up +formidably only to break in futile wrath against the solid wall of the +shore. And there came over me an equally futile wrath; that savage, +unreasoning instinct in women which prompts them to hurt those whom they +love. + +"Oh, you!" I began, with Von Gerhard's amused eyes laughing down upon +me. "I should say that you would be more in the Nirlanger style, in your +large, immovable, Germansure way. Not that you would stoop to wrangle +about money or gowns, but that you would control those things. Your +wife will be a placid, blond, rather plump German Fraulein, of excellent +family and no imagination. Men of your type always select negative +wives. Twenty years ago she would have run to bring you your Zeitung and +your slippers. She would be that kind, if Zeitung-and-slipper husbands +still were in existence. You will be fond of her, in a patronizing sort +of way, and she will never know the difference between that and being +loved, not having a great deal of imagination, as I have said before. +And you will go on becoming more and more famous, and she will grow +plumper and more placid, and less and less understanding of what those +komisch medical journals have to say so often about her husband who is +always discovering things. And you will live happily ever after--" + +A hand gripped my shoulder. I looked up, startled, into two blue eyes +blazing down into mine. Von Gerhard's face was a painful red. I think +that the hand on my shoulder even shook me a little, there on that bleak +and deserted lake drive. I tried to wrench my shoulder free with a jerk. + +"You are hurting me!" I cried. + +A quiver of pain passed over the face that I had thought so calmly +unemotional. "You talk of hurts! You, who set out deliberately and +maliciously to make me suffer! How dare you then talk to me like this! +You stab with a hundred knives--you, who know how I--" + +"I'm sorry," I put in, contritely. "Please don't be so dreadful about +it. After all, you asked me, didn't you? Perhaps I've hurt your vanity. +There, I didn't mean that, either. Oh, dear, let's talk about something +impersonal. We get along wretchedly of late." + +The angry red ebbed away from Von Gerhard's face. The blaze of wrath in +his eyes gave way to a deeper, brighter light that held me fascinated, +and there came to his lips a smile of rare sweetness. The hand that had +grasped my shoulder slipped down, down, until it met my hand and gripped +it. + +"Na, 's ist schon recht, Kindchen. Those that we most care for we would +hurt always. When I have told you of my love for you, although already +you know it, then you will tell me. Hush! Do not deny this thing. There +shall be no more lies between us. There shall be only the truth, and no +more about plump, blonde German wives who run with Zeitung and slippers. +After all, it is no secret. Three months ago I told Norah. It was not +news to her. But she trusted me." + +I felt my face to be as white and as tense as his own. "Norah--knows!" + +"It is better to speak these things. Then there need be no shifting of +the eyes, no evasive words, no tricks, no subterfuge." + +We had faced about and were retracing our steps, past the rows of +peculiarly home-like houses that line Milwaukee's magnificent lake +shore. Windows were hung with holiday scarlet and holly, and here and +there a face was visible at a window, looking out at the man and woman +walking swiftly along the wind-swept heights that rose far above the +lake. + +A wretched revolt seized me as I gazed at the substantial comfort of +those normal, happy homes. + +"Why did you tell me! What good can that do? At least we were +make-believe friends before. Suppose I were to tell you that I care, +then what." + +"I do not ask you to tell me," Von Gerhard replied, quietly. + +"You need not. You know. You knew long, long ago. You know I love the +big quietness of you, and your sureness, and the German way you have of +twisting your sentences about, and the steady grip of your great firm +hands, and the rareness of your laugh, and the simplicity of you. Why +I love the very cleanliness of your ruddy skin, and the way your hair +grows away from your forehead, and your walk, and your voice and--Oh, +what is the use of it all?" + +"Just this, Dawn. The light of day sweetens all things. We have dragged +this thing out into the sunlight, where, if it grows, it will grow +sanely and healthily. It was but an ugly, distorted, unsightly thing, +sending out pale unhealthy shoots in the dark, unwholesome cellars of +our inner consciences. Norah's knowing was the cleanest, sweetest thing +about it." + +"How wonderfully you understand her, and how right you are! Her knowing +seems to make it as it should be, doesn't it? I am braver already, for +the knowledge of it. It shall make no difference between us?" + +"There is no difference, Dawn," said he. + +"No. It is only in the story-books that they sigh, and groan and utter +silly nonsense. We are not like that. Perhaps, after a bit, you will +meet some one you care for greatly--not plump, or blond, or German, +perhaps, but still--" + +"Doch you are flippant?" + +"I must say those things to keep the tears back. You would not have me +wailing here in the street. Tell me just one thing, and there shall be +no more fluttering breaths and languishing looks. Tell me, when did you +begin to care?" + +We had reached Knapfs' door-step. The short winter day was already +drawing to its close. In the half-light Von Gerhard's eyes glowed +luminous. + +"Since the day I first met you at Norah's," he said, simply. + +I stared at him, aghast, my ever-present sense of humor struggling to +the surface. "Not--not on that day when you came into the room where I +sat in the chair by the window, with a flowered quilt humped about my +shoulders! And a fever-sore twisting my mouth! And my complexion the +color of cheese, and my hair plastered back from my forehead, and my +eyes like boiled onions!" + +"Thank God for your gift of laughter," Von Gerhard said, and took my +hand in his for one brief moment before he turned and walked away. + +Quite prosaically I opened the big front door at Knapfs' to find Herr +Knapf standing in the hallway with his: + +"Nabben', Frau Orme." + +And there was the sane and soothing scent of Wienerschnitzel and +spluttering things in the air. And I ran upstairs to my room and turned +on all the lights and looked at the starry-eyed creature in the mirror. +Then I took the biggest, newest photograph of Norah from the mantel and +looked at her for a long, long minute, while she looked back at me in +her brave true way. + +"Thank you, dear," I said to her. "Thank you. Would you think me stagey +and silly if I were to kiss you, just once, on your beautiful trusting +eyes?" + +A telephone bell tinkled downstairs and Herr Knapf stationed himself at +the foot of the stairs and roared my name. + +When I had picked up the receiver: "This is Ernst," said the voice at +the other end of the wire. "I have just remembered that I had asked you +down-town for supper." + +"I would rather thank God fasting," I replied, very softly, and hung the +receiver on its hook. + + + + +CHAPTER XII. BENNIE THE CONSOLER + +In a corner of Frau Nirlanger's bedroom, sheltered from draughts and +glaring light, is a little wooden bed, painted blue and ornamented with +stout red roses that are faded by time and much abuse. Every evening at +eight o'clock three anxious-browed women hold low-spoken conclave about +the quaint old bed, while its occupant sleeps and smiles as he sleeps, +and clasps to his breast a chewed-looking woolly dog. For a new joy has +come to the sad little Frau Nirlanger, and I, quite by accident, was the +cause of bringing it to her. The queer little blue bed, with its faded +roses, was brought down from the attic by Frau Knapf, for she is one of +the three foster mothers of the small occupant of the bed. The occupant +of the bed is named Bennie, and a corporation formed for the purpose +of bringing him up in the way he should go is composed of: Dawn +O'Hara Orme, President and Distracted Guardian; Mrs. Konrad Nirlanger, +Cuddler-in-chief and Authority on the Subject of Bennie's Bed-time; Mr. +Blackie Griffith, Good Angel, General Cut-up and Monitor off'n Bennie's +Neckties and Toys; Dr. Ernst von Gerhard, Chief Medical Adviser, and +Sweller of the Exchequer, with the Privilege of Selecting All Candies. +Members of the corporation meet with great frequency evenings and +Sundays, much to the detriment of a certain Book-in-the-making with +which Dawn O'Hara Orme was wont to struggle o' evenings. + +Bennie had been one of those little tragedies that find their way into +juvenile court. Bennie's story was common enough, but Bennie himself had +been different. Ten minutes after his first appearance in the court room +everyone, from the big, bald judge to the newest probation officer, had +fallen in love with him. Somehow, you wanted to smooth the hair from +his forehead, tip his pale little face upward, and very gently kiss his +smooth, white brow. Which alone was enough to distinguish Bennie, for +Juvenile court children, as a rule, are distinctly not kissable. + +Bennie's mother was accused of being unfit to care for her boy, and +Bennie was temporarily installed in the Detention Home. There the +superintendent and his plump and kindly wife had fallen head over heels +in love with him, and had dressed him in a smart little Norfolk suit +and a frivolous plaid silk tie. There were delays in the case, and +postponement after postponement, so that Bennie appeared in the court +room every Tuesday for four weeks. The reporters, and the probation +officers and policemen became very chummy with Bennie, and showered him +with bright new pennies and certain wonderful candies. Superintendent +Arnett of the Detention Home was as proud of the boy as though he were +his own. And when Bennie would look shyly and questioningly into +his face for permission to accept the proffered offerings, the big +superintendent would chuckle delightedly. Bennie had a strangely mobile +face for such a baby, and the whitest, smoothest brow I have ever seen. + +The comedy and tears and misery and laughter of the big, white-walled +court room were too much for Bennie. He would gaze about with puzzled +blue eyes; then, giving up the situation as something too vast for his +comprehension, he would fall to drawing curly-cues on a bit of paper +with a great yellow pencil presented him by one of the newspaper men. + +Every Tuesday the rows of benches were packed with a motley crowd of +Poles, Russians, Slavs, Italians, Greeks, Lithuanians--a crowd made +up of fathers, mothers, sisters, brothers, aunts, uncles, neighbors, +friends, and enemies of the boys and girls whose fate was in the hands +of the big man seated in the revolving chair up in front. But Bennie's +mother was not of this crowd; this pitiful, ludicrous crowd filling the +great room with the stifling, rancid odor of the poor. Nor was Bennie. +He sat, clear-eyed and unsmiling, in the depths of a great chair on the +court side of the railing and gravely received the attentions of the +lawyers, and reporters and court room attaches who had grown fond of the +grave little figure. + +Then, on the fifth Tuesday, Bennie's mother appeared. How she had come +to be that child's mother God only knows--or perhaps He had had nothing +to do with it. She was terribly sober and frightened. Her face +was swollen and bruised, and beneath one eye there was a puffy +green-and-blue swelling. Her sordid story was common enough as the +probation officer told it. The woman had been living in one wretched +room with the boy. Her husband had deserted her. There was no food, and +little furniture. The queer feature of it, said the probation officer, +was that the woman managed to keep the boy fairly neat and clean, +regardless of her own condition, and he generally had food of some sort, +although the mother sometimes went without food for days. Through the +squalor and misery and degradation of her own life Bennie had somehow +been kept unsullied, a thing apart. + +"H'm!" said judge Wheeling, and looked at Bennie. Bennie was standing +beside his mother. He was very quiet, and his eyes were smiling up into +those of the battered creature who was fighting for him. "I guess we'll +have to take you out of this," the judge decided, abruptly. "That boy is +too good to go to waste." + +The sodden, dazed woman before him did not immediately get the full +meaning of his words. She still stood there, swaying a bit, and staring +unintelligently at the judge. Then, quite suddenly, she realized it. +She took a quick step forward. Her hand went up to her breast, to her +throat, to her lips, with an odd, stifled gesture. + +"You ain't going to take him away! From me! No, you wouldn't do +that, would you? Not for--not for always! You wouldn't do that--you +wouldn't--" + +Judge Wheeling waved her away. But the woman dropped to her knees. + +"Judge, give me a chance! I'll stop drinking. Only don't take him away +from me! Don't, judge, don't! He's all I've got in the world. Give me a +chance. Three months! Six months! A year!" + +"Get up!" ordered judge Wheeling, gruffly, "and stop that! It won't do +you a bit of good." + +And then a wonderful thing happened. The woman rose to her feet. A +new and strange dignity had come into her battered face. The lines +of suffering and vice were erased as by magic, and she seemed to grow +taller, younger, almost beautiful. When she spoke again it was slowly +and distinctly, her words quite free from the blur of the barroom and +street vernacular. + +"I tell you you must give me a chance. You cannot take a child from a +mother in this way. I tell you, if you will only help me I can crawl +back up the road that I've traveled. I was not always like this. There +was another life, before--before--Oh, since then there have been years +of blackness, and hunger, and cold and--worse! But I never dragged the +boy into it. Look at him!" + +Our eyes traveled from the woman's transfigured face to that of the boy. +We could trace a wonderful likeness where before we had seen none. But +the woman went on in her steady, even tone. + +"I can't talk as I should, because my brain isn't clear. It's the drink. +When you drink, you forget. But you must help me. I can't do it alone. +I can remember how to live straight, just as I can remember how to talk +straight. Let me show you that I'm not all bad. Give me a chance. +Take the boy and then give him back to me when you are satisfied. I'll +try--God only knows how I'll try. Only don't take him away forever, +Judge! Don't do that!" + +Judge Wheeling ran an uncomfortable finger around his collar's edge. + +"Any friends living here?" + +"No! No!" + +"Sure about that?" + +"Quite sure." + +"Now see here; I'm going to give you your chance. I shall take this boy +away from you for a year. In that time you will stop drinking and become +a decent, self-supporting woman. You will be given in charge of one of +these probation officers. She will find work for you, and a good home, +and she'll stand by you, and you must report to her. If she is satisfied +with you at the end of the year, the boy goes back to you." + +"She will be satisfied," the woman said, simply. She stooped and taking +Bennie's face between her hands kissed him once. Then she stepped aside +and stood quite still, looking after the little figure that passed out +of the court room with his hand in that of a big, kindly police officer. +She looked until the big door had opened and closed upon them. + +Then--well, it was just another newspaper story. It made a good one. +That evening I told Frau Nirlanger about it, and she wept, softly, and +murmured: "Ach, das arme baby! Like my little Oscar he is, without a +mother." I told Ernst about him too, and Blackie, because I could not +get his grave little face out of my mind. I wondered if those who had +charge of him now would take the time to bathe the little body, and +brush the soft hair until it shone, and tie the gay plaid silk tie as +lovingly as "Daddy" Arnett of the Detention Home had done. + +Then it was that I, quite unwittingly, stepped into Bennie's life. + +There was an anniversary, or a change in the board of directors, or a +new coat of paint or something of the kind in one of the orphan homes, +and the story fell to me. I found the orphan home to be typical of its +kind--a big, dreary, prison-like structure. The woman at the door did +not in the least care to let me in. She was a fish-mouthed woman with +a hard eye, and as I told my errand her mouth grew fishier and the +eye harder. Finally she led me down a long, dark, airless stretch of +corridor and departed in search of the matron, leaving me seated in +the unfriendly reception room, with its straight-backed chairs placed +stonily against the walls, beneath rows of red and blue and yellow +religious pictures. + +Just as I was wondering why it seemed impossible to be holy and cheerful +at the same time, there came a pad-padding down the corridor. The next +moment the matron stood in the doorway. She was a mountainous, red-faced +woman, with warts on her nose. + +"Good-afternoon," I said, sweetly. ("Ugh! What a brute!") I thought. +Then I began to explain my errand once more. Criticism of the Home? No +indeed, I assured her. At last, convinced of my disinterestedness she +reluctantly guided me about the big, gloomy building. There were endless +flights of shiny stairs, and endless stuffy, airless rooms, until we +came to a door which she flung open, disclosing the nursery. It seemed +to me that there were a hundred babies--babies at every stage of +development, of all sizes, and ages and types. They glanced up at the +opening of the door, and then a dreadful thing happened. + +Every child that was able to walk or creep scuttled into the farthest +corners and remained quite, quite still with a wide-eyed expression of +fear and apprehension on every face. + +For a moment my heart stood still. I turned to look at the woman by my +side. Her thin lips were compressed into a straight, hard line. She +said a word to a nurse standing near, and began to walk about, eying the +children sharply. She put out a hand to pat the head of one red-haired +mite in a soiled pinafore; but before her hand could descend I saw the +child dodge and the tiny hand flew up to the head, as though in defense. + +"They are afraid of her!" my sick heart told me. "Those babies are +afraid of her! What does she do to them? I can't stand this. I'm going." + +I mumbled a hurried "Thank you," to the fat matron as I turned to leave +the big, bare room. At the head of the stairs there was a great, black +door. I stopped before it--God knows why!--and pointed toward it. + +"What is in that room?" I asked. Since then I have wondered many times +at the unseen power that prompted me to put the question. + +The stout matron bustled on, rattling her keys as she walked. + +"That--oh, that's where we keep the incorrigibles." + +"May I see them?" I asked, again prompted by that inner voice. + +"There is only one." She grudgingly unlocked the door, using one of the +great keys that swung from her waist. The heavy, black door swung open. +I stepped into the bare room, lighted dimly by one small window. In the +farthest corner crouched something that stirred and glanced up at our +entrance. It peered at us with an ugly look of terror and defiance, and +I stared back at it, in the dim light. During one dreadful, breathless +second I remained staring, while my heart stood still. Then--"Bennie!" I +cried. And stumbled toward him. "Bennie--boy!" + +The little unkempt figure, in its soiled knickerbocker suit, the sunny +hair all uncared for, the gay plaid tie draggled and limp, rushed into +my arms with a crazy, inarticulate cry. + +Down on my knees on the bare floor I held him close--close! and his arms +were about my neck as though they never should unclasp. + +"Take me away! Take me away!" His wet cheek was pressed against my own +streaming one. "I want my mother! I want Daddy Arnett! Take me away!" + +I wiped his cheeks with my notebook or something, picked him up in my +arms, and started for the door. I had quite forgotten the fat matron. + +"What are you doing?" she asked, blocking the doorway with her huge +bulk. + +"I'm going to take him back with me. Please let me! I'll take care of +him until the year is up. He shan't bother you any more." + +"That is impossible," she said, coldly. "He has been sent here by the +court, for a year, and he must stay here. Besides, he is a stubborn, +uncontrollable child." + +"Uncontrollable! He's nothing of the kind! Why don't you treat him as a +child should be treated, instead of like a little animal? You don't know +him! Why, he's the most lovable--! And he's only a baby! Can't you see +that? A baby!" + +She only stared her dislike, her little pig eyes grown smaller and more +glittering. + +"You great--big--thing!" I shrieked at her, like an infuriated child. +With the tears streaming down my cheeks I unclasped Bennie's cold hands +from about my neck. He clung to me, frantically, until I had to push him +away and run. + +The woman swung the door shut, and locked it. But for all its thickness +I could hear Bennie's helpless fists pounding on its panels as I +stumbled down the stairs, and Bennie's voice came faintly to my ears, +muffled by the heavy door, as he shrieked to me to take him away to his +mother, and to Daddy Arnett. + +I blubbered all the way back in the car, until everyone stared, but I +didn't care. When I reached the office I made straight for Blackie's +smoke-filled sanctum. When my tale was ended he let me cry all over +his desk, with my head buried in a heap of galley-proofs and my tears +watering his paste-pot. He sat calmly by, smoking. Finally he began +gently to philosophize. "Now girl, he's prob'ly better off there than he +ever was at home with his mother soused all the time. Maybe he give that +warty matron friend of yours all kinds of trouble, yellin' for his ma." + +I raised my head from the desk. "Oh, you can talk! You didn't see +him. What do you care! But if you could have seen him, crouched +there--alone--like a little animal! He was so sweet--and +lovable--and--and--he hadn't been decently washed for weeks--and his +arms clung to me--I can feel his hands about my neck!--" + +I buried my head in the papers again. Blackie went on smoking. There was +no sound in the little room except the purr-purring of Blackie's pipe. +Then: + +"I done a favor for Wheeling once," mused he. + +I glanced up, quickly. "Oh, Blackie, do you think--" + +"No, I don't. But then again, you can't never tell. That was four or +five years ago, and the mem'ry of past favors grows dim fast. Still, if +you're through waterin' the top of my desk, why I'd like t' set down and +do a little real brisk talkin' over the phone. You're excused." + +Quite humbly I crept away, with hope in my heart. + +To this day I do not know what secret string the resourceful Blackie +pulled. But the next afternoon I found a hastily scrawled note tucked +into the roll of my typewriter. It sent me scuttling across the hall to +the sporting editor's smoke-filled room. And there on a chair beside the +desk, surrounded by scrap-books, lead pencils, paste-pot and odds and +ends of newspaper office paraphernalia, sat Bennie. His hair was parted +very smoothly on one side, and under his dimpled chin bristled a very +new and extremely lively green-and-red plaid silk tie. + +The next instant I had swept aside papers, brushes, pencils, books, and +Bennie was gathered close in my arms. Blackie, with a strange glow in +his deep-set black eyes regarded us with an assumed disgust. + +"Wimmin is all alike. Ain't it th' truth? I used t' think you was +different. But shucks! It ain't so. Got t' turn on the weeps the minute +you're tickled or mad. Why say, I ain't goin' t' have you comin' in here +an' dampenin' up the whole place every little while! It's unhealthy for +me, sittin' here in the wet." + +"Oh, shut up, Blackie," I said, happily. "How in the world did you do +it?" + +"Never you mind. The question is, what you goin' t' do with him, now +you've got him? Goin' t' have a French bunny for him, or fetch him up +by hand? Wheeling appointed a probation skirt to look after the crowd of +us, and we got t' toe the mark." + +"Glory be!" I ejaculated. "I don't know what I shall do with him. I +shall have to bring him down with me every morning, and perhaps you can +make a sporting editor out of him." + +"Nix. Not with that forehead. He's a high-brow. We'll make him dramatic +critic. In the meantime, I'll be little fairy godmother, an' if you'll +get on your bonnet I'll stake you and the young 'un to strawberry +shortcake an' chocolate ice cream." + +So it happened that a wondering Frau Knapf and a sympathetic Frau +Nirlanger were called in for consultation an hour later. Bennie was +ensconced in my room, very wide-eyed and wondering, but quite content. +With the entrance of Frau Nirlanger the consultation was somewhat +disturbed. She made a quick rush at him and gathered him in her hungry +arms. + +"Du baby du!" she cried. "Du Kleiner! And she was down on her knees, +and somehow her figure had melted into delicious mother-curves, with +Bennie's head just fitting into that most gracious one between her +shoulder and breast. She cooed to him in a babble of French and German +and English, calling him her lee-tel Oscar. Bennie seemed miraculously +to understand. Perhaps he was becoming accustomed to having strange +ladies snatch him to their breasts. + +"So," said Frau Nirlanger, looking up at us. "Is he not sweet? He shall +be my lee-tel boy, nicht? For one small year he shall be my own boy. +Ach, I am but lonely all the long day here in this strange land. You +will let me care for him, nicht? And Konrad, he will be very angry, but +that shall make no bit of difference. Eh, Oscar?" + +And so the thing was settled, and an hour later three anxious-browed +women were debating the weighty question of eggs or bread-and-milk for +Bennie's supper. Frau Nirlanger was for soft-boiled eggs as being none +too heavy after orphan asylum fare; I was for bread-and-milk, that being +the prescribed supper dish for all the orphans and waifs that I had ever +read about, from "The Wide, Wide World" to "Helen's Babies," and back +again. Frau Knapf was for both eggs and bread-and-milk with a dash +of meat and potatoes thrown in for good measure, and a slice or so of +Kuchen on the side. We compromised on one egg, one glass of milk, and +a slice of lavishly buttered bread, and jelly. It was a clean, sweet, +sleepy-eyed Bennie that we tucked between the sheets. We three women +stood looking down at him as he lay there in the quaint old blue-painted +bed that had once held the plump little Knapfs. + +"You think anyway he had enough supper? mused the anxious-browed Frau +Knapf. + +"To school he will have to go, yes?" murmured Frau Nirlanger, +regretfully. + +I tucked in the covers at one side of the bed, not that they needed +tucking, but because it was such a comfortable, satisfying thing to do. + +"Just at this minute," I said, as I tucked, "I'd rather be a newspaper +reporter than anything else in the world. As a profession 'tis so +broadenin', an' at the same time, so chancey." + + + + +CHAPTER XIII. THE TEST + + +Some day the marriageable age for women will be advanced from twenty to +thirty, and the old maid line will be changed from thirty to forty. When +that time comes there will be surprisingly few divorces. The husband of +whom we dream at twenty is not at all the type of man who attracts us at +thirty. The man I married at twenty was a brilliant, morbid, handsome, +abnormal creature with magnificent eyes and very white teeth and no +particular appetite at mealtime. The man whom I could care for at thirty +would be the normal, safe and substantial sort who would come in at six +o'clock, kiss me once, sniff the air twice and say: "Mm! What's that +smells so good, old girl? I'm as hungry as a bear. Trot it out. Where +are the kids?" + +These are dangerous things to think upon. So dangerous and disturbing to +the peace of mind that I have decided not to see Ernst von Gerhard for a +week or two. I find that seeing him is apt to make me forget Peter Orme; +to forget that my duty begins with a capital D; to forget that I am +dangerously near the thirty year old mark; to forget Norah, and Max, and +the Spalpeens, and the world, and everything but the happiness of being +near him, watching his eyes say one thing while his lips say another. + +At such times I am apt to work myself up into rather a savage frame of +mind, and to shut myself in my room evenings, paying no heed to Frau +Nirlanger's timid knocking, or Bennie's good-night message. I uncover my +typewriter and set to work at the thing which may or may not be a +book, and am extremely wretched and gloomy and pessimistic, after this +fashion: + +"He probably wouldn't care anything about you if you were free. It is +just a case of the fruit that is out of reach being the most desirable. +Men don't marry frumpy, snuffy old things of thirty, or thereabouts. Men +aren't marrying now-a-days, anyway. Certainly not for love. They marry +for position, or power, or money, when they do marry. Think of all +the glorious creatures he meets every day--women whose hair, and +finger-nails and teeth and skin are a religion; women whose clothes are +a fine art; women who are free to care only for themselves; to rest, +to enjoy, to hear delightful music, and read charming books, and eat +delicious food. He doesn't really care about you, with your rumpled +blouses, and your shabby gloves and shoes, and your somewhat doubtful +linen collars. The last time you saw him you were just coming home from +the office after a dickens of a day, and there was a smudge on the end +of your nose, and he told you of it, laughing. But you didn't laugh. You +rubbed it off, furiously, and you wanted to cry. Cry! You, Dawn O'Hara! +Begorra! 'Tis losin' your sense av humor you're after doin'! Get to +work." + +After which I would fall upon the book in a furious, futile fashion, +writing many incoherent, irrelevant paragraphs which I knew would be +cast aside as worthless on the sane and reasoning to-morrow. + +Oh, it had been easy enough to talk of love in a lofty, superior +impersonal way that New Year's day. Just the luxury of speaking of it at +all, after those weeks of repression, sufficed. But it is not so easy to +be impersonal and lofty when the touch of a coat sleeve against your arm +sends little prickling, tingling shivers racing madly through thousands +of too taut nerves. It is not so easy to force the mind and tongue into +safe, sane channels when they are forever threatening to rush together +in an overwhelming torrent that will carry misery and destruction in its +wake. Invariably we talk with feverish earnestness about the book; about +my work at the office; about Ernst's profession, with its wonderful +growth; about Norah, and Max and the Spalpeens, and the home; about the +latest news; about the weather; about Peter Orme--and then silence. + +At our last meeting things took a new and startling turn. So startling, +so full of temptation and happiness-that-must-not-be, that I resolved to +forbid myself the pain and joy of being, near him until I could be quite +sure that my grip on Dawn O'Hara was firm, unshakable and lasting. + +Von Gerhard sports a motor-car, a rakish little craft, built long and +low, with racing lines, and a green complexion, and a nose that cuts +through the air like the prow of a swift boat through water. Von Gerhard +had promised me a spin in it on the first mild day. Sunday turned out to +be unexpectedly lamblike, as only a March day can be, with real sunshine +that warmed the end of one's nose instead of laughing as it tweaked it, +as the lying February sunshine had done. + +"But warmly you must dress yourself," Von Gerhard warned me, "with no +gauzy blouses or sleeveless gowns. The air cuts like a knife, but it +feels good against the face. And a little road-house I know, where one +is served great steaming plates of hot oyster stew. How will that be for +a lark, yes?" + +And so I had swathed myself in wrappings until I could scarcely clamber +into the panting little car, and we had darted off along the smooth lake +drives, while the wind whipped the scarlet into our cheeks, even while +it brought the tears to our eyes. There was no chance for conversation, +even if Von Gerhard had been in talkative mood, which he was not. He +seemed more taciturn than usual, seated there at the wheel, looking +straight ahead at the ribbon of road, his eyes narrowed down to +mere keen blue slits. I realized, without alarm, that he was driving +furiously and lawlessly, and I did not care. Von Gerhard was that sort +of man. One could sit quite calmly beside him while he pulled at the +reins of a pair of runaway horses, knowing that he would conquer them in +the end. + +Just when my face began to feel as stiff and glazed as a mummy's, we +swung off the roadway and up to the entrance of the road-house that was +to revive us with things hot and soupy. + +"Another minute," I said, through stiff lips, as I extricated myself +from my swathings, "and I should have been what Mr. Mantalini described +as a demnition body. For pity's sake, tell 'em the soup can't be too hot +nor too steaming for your lady friend. I've had enough fresh air to last +me the remainder of my life. May I timidly venture to suggest that a +cheese sandwich follow the oyster stew? I am famished, and this place +looks as though it might make a speciality of cheese sandwiches." + +"By all means a cheese sandwich. Und was noch? That fresh air it has +given you an appetite, nicht wahr?" But there was no sign of a smile +on his face, nor was the kindly twinkle of amusement to be seen in his +eyes--that twinkle that I had learned to look for. + +"Smile for the lady," I mockingly begged when we had been served. +"You've been owlish all the afternoon. Here, try a cheese sandwich. Now, +why do you suppose that this mustard tastes so much better than the kind +one gets at home?" + +Von Gerhard had been smoking a cigarette, the first that I had ever seen +in his fingers. Now he tossed it into the fireplace that yawned black +and empty at one side of the room. He swept aside the plates and glasses +that stood before him, leaned his arms on the table and deliberately +stared at me. + +"I sail for Europe in June, to be gone a year--probably more," he said. + +"Sail!" I echoed, idiotically; and began blindly to dab clots of mustard +on that ridiculous sandwich. + +"I go to study and work with Gluck. It is the opportunity of a lifetime. +Gluck is to the world of medicine what Edison is to the world of +electricity. He is a wizard, a man inspired. You should see him--a +little, bent, grizzled, shabby old man who looks at you, and sees you +not. It is a wonderful opportunity, a--" + +The mustard and the sandwich and the table and Von Gerhard's face were +very indistinct and uncertain to my eyes, but I managed to say: "So +glad--congratulate you--very happy--no doubt fortunate--" + +Two strong hands grasped my wrists. "Drop that absurd mustard spoon +and sandwich. Na, I did not mean to frighten you, Dawn. How your hands +tremble. So, look at me. You would like Vienna, Kindchen. You would +like the gayety, and the brightness of it, and the music, and the pretty +women, and the incomparable gowns. Your sense of humor would discern the +hollowness beneath all the pomp and ceremony and rigid lines of caste, +and military glory; and your writer's instinct would revel in the +splendor, and color and romance and intrigue." + +I shrugged my shoulders in assumed indifference. "Can't you convey all +this to me without grasping my wrists like a villain in a melodrama? +Besides, it isn't very generous or thoughtful of you to tell me all +this, knowing that it is not for me. Vienna for you, and Milwaukee and +cheese sandwiches for me. Please pass the mustard." + +But the hold on my wrists grew firmer. Von Gerhard's eyes were steady as +they gazed into mine. "Dawn, Vienna, and the whole world is waiting for +you, if you will but take it. Vienna--and happiness--with me--" + +I wrenched my wrists free with a dreadful effort and rose, sick, +bewildered, stunned. My world--my refuge of truth, and honor, and safety +and sanity that had lain in Ernst von Gerhard's great, steady hands, was +slipping away from me. I think the horror that I felt within must +have leaped to my eyes, for in an instant Von Gerhard was beside me, +steadying me with his clear blue eyes. He did not touch the tips of my +fingers as he stood there very near me. From the look of pain on his +face I knew that I had misunderstood, somehow. + +"Kleine, I see that you know me not," he said, in German, and the saying +it was as tender as is a mother when she reproves a child that she +loves. "This fight against the world, those years of unhappiness and +misery, they have made you suspicious and lacking in trust, is it not +so? You do not yet know the perfect love that casts out all doubt. Dawn, +I ask you in the name of all that is reasoning, and for the sake of your +happiness and mine, to divorce this man Peter Orme--this man who for +almost ten years has not been your husband--who never can be your +husband. I ask you to do something which will bring suffering to no one, +and which will mean happiness to many. Let me make you happy--you were +born to be happy--you who can laugh like a girl in spite of your woman's +sorrows--" + +But I sank into a chair and hid my face in my hands so that I might be +spared the beauty and the tenderness of his eyes. I tried to think +of all the sane and commonplace things in life. Somewhere in my inner +consciousness a cool little voice was saying, over and over again: + +"Now, Dawn, careful! You've come to the crossroads at last. Right or +left? Choose! Now, Dawn, careful!" and the rest of it all over again. + +When I lifted my face from my hands at last it was to meet the +tenderness of Von Gerhard's gaze with scarcely a tremor. + +"You ought to know," I said, very slowly and evenly, "that a divorce, +under these circumstances, is almost impossible, even if I wished to do +what you suggest. There are certain state laws--" + +An exclamation of impatience broke from him. "Laws! In some states, yes. +In others, no. It is a mere technicality--a trifle! There is about it a +bit of that which you call red tape. It amounts to nothing--to that!" He +snapped his fingers. "A few months' residence in another state, perhaps. +These American laws, they are made to break." + +"Yes; you are quite right," I said, and I knew in my heart that the +cool, insistent little voice within had not spoken in vain. "But +there are other laws--laws of honor and decency, and right living and +conscience--that cannot be broken with such ease. I cannot marry you. I +have a husband." + +"You can call that unfortunate wretch your husband! He does not know +that he has a wife. He will not know that he has lost a wife. Come, +Dawn--small one--be not so foolish. You do not know how happy I will +make you. You have never seen me except when I was tortured with doubts +and fears. You do not know what our life will be together. There shall +be everything to make you forget--everything that thought and love and +money can give you. The man there in the barred room--" + +At that I took his dear hands in mine and held them close as I miserably +tried to make him hear what that small, still voice had told me. + +"There! That is it! If he were free, if he were able to stand before +men that his actions might be judged fairly and justly, I should not +hesitate for one single, precious moment. If he could fight for his +rights, or relinquish them, as he saw fit, then this thing would not +be so monstrous. But, Ernst, can't you see? He is there, alone, in that +dreadful place, quite helpless, quite incapable, quite at our mercy. I +should as soon think of hurting a little child, or snatching the pennies +from a blind man's cup. The thing is inhuman! It is monstrous! No state +laws, no red tape can dissolve such a union." + +"You still care for him!" + +"Ernst!" + +His face was very white with the pallor of repressed emotion, and his +eyes were like the blue flame that one sees flashing above a bed of +white-hot coals. + +"You do care for him still. But yes! You can stand there, quite +cool--but quite--and tell me that you would not hurt him, not for your +happiness, not for mine. But me you can hurt again and again, without +one twinge of regret." + +There was silence for a moment in the little bare dining-room--a +miserable silence on my part, a bitter one for Ernst. Then Von Gerhard +seated himself again at the table opposite and smiled one of the rare +smiles that illumined his face with such sweetness. + +"Come, Dawn, almost we are quarreling--we who were to have been so +matter-of-fact and sensible. Let us make an end of this question. You +will think of what I have said, will you not? Perhaps I was too abrupt, +too brutal. Ach, Dawn, you know not how I--Very well, I will not." + +With both hands I was clinging to my courage and praying for strength to +endure this until I should be alone in my room again. + +"As for that poor creature who is bereft of reason, he shall lack no +care, no attention. The burden you have borne so long I shall take now +upon my shoulders." + +He seemed so confident, so sure. I could bear it no longer. "Ernst, +if you have any pity, any love for me, stop! I tell you I can never do +this. Why do you make it so terribly hard for me! So pitilessly hard! +You always have been so strong, so sure, such a staff of courage." + +"I say again, and again, and again, you do not care." + +It was then that I took my last vestige of strength and courage together +and going over to him, put my two hands on his great shoulders, looking +up into his drawn face as I spoke. + +"Ernst, look at me! You never can know how much I care. I care so +much that I could not bear to have the shadow of wrong fall upon our +happiness. There can be no lasting happiness upon a foundation of +shameful deceit. I should hate myself, and you would grow to hate me. It +always is so. Dear one, I care so much that I have the strength to do +as I would do if I had to face my mother, and Norah tonight. I don't ask +you to understand. Men are not made to understand these things; not even +a man such as you, who are so beautifully understanding. I only ask that +you believe in me--and think of me sometimes--I shall feel it, and be +helped. Will you take me home now, Dr. von Gerhard?" + +The ride home was made in silence. The wind was colder, sharper. I was +chilled, miserable, sick. Von Gerhard's face was quite expressionless +as he guided the little car over the smooth road. When we had stopped +before my door, still without a word, I thought that he was going to +leave me with that barrier of silence unbroken. But as I stepped stiffly +to the curbing his hands closed about mine with the old steady grip. I +looked up quickly, to find a smile in the corners of the tired eyes. + +"You--you will let me see you--sometimes?" + +But wisdom came to my aid. "Not now. It is better that we go our +separate ways for a few weeks, until our work has served to adjust the +balance that has been disturbed. At the end of that time I shall write +you, and from that time until you sail in June we shall be just good +comrades again. And once in Vienna--who knows?--you may meet the plump +blond Fraulein, of excellent family--" + +"And no particular imagination--" + +And then we both laughed, a bit hysterically, because laughter is, after +all, akin to tears. And the little green car shot off with a whir as I +turned to enter my new world of loneliness. + + + + +CHAPTER XIV. BENNIE AND THE CHARMING OLD MAID + +There followed a blessed week of work--a "human warious" week, +with something piquant lurking at every turn. A week so busy, so +kaleidoscopic in its quick succession of events that my own troubles and +grievances were pushed into a neglected corner of my mind and made to +languish there, unfed by tears or sighs. + +News comes in cycles. There are weeks when a city editor tears his +hair in vain as he bellows for a first-page story. There follow days so +bristling with real, live copy that perfectly good stuff which, in the +ordinary course of events might be used to grace the front sheet, is +sandwiched away between the marine intelligence and the Elgin butter +reports. + +Such a week was this. I interviewed everything from a red-handed +murderer to an incubator baby. The town seemed to be running over with +celebrities. Norberg, the city editor, adores celebrities. He never +allows one to escape uninterviewed. On Friday there fell to my lot a +world-famous prima donna, an infamous prize-fighter, and a charming old +maid. Norberg cared not whether the celebrity in question was noted +for a magnificent high C, or a left half-scissors hook, so long as the +interview was dished up hot and juicy, with plenty of quotation marks, +a liberal sprinkling of adjectives and adverbs, and a cut of the victim +gracing the top of the column. + +It was long past the lunch hour when the prima donna and the +prize-fighter, properly embellished, were snapped on the copy hook. The +prima donna had chattered in French; the prize-fighter had jabbered in +slang; but the charming old maid, who spoke Milwaukee English, was to +make better copy than a whole chorus of prima donnas, or a ring full of +fighters. Copy! It was such wonderful stuff that I couldn't use it. + +It was with the charming old maid in mind that Norberg summoned me. + +"Another special story for you," he cheerfully announced. + +No answering cheer appeared upon my lunchless features. "A prize-fighter +at ten-thirty, and a prima donna at twelve. What's the next choice +morsel? An aeronaut with another successful airship? or a cash girl who +has inherited a million?" + +Norberg's plump cheeks dimpled. "Neither. This time it is a nice German +old maid." + +"Eloped with the coachman, no doubt?" + +"I said a nice old maid. And she hasn't done anything yet. You are to +find out how she'll feel when she does it." + +"Charmingly lucid," commented I, made savage by the pangs of hunger. + +Norberg proceeded to outline the story with characteristic vigor, a +cigarette waggling from the corner of his mouth. + +"Name and address on this slip. Take a Greenfield car. Nice old maid +has lived in nice old cottage all her life. Grandfather built it himself +about a hundred years ago. Whole family was born in it, and married +in it, and died in it, see? It's crammed full of spinning-wheels and +mahogany and stuff that'll make your eyes stick out. See? Well, there's +no one left now but the nice old maid, all alone. She had a sister who +ran away with a scamp some years ago. Nice old maid has never heard of +her since, but she leaves the gate ajar or the latch-string open, or a +lamp in the window, or something, so that if ever she wanders back to +the old home she'll know she's welcome, see?" + +"Sounds like a moving picture play," I remarked. + +"Wait a minute. Here's the point. The city wants to build a branch +library or something on her property, and the nice old party is so +pinched for money that she'll have to take their offer. So the time has +come when she'll have to leave that old cottage, with its romance, and +its memories, and its lamp in the window, and go to live in a cheap +little flat, see? Where the old four-poster will choke up the bedroom--" + +"And the parlor will be done in red and green," I put in, eagerly, "and +where there will be an ingrowing sideboard in the dining-room that won't +fit in with the quaint old dinner-set at all, and a kitchenette just +off that, in which the great iron pots and kettles that used to hold the +family dinners will be monstrously out of place--" + +"You're on," said Norberg. + +Half an hour later I stood before the cottage, set primly in the +center of a great lot that extended for half a square on all sides. A +winter-sodden, bare enough sight it was in the gray of that March day. +But it was not long before Alma Pflugel, standing in the midst of it, +the March winds flapping her neat skirts about her ankles, filled it +with a blaze of color. As she talked, a row of stately hollyhocks, pink, +and scarlet, and saffron, reared their heads against the cottage sides. +The chill March air became sweet with the scent of heliotrope, and Sweet +William, and pansies, and bridal wreath. The naked twigs of the rose +bushes flowered into wondrous bloom so that they bent to the ground +with their weight of crimson and yellow glory. The bare brick paths were +overrun with the green of growing things. Gray mounds of dirt grew vivid +with the fire of poppies. Even the rain-soaked wood of the pea-frames +miraculously was hidden in a hedge of green, over which ran riot the +butterfly beauty of the lavender, and pink, and cerise blossoms. Oh, she +did marvelous things that dull March day, did plain German Alma Pflugel! +And still more marvelous were the things that were to come. + +But of these things we knew nothing as the door was opened and Alma +Pflugel and I gazed curiously at one another. Surprise was writ large on +her honest face as I disclosed my errand. It was plain that the ways of +newspaper reporters were foreign to the life of this plain German woman, +but she bade me enter with a sweet graciousness of manner. + +Wondering, but silent, she led the way down the dim narrow hallway to +the sitting-room beyond. And there I saw that Norberg had known whereof +he spoke. + +A stout, red-faced stove glowed cheerfully in one corner of the +room. Back of the stove a sleepy cat opened one indolent eye, yawned +shamelessly, and rose to investigate, as is the way of cats. The windows +were aglow with the sturdy potted plants that flower-loving German +women coax into bloom. The low-ceilinged room twinkled and shone as the +polished surfaces of tables and chairs reflected the rosy glow from the +plethoric stove. I sank into the depths of a huge rocker that must have +been built for Grosspapa Pflugel's generous curves. Alma Pflugel, in a +chair opposite, politely waited for this new process of interviewing +to begin, but relaxed in the embrace of that great armchair I suddenly +realized that I was very tired and hungry, and talk-weary, and that +here; was a great peace. The prima donna, with her French, and her +paint, and her pearls, and the prizefighter with his slang, and his +cauliflower ear, and his diamonds, seemed creatures of another planet. +My eyes closed. A delicious sensation of warmth and drowsy contentment +stole over me. + +"Do listen to the purring of that cat!" I murmured. "Oh, newspapers have +no place in this. This is peace and rest." + +Alma Pflugel leaned forward in her chair. "You--you like it?" + +"Like it! This is home. I feel as though my mother were here in this +room, seated in one of those deep chairs, with a bit of sewing in her +hand; so near that I could touch her cheek with my fingers." + +Alma Pflugel rose from her chair and came over to me. She timidly placed +her hand on my arm. "Ah, I am so glad you are like that. You do not +laugh at the low ceilings, and the sunken floors, and the old-fashioned +rooms. You do not raise your eyes in horror and say: 'No conveniences! +And why don't you try striped wall paper? It would make those dreadful +ceilings seem higher.' How nice you are to understand like that!" + +My hand crept over to cover her own that lay on my arm. "Indeed, indeed +I do understand," I whispered. Which, as the veriest cub reporter can +testify, is no way to begin an interview. + +A hundred happy memories filled the little low room as Alma Pflugel +showed me her treasures. The cat purred in great content, and the stove +cast a rosy glow over the scene as the simple woman told the story of +each precious relic, from the battered candle-dipper on the shelf, to +the great mahogany folding table, and sewing stand, and carved bed. Then +there was the old horn lantern that Jacob Pflugel had used a century +before, and in one corner of the sitting-room stood Grossmutter +Pflugel's spinning-wheel. Behind cupboard doors were ranged the +carefully preserved blue-and-white china dishes, and on the shelf below +stood the clumsy earthen set that Grosspapa Pflugel himself had modeled +for his young bride in those days of long ago. In the linen chest there +still lay, in neat, fragrant folds, piles of the linen that had been +spun on that time-yellowed spinning-wheel. And because of the tragedy in +the honest face bent over these dear treasures, and because she tried so +bravely to hide her tears, I knew in my heart that this could never be a +newspaper story. + +"So," said Alma Pflugel at last, and rose and walked slowly to the +window and stood looking out at the wind-swept garden. That window, with +its many tiny panes, once had looked out across a wilderness, with an +Indian camp not far away. Grossmutter Pflugel had sat at that window +many a bitter winter night, with her baby in her arms, watching and +waiting for the young husband who was urging his ox-team across the ice +of Lake Michigan in the teeth of a raging blizzard. + +The little, low-ceilinged room was very still. I looked at Alma Pflugel +standing there at the window in her neat blue gown, and something about +the face and figure--or was it the pose of the sorrowful head?--seemed +strangely familiar. Somewhere in my mind the resemblance haunted me. +Resemblance to--what? Whom? + +"Would you like to see my garden?" asked Alma Pflugel, turning from the +window. For a moment I stared in wonderment. But the honest, kindly face +was unsmiling. "These things that I have shown you, I can take with me +when I--go. But there," and she pointed out over the bare, wind-swept +lot, "there is something that I cannot take. My flowers! You see that +mound over there, covered so snug and warm with burlap and sacking? +There my tulips and hyacinths sleep. In a few weeks, when the covering +is whisked off--ah, you shall see! Then one can be quite sure that the +spring is here. Who can look at a great bed of red and pink and lavender +and yellow tulips and hyacinths, and doubt it? Come." + +With a quick gesture she threw a shawl over her head, and beckoned me. +Together we stepped out into the chill of the raw March afternoon. She +stood a moment, silent, gazing over the sodden earth. Then she flitted +swiftly down the narrow path, and halted before a queer little structure +of brick, covered with the skeleton of a creeping vine. Stooping, Alma +Pflugel pulled open the rusty iron door and smiled up at me. + +"This was my grandmother's oven. All her bread she baked in this little +brick stove. Black bread it was, with a great thick crust, and a bitter +taste. But it was sweet, too. I have never tasted any so good. I like +to think of Grossmutter, when she was a bride, baking her first batch +of bread in this oven that Grossvater built for her. And because the old +oven was so very difficult to manage, and because she was such a young +thing--only sixteen!--I like to think that her first loaves were perhaps +not so successful, and that Grosspapa joked about them, and that the +little bride wept, so that the young husband had to kiss away the +tears." + +She shut the rusty, sagging door very slowly and gently. "No doubt the +workmen who will come to prepare the ground for the new library will +laugh and joke among themselves when they see the oven, and they will +kick it with their heels, and wonder what the old brick mound could have +been." + +There was a little twisted smile on her face as she rose--a smile that +brought a hot mist of tears to my eyes. There was tragedy itself in that +spare, homely figure standing there in the garden, the wind twining her +skirts about her. + +"You should but see the children peering over the fence to see my +flowers in the summer," she said. The blue eyes wore a wistful, far-away +look. "All the children know my garden. It blooms from April to October. +There I have my sweet peas; and here my roses--thousands of them! Some +are as red as a drop of blood, and some as white as a bridal wreath. +When they are blossoming it makes the heart ache, it is so beautiful." + +She had quite forgotten me now. For her the garden was all abloom once +more. It was as though the Spirit of the Flowers had touched the naked +twigs with fairy fingers, waking them into glowing life for her who +never again was to shower her love and care upon them. + +"These are my poppies. Did you ever come out in the morning to find +a hundred poppy faces smiling at you, and swaying and glistening and +rippling in the breeze? There they are, scarlet and pink, side by side +as only God can place them. And near the poppies I planted my pansies, +because each is a lesson to the other. I call my pansies little children +with happy faces. See how this great purple one winks his yellow eye, +and laughs!" + +Her gray shawl had slipped back from her face and lay about her +shoulders, and the wind had tossed her hair into a soft fluff about her +head. + +"We used to come out here in the early morning, my little Schwester and +I, to see which rose had unfolded its petals overnight, or whether this +great peony that had held its white head so high only yesterday, was +humbled to the ground in a heap of ragged leaves. Oh, in the morning she +loved it best. And so every summer I have made the garden bloom again, +so that when she comes back she will see flowers greet her. + +"All the way up the path to the door she will walk in an aisle of +fragrance, and when she turns the handle of the old door she will find +it unlocked, summer and winter, day and night, so that she has only to +turn the knob and enter." + +She stopped, abruptly. The light died out of her face. She glanced at +me, half defiantly, half timidly, as one who is not quite sure of what +she has said. At that I went over to her, and took her work-worn hands +in mine, and smiled down into the faded blue eyes grown dim with tears +and watching. + +"Perhaps--who knows?--the little sister may come yet. I feel it. She +will walk up the little path, and try the handle of the door, and it +will turn beneath her fingers, and she will enter." + +With my arm about her we walked down the path toward the old-fashioned +arbor, bare now except for the tendrils that twined about the lattice. +The arbor was fitted with a wooden floor, and there were rustic chairs, +and a table. I could picture the sisters sitting there with their sewing +during the long, peaceful summer afternoons. Alma Pflugel would be +wearing one of her neat gingham gowns, very starched and stiff, with +perhaps a snowy apron edged with a border of heavy crochet done by the +wrinkled fingers of Grossmutter Pflugel. On the rustic table there would +be a bowl of flowers, and a pot of delicious Kaffee, and a plate of +German Kaffeekuchen, and through the leafy doorway the scent of the +wonderful garden would come stealing. + +I thought of the cheap little flat, with the ugly sideboard, and the bit +of weedy yard in the rear, and the alley beyond that, and the red and +green wall paper in the parlor. The next moment, to my horror, Alma +Pflugel had dropped to her knees before the table in the damp little +arbor, her face in her hands, her spare shoulders shaking. + +"Ich kann's nicht thun!" she moaned. "Ich kann nicht! Ach, kleine +Schwester, wo bist du denn! Nachts und Morgens bete ich, aber doch +kommst du nicht." + +A great dry sob shook her. Her hand went to her breast, to her throat, +to her lips, with an odd, stifled gesture. + +"Do that again!" I cried, and shook Alma Pflugel sharply by the +shoulder. "Do that again!" + +Her startled blue eyes looked into mine. "What do you mean?" she asked. + +"That--that gesture. I've seen it--somewhere--that trick of pressing the +hand to the breast, to the throat, to the lips--Oh!" + +Suddenly I knew. I lifted the drooping head and rumpled its neat braids, +and laughed down into the startled face. + +"She's here!" I shouted, and started a dance of triumph on the shaky +floor of the old arbor. "I know her. From the moment I saw you the +resemblance haunted me." And then as Alma Pflugel continued to stare, +while the stunned bewilderment grew in her eyes, "Why, I have one-fourth +interest in your own nephew this very minute. And his name is Bennie!" + +Whereupon Alma Pflugel fainted quietly away in the chilly little grape +arbor, with her head on my shoulder. + +I called myself savage names as I chafed her hands and did all the +foolish, futile things that distracted humans think of at such times, +wondering, meanwhile, if I had been quite mad to discern a resemblance +between this simple, clear-eyed gentle German woman, and the battered, +ragged, swaying figure that had stood at the judge's bench. + +Suddenly Alma Pflugel opened her eyes. Recognition dawned in them +slowly. Then, with a jerk, she sat upright, her trembling hands clinging +to me. + +"Where is she? Take me to her. Ach, you are sure--sure?" + +"Lordy, I hope so! Come, you must let me help you into the house. And +where is the nearest telephone? Never mind; I'll find one." + +When I had succeeded in finding the nearest drug store I spent a wild +ten minutes telephoning the surprised little probation officer, then +Frau Nirlanger, and finally Blackie, for no particular reason. I +shrieked my story over the wire in disconnected, incoherent sentences. +Then I rushed back to the little cottage where Alma Pflugel and I waited +with what patience we could summon. + +Blackie was the first to arrive. He required few explanations. That +is one of the nicest things about Blackie. He understands by leaps and +bounds, while others crawl to comprehension. But when Frau Nirlanger +came, with Bennie in tow, there were tears, and exclamations, followed +by a little stricken silence on the part of Frau Nirlanger when she saw +Bennie snatched to the breast of this weeping woman. So it was that in +the midst of the confusion we did not hear the approach of the probation +officer and her charge. They came up the path to the door, and there the +little sister turned the knob, and it yielded under her fingers, and the +old door swung open; and so she entered the house quite as Alma Pflugel +had planned she should, except that the roses were not blooming along +the edge of the sunken brick walk. + +She entered the room in silence, and no one could have recognized in +this pretty, fragile creature the pitiful wreck of the juvenile court. +And when Alma Pflugel saw the face of the little sister--the poor, +marred, stricken face--her own face became terrible in its agony. She +put Bennie down very gently, rose, and took the shaking little figure in +her strong arms, and held it as though never to let it go again. There +were little broken words of love and pity. She called her "Lammchen" and +"little one," and so Frau Nirlanger and Blackie and I stole away, after +a whispered consultation with the little probation officer. + +Blackie had come in his red runabout, and now he tucked us into it, +feigning a deep disgust. + +"I'd like to know where I enter into this little drayma," he growled. +"Ain't I got nothin' t' do but run around town unitin' long lost sisters +an' orphans!" + +"Now, Blackie, you know you would never have forgiven me if I had left +you out of this. Besides, you must hustle around and see that they need +not move out of that dear little cottage. Now don't say a word! You'll +never have a greater chance to act the fairy godmother." + +Frau Nirlanger's hand sought mine and I squeezed it in silent sympathy. +Poor little Frau Nirlanger, the happiness of another had brought her +only sorrow. And she had kissed Bennie good-by with the knowledge that +the little blue-painted bed, with its faded red roses, would again stand +empty in the gloom of the Knapf attic. + +Norberg glanced up quickly as I entered the city room. "Get something +good on that south side story?" he asked. + +"Why, no," I answered. "You were mistaken about that. The--the nice old +maid is not going to move, after all." + + + + +CHAPTER XV. FAREWELL TO KNAPFS + +Consternation has corrugated the brows of the aborigines. Consternation +twice confounded had added a wrinkle or two to my collection. We are +homeless. That is, we are Knapfless--we, to whom the Knapfs spelled +home. + +Herr Knapf, mustache aquiver, and Frau Knapf, cheek bones glistening, +broke the news to us one evening just a week after the exciting day +which so changed Bennie's life. "Es thut uns sehr, sehr leid," Herr +Knapf had begun. And before he had finished, protesting German groans +mingled with voluble German explanations. The aborigines were stricken +down. They clapped pudgy fists to knobby foreheads; they smote their +breasts, and made wild gestures with their arms. If my protests were +less frenzied than theirs, it was only because my knowledge of German +stops at words of six syllables. + +Out of the chaos of ejaculations and interrogation the reason for our +expulsion at last was made clear. The little German hotel had not been +remunerative. Our host and hostess were too hospitable and too polite to +state the true reason for this state of affairs. Perhaps rents were +too high. Perhaps, thought I, Frau Knapf had been too liberal with the +butter in the stewed chicken. Perhaps there had been too many golden +Pfannkuchen with real eggs and milk stirred into them, and with +toothsome little islands of ruddy currant jelly on top. Perhaps there +had been too much honest, nourishing food, and not enough boarding-house +victuals. At any rate, the enterprise would have to be abandoned. + +It was then that the bare, bright little dining room, with its queer +prints of chin-chucking lieutenants, and its queerer faces, and its +German cookery became very dear to me. I had grown to like Frau Knapf, +of the shining cheek bones, and Herr Knapf, of the heavy geniality. A +close bond of friendship had sprung up between Frau Nirlanger and me. I +would miss her friendly visits, and her pretty ways, and her +sparkling conversation. She and I had held many kimonoed pow-wows, and +sometimes--not often--she had given me wonderful glimpses of that which +she had left--of Vienna, the opera, the court, the life which had +been hers. She talked marvelously well, for she had all the charm +and vivacity of the true Viennese. Even the aborigines, bristling +pompadours, thick spectacles, terrifying manner, and all, became as dear +as old friends, now that I knew I must lose them. + +The great, high-ceilinged room upstairs had taken on the look of home. +The Blue-beard closet no longer appalled me. The very purpleness of the +purple roses in the rug had grown beautiful in my eyes because they were +part of that little domain which spelled peace and comfort and kindness. +How could I live without the stout yellow brocade armchair! Its +plethoric curves were balm for my tired bones. Its great lap admitted +of sitting with knees crossed, Turk-fashion. Its cushioned back stopped +just at the point where the head found needed support. Its pudgy arms +offered rest for tired elbows; its yielding bosom was made for tired +backs. Given the padded comfort of that stout old chair--a friendly, +time-tried book between my fingers--a dish of ruddy apples twinkling in +the fire-light; my mundane soul snuggled in content. And then, too, the +book-in-the-making had grown in that room. It had developed from a weak, +wobbling uncertainty into a lusty full-blooded thing that grew and grew +until it promised soon to become mansize. + +Now all this was to be changed. And I knew that I would miss the easy +German atmosphere of the place; the kindness they had shown me; the +chattering, admiring Minna; the taffy-colored dachshund; the aborigines +with their ill-smelling pipes and flappy slippers; the Wienerschnitzel; +the crushed-looking wives and the masterful German husbands; the very +darns in the table-cloths and the very nicks in the china. + +We had a last family gathering in token of our appreciation of Herr and +Frau Knapf. And because I had not seen him for almost three weeks; and +because the time for his going was drawing so sickeningly near; and +because I was quite sure that I had myself in hand; and because he +knew the Knapfs, and was fond of them; and because-well, I invited Von +Gerhard. He came, and I found myself dangerously glad to see him, so +that I made my greeting as airy and frivolous as possible. Perhaps I +overdid the airy business, for Von Gerhard looked at me for a long, +silent minute, until the nonsense I had been chattering died on my lips, +and I found myself staring up at him like a child that is apprehensive +of being scolded for some naughtiness. + +"Not so much chatter, small one," he said, unsmilingly. "This pretense, +it is not necessary between you and me. So. You are ein bischen blasz, +nicht? A little pale? You have not been ill, Dawn?" + +"Ill? Never felt more chipper in my life," I made flippant answer, "and +I adore these people who are forever telling one how unusually thin, or +pale, or scrawny one is looking." + +"Na, they are not to be satisfied, these women! If I were to tell you +how lovely you look to me to-night you would draw yourself up with chill +dignity and remind me that I am not privileged to say these things to +you. So I discreetly mention that you are looking, interestingly pale, +taking care to keep all tenderness out of my tones, and still you are +not pleased." He shrugged despairing shoulders. + +"Can't you strike a happy medium between rudeness and tenderness? After +all, I haven't had a glimpse of your blond beauty for three weeks. And +while I don't ask you to whisper sweet nothings, still, after twenty-one +days--" + +"You have been lonely? If only I thought that those weeks have been as +wearisome to you--" + +"Not lonely exactly," I hurriedly interrupted, "but sort of wishing that +some one would pat me on the head and tell me that I was a good +doggie. You know what I mean. It is so easy to become accustomed to +thoughtfulness and devotion, and so dreadfully hard to be happy without +it, once one has had it. This has been a sort of training for what I may +expect when Vienna has swallowed you up." + +"You are still obstinate? These three weeks have not changed you? Ach, +Dawn! Kindchen!--" + +But I knew that these were thin spots marked "Danger!" in our +conversational pond. So, "Come," said I. "I have two new aborigines +for you to meet. They are the very shiniest and wildest of all our +shiny-faced and wild aborigines. And you should see their trousers and +neckties! If you dare to come back from Vienna wearing trousers like +these!--" + +"And is the party in honor of these new aborigines?" laughed Von +Gerhard. "You did not explain in your note. Merely you asked me to come, +knowing that I cared not if it were a lawn fete or a ball, so long as I +might again be with you." + +We were on our way to the dining room, where the festivities were to be +held. I stopped and turned a look of surprise upon him. + +"Don't you know that the Knapfs are leaving? Did I neglect to mention +that this is a farewell party for Herr and Frau Knapf? We are losing our +home, and we have just one week in which to find another." + +"But where will you go? And why did you not tell me this before?" + +"I haven't an idea where I shall lay my poor old head. In the lap of the +gods, probably, for I don't know how I shall find the time to interview +landladies and pack my belongings in seven short days. The book will +have to suffer for it. Just when it was getting along so beautifully, +too." + +There was a dangerous tenderness in Von Gerhard's eyes as he said: +"Again you are a wanderer, eh--small one? That you, with your love of +beautiful things, and your fastidiousness, should have to live in this +way--in these boarding-houses, alone, with not even the comforts that +should be yours. Ach, Kindchen, you were not made for that. You were +intended for the home, with a husband, and kinder, and all that is truly +worth while." + +I swallowed a lump in my throat as I shrugged my shoulders. "Pooh! Any +woman can have a husband and babies," I retorted, wickedly. "But mighty +few women can write a book. It's a special curse." + +"And you prefer this life--this existence, to the things that I +offer you! You would endure these hardships rather than give up the +nonsensical views which you entertain toward your--" + +"Please. We were not to talk of that. I am enduring no hardships. +Since I have lived in this pretty town I have become a worshiper of the +goddess Gemutlichkeit. Perhaps I shan't find another home as dear to my +heart as this has been, but at least I shan't have to sleep on a park +bench, and any one can tell you that park benches have long been the +favored resting place of genius. There is Frau Nirlanger beckoning us. +Now do stop scowling, and smile for the lady. I know you will get on +beautifully with the aborigines." + +He did get on with them so beautifully that in less than half an hour +they were swapping stories of Germany, of Austria, of the universities, +of student life. Frau Knapf served a late supper, at which some one +led in singing Auld Lang Syne, although the sounds emanating from the +aborigines' end of the table sounded suspiciously like Die Wacht am +Rhein. Following that the aborigines rose en masse and roared out their +German university songs, banging their glasses on the table when they +came to the chorus until we all caught the spirit of it and banged our +glasses like rathskeller veterans. Then the red-faced and amorous Fritz, +he of the absent Lena, announced his intention of entertaining the +company. Made bold by an injudicious mixture of Herr Knapf's excellent +beer, and a wonderful punch which Von Gerhard had concocted, Fritz +mounted his chair, placed his plump hand over the spot where he supposed +his heart to be, fastened his watery blue eyes upon my surprised and +blushing countenance, and sang "Weh! Dass Wir Scheiden Mussen!" in an +astonishingly beautiful barytone. I dared not look at Von Gerhard, for +I knew that he was purple with suppressed mirth, so I stared stonily +at the sardine sandwich and dill pickle on my plate, and felt myself +growing hot and hysterical, and cold and tearful by turns. + +At the end of the last verse I rose hastily and brought from their +hiding-place the gifts which we of Knapfs' had purchased as remembrances +for Herr and Frau Knapf. I had been delegated to make the presentation +speech, so I grasped in one hand the too elaborate pipe that was to make +Herr Knapf unhappy, and the too fashionable silk umbrella that was to +appall Frau Knapf, and ascended the little platform at the end of the +dining room, and began to speak in what I fondly thought to be fluent +and highsounding German. Immediately the aborigines went off into +paroxysms of laughter. They threw back their heads and roared, and +slapped their thighs, and spluttered. It appeared that they thought I +was making a humorous speech. At that discovery I cast dignity aside +and continued my speech in the language of a German vaudeville comedian, +with a dash of Weber and Field here and there. With the presentation of +the silk umbrella Frau Knapf burst into tears, groped about helplessly +for her apron, realized that it was missing from its accustomed place, +and wiped her tears upon her cherished blue silk sleeve in the utter +abandon of her sorrow. We drank to the future health and prosperity of +our tearful host and hostess, and some one suggested drei mal drei, +to which we responded in a manner to make the chin-chucking lieutenant +tremble in his frame on the wall. + +When it was all over Frau Nirlanger beckoned me, and she, Dr. von +Gerhard and I stole out into the hall and stood at the foot of the +stairway, discussing our plans for the future, and trying to smile as we +talked of this plan and that. Frau Nirlanger, in the pretty white gown, +was looking haggard and distrait. The oogly husband was still in the +dining room, finishing the beer and punch, of which he had already taken +too much. + +"A tiny apartment we have taken," said Frau Nirlanger, softly. "It is +better so. Then I shall have a little housework, a little cooking, a +little marketing to keep me busy and perhaps happy." Her hand closed +over mine. "But that shall us not separate," she pleaded. "Without you +to make me sometimes laugh what should I then do? You will bring her +often to our little apartment, not?" she went on, turning appealingly to +Von Gerhard. + +"As often as Mrs. Orme will allow me," he answered. + +"Ach, yes. So lonely I shall be. You do not know what she has been to +me, this Dawn. She is brave for two. Always laughing she is, and merry, +nicht wahr? Meine kleine Soldatin, I call her. + +"Soldatin, eh?" mused Von Gerhard. "Our little soldier. She is well +named. And her battles she fights alone. But quite alone." His eyes, as +they looked down on me from his great height had that in them which sent +the blood rushing and tingling to my finger-tips. I brought my hand to +my head in stiff military salute. + +"Inspection satisfactory, sir?" + +He laughed a rueful little laugh. "Eminently. Aber ganz befriedigend." + +He was very tall, and straight and good to look at as he stood there in +the hall with the light from the newel-post illuminating his features +and emphasizing his blondness. Frau Nirlanger's face wore a drawn little +look of pain as she gazed at him, and from him to the figure of her +husband who had just emerged from the dining room, and was making +unsteady progress toward us. Herr Nirlanger's face was flushed and his +damp, dark hair was awry so that one lock straggled limply down over +his forehead. As he approached he surveyed us with a surly frown that +changed slowly into a leering grin. He lurched over and placed a hand +familiarly on my shoulder. + +"We mus' part," he announced, dramatically. "O, weh! The bes' of frien's +m'z part. Well, g'by, li'l interfering Teufel. F'give you, though, +b'cause you're such a pretty li'l Teufel." He raised one hand as though +to pat my check and because of the horror which I saw on the face of the +woman beside me I tried to smile, and did not shrink from him. But with +a quick movement Von Gerhard clutched the swaying figure and turned it +so that it faced the stairs. + +"Come Nirlanger! Time for hard-working men like you and me to be in bed. +Mrs. Orme must not nod over her desk to-morrow, either. So good-night. +Schlafen Sie wohl." + +Konrad Nirlanger turned a scowling face over his shoulder. Then he +forgot what he was scowling for, and smiled a leering smile. + +"Pretty good frien's, you an' the li'l Teufel, yes? Guess we'll have to +watch you, huh, Anna? We'll watch 'em, won't we?" + +He began to climb the stairs laboriously, with Frau Nirlanger's light +figure flitting just ahead of him. At the bend in the stairway she +turned and looked down on us a moment, her eyes very bright and big. She +pressed her fingers to her lips and wafted a little kiss toward us with +a gesture indescribably graceful and pathetic. She viewed her husband's +laborious progress, not daring to offer help. Then the turn in the stair +hid her from sight. + +In the dim quiet of the little hallway Von Gerhard held out his +hands--those deft, manual hands--those steady, sure, surgeonly +hands--hands to cling to, to steady oneself by, and because I needed +them most just then, and because I longed with my whole soul to place +both my weary hands in those strong capable ones and to bring those +dear, cool, sane fingers up to my burning cheeks, I put one foot on +the first stair and held out two chilly fingertips. "Good-night, Herr +Doktor," I said, "and thank you, not only for myself, but for her. I +have felt what she feels to-night. It is not a pleasant thing to be +ashamed of one's husband." + +Von Gerhard's two hands closed over that one of mine. "Dawn, you will +let me help you to find comfortable quarters? You cannot tramp about +from place to place all the week. Let us get a list of addresses, and +then, with the machine, we can drive from one to the other in an hour. +It will at least save you time and strength." + +"Go boarding-house hunting in a stunning green automobile!" I exclaimed. +From my vantage point on the steps I could look down on him, and there +came over me a great longing to run my fingers gently through that crisp +blond hair, and to bring his head down close against my breast for one +exquisite moment. So--"Landladies and oitermobiles!" I laughed. "Never! +Don't you know that if they got one glimpse, through the front parlor +windows, of me stepping grand-like out of your green motor car, they +would promptly over-charge me for any room in the house? I shall go +room-hunting in my oldest hat, with one finger sticking out of my +glove." + +Von Gerhard shrugged despairing shoulders. + +"Na, of what use is it to plead with you. Sometimes I wonder if, after +all, you are not merely amusing yourself. Getting copy, perhaps, for the +book, or a new experience to add to your already varied store." + +Abruptly I turned to hide my pain, and began to ascend the stairs. With +a bound Von Gerhard was beside me, his face drawn and contrite. + +"Forgive me, Dawn! I know that you are wisest. It is only that I become +a little mad, I think, when I see you battling alone like this, among +strangers, and know that I have not the right to help you. I knew not +what I was saying. Come, raise your eyes and smile, like the little +Soldatin that you are. So. Now I am forgiven, yes?" + +I smiled cheerily enough into his blue eyes. "Quite forgiven. And now +you must run along. This is scandalously late. The aborigines will +be along saying 'Morgen!' instead of 'Nabben'!' if we stay here much +longer. Good-night." + +"You will give me your new address as soon as you have found a +satisfactory home?" + +"Never fear! I probably shall be pestering you with telephone calls, +urging you to have pity upon me in my loneliness. Now goodnight again. +I'm as full of farewells as a Bernhardt." And to end it I ran up the +stairs. At the bend, just where Frau Nirlanger had turned, I too stopped +and looked over my shoulder. Von Gerhard was standing as I had left him, +looking up at me. And like Frau Nirlanger, I wafted a little kiss in his +direction, before I allowed the bend in the stairs to cut off my view. +But Von Gerhard did not signify by look or word that he had seen it, as +he stood looking up at me, one strong white hand resting on the broad +baluster. + + + + +CHAPTER XVI. JUNE MOONLIGHT, AND A NEW BOARDINGHOUSE + +There was a week in which to scurry about for a new home. The days +scampered by, tripping over one another in their haste. My sleeping +hours were haunted by nightmares of landladies and impossible +boarding-house bedrooms. Columns of "To Let, Furnished or Unfurnished" +ads filed, advanced, and retreated before my dizzy eyes. My time +after office hours was spent in climbing dim stairways, interviewing +unenthusiastic females in kimonos, and peering into ugly bedrooms +papered with sprawly and impossible patterns and filled with the odors +of dead-and-gone dinners. I found one room less impossible than the +rest, only to be told that the preference was to be given to a man who +had "looked" the day before. + +"I d'ruther take gents only," explained the ample person who carried the +keys to the mansion. "Gents goes early in the morning and comes in late +at night, and that's all you ever see of 'em, half the time. I've tried +ladies, an' they get me wild, always yellin' for hot water to wash their +hair, or pastin' handkerchiefs up on the mirr'r or wantin' to butt into +the kitchen to press this or that. I'll let you know if the gent don't +take it, but I got an idea he will." + +He did. At any rate, no voice summoned me to that haven for gents only. +There were other landladies--landladies fat and German; landladies lean +and Irish; landladies loquacious (regardless of nationality); landladies +reserved; landladies husbandless, wedded, widowed, divorced, and +willing; landladies slatternly; landladies prim; and all hinting of past +estates wherein there had been much grandeur. + +At last, when despair gripped me, and I had horrid visions of my trunk, +hat-box and typewriter reposing on the sidewalk while I, homeless, sat +perched in the midst of them, I chanced upon a room which commanded a +glorious view of the lake. True, it was too expensive for my slim purse; +true, the owner of it was sour of feature; true, the room itself was +cavernous and unfriendly and cold-looking, but the view of the great, +blue lake triumphed over all these, although a cautious inner voice +warned me that that lake view would cover a multitude of sins. I +remembered, later, how she of the sour visage had dilated upon the +subject of the sunrise over the water. I told her at the time that while +I was passionately fond of sunrises myself, still I should like them +just as well did they not occur so early in the morning. Whereupon she +of the vinegar countenance had sniffed. I loathe landladies who sniff. + +My trunk and trusty typewriter were sent on to my new home at noon, +unchaperoned, for I had no time to spare at that hour of the day. Later +I followed them, laden with umbrella, boxes, brown-paper parcels, and +other unfashionable moving-day paraphernalia. I bumped and banged my way +up the two flights of stairs that led to my lake view and my bed, and +my heart went down as my feet went up. By the time the cavernous +bedroom was gained I felt decidedly quivery-mouthed, so that I dumped my +belongings on the floor in a heap and went to the window to gaze on the +lake until my spirits should rise. But it was a gray day, and the lake +looked large, and wet and unsociable. You couldn't get chummy with it. +I turned to my great barn of a room. You couldn't get chummy with that, +either. I began to unpack, with furious energy. In vain I turned every +gas jet blazing high. They only cast dim shadows in the murky vastness +of that awful chamber. A whole Fourth of July fireworks display, Roman +candles, sky-rockets, pin-wheels, set pieces and all, could not have +made that room take on a festive air. + +As I unpacked I thought of my cosy room at Knapfs', and as I thought +I took my head out of my trunk and sank down on the floor with a satin +blouse in one hand, and a walking boot in the other, and wanted to +bellow with loneliness. There came to me dear visions of the friendly +old yellow brocade chair, and the lamplight, and the fireplace, and +Frau Nirlanger, and the Pfannkuchen. I thought of the aborigines. In my +homesick mind their bumpy faces became things of transcendent beauty. I +could have put my head on their combined shoulders and wept down their +blue satin neckties. In my memory of Frau Knapf it seemed to me that I +could discern a dim, misty halo hovering above her tightly wadded hair. +My soul went out to her as I recalled the shining cheek-bones, and the +apron, and the chickens stewed in butter. I would have given a year out +of my life to have heard that good-natured, "Nabben'." One aborigine +had been wont to emphasize his after-dinner arguments with a toothpick +brandished fiercely between thumb and finger. The brandisher had +always annoyed me. Now I thought of him with tenderness in my heart and +reproached myself for my fastidiousness. I should have wept if I had +not had a walking boot in one hand, and a satin blouse in the other. A +walking boot is but a cold comfort. And my thriftiness denied my tears +the soiling of the blouse. So I sat up on my knees and finished the +unpacking. + +Just before dinner time I donned a becoming gown to chirk up my courage, +groped my way down the long, dim stairs, and telephoned to Von Gerhard. +It seemed to me that just to hear his voice would instill in me new +courage and hope. I gave the number, and waited. + +"Dr. von Gerhard?" repeated a woman's voice at the other end of the +wire. "He is very busy. Will you leave your name?" + +"No," I snapped. "I'll hold the wire. Tell him that Mrs. Orme is waiting +to speak to him." + +"I'll see." The voice was grudging. + +Another wait; then--"Dawn!" came his voice in glad surprise. + +"Hello!" I cried, hysterically. "Hello! Oh, talk! Say something nice, +for pity's sake! I'm sorry that I've taken you away from whatever you +were doing, but I couldn't help it. Just talk please! I'm dying of +loneliness." + +"Child, are you ill?" Von Gerhard's voice was so satisfyingly +solicitous. "Is anything wrong? Your voice is trembling. I can hear it +quite plainly. What has happened? Has Norah written--" + +"Norah? No. There was nothing in her letter to upset me. It is only the +strangeness of this place. I shall be all right in a day or so." + +"The new home--it is satisfactory? You have found what you wanted? Your +room is comfortable?" + +"It's--it's a large room," I faltered. "And there's a--a large view of +the lake, too." + +There was a smothered sound at the other end of the wire. Then--"I +want you to meet me down-town at seven o'clock. We will have dinner +together," Von Gerhard said, "I cannot have you moping up there all +alone all evening." + +"I can't come." + +"Why?" + +"Because I want to so very much. And anyway, I'm much more cheerful now. +I am going in to dinner. And after dinner I shall get acquainted with +my room. There are six corners and all the space under the bed that I +haven't explored yet." + +"Dawn!" + +"Yes?" + +"If you were free to-night, would you marry me? If you knew that the +next month would find you mistress of yourself would you--" + +"Ernst!" + +"Yes?" + +"If the gates of Heaven were opened wide to you, and they had 'Welcome!' +done in diamonds over the door, and all the loveliest angel ladies +grouped about the doorway to receive you, and just beyond you could +see awaiting you all that was beautiful, and most exquisite, and most +desirable, would you enter?" + +And then I hung up the receiver and went in to dinner. I went in to +dinner, but not to dine. Oh, shades of those who have suffered in +boarding-houses--that dining room! It must have been patterned after +the dining room at Dotheboys' hall. It was bare, and cheerless, and +fearfully undressed looking. The diners were seated at two long, +unsociable, boarding-housey tables that ran the length of the room, and +all the women folks came down to dine with white wool shawls wrapped +snugly about their susceptible black silk shoulders. The general effect +was that of an Old People's Home. I found seat after seat at table was +filled, and myself the youngest thing present. I felt so criminally +young that I wondered they did not strap me in a high chair and ram +bread and milk down my throat. Now and then the door would open to +admit another snuffly, ancient, and be-shawled member of the company. I +learned that Mrs. Schwartz, on my right, did not care mooch for shteak +for breakfast, aber a leedle l'mb ch'p she likes. Also that the elderly +party on my left and the elderly party on my right resented being +separated by my person. Conversation between E. P. on right, and E. P. +on left scintillated across my soup, thus: + +"How you feel this evening Mis' Maurer, h'm?" + +"Don't ask me." + +"No wonder you got rheumatism. My room was like a ice-house all day. +Yours too?" + +"I don't complain any more. Much good it does. Barley soup again? In my +own home I never ate it, and here I pay my good money and get four time +a week barley soup. Are those fresh cucumbers? M-m-m-m. They haven't +stood long enough. Look at Mis' Miller. She feels good this evening. She +should feel good. Twenty-five cents she won at bridge. I never seen how +that woman is got luck." + +I choked, gasped, and fled. + +Back in my own mausoleum once more I put things in order, dragged my +typewriter stand into the least murky corner under the bravest gas jet +and rescued my tottering reason by turning out a long letter to Norah. +That finished, my spirits rose. I dived into the bottom of my trunk for +the loose sheets of the book-in-the-making, glanced over the last three +or four, discovered that they did not sound so maudlin as I had feared, +and straightway forgot my gloomy surroundings in the fascination of +weaving the tale. + +In the midst of my fine frenzy there came a knock at the door. In the +hall stood the anemic little serving maid who had attended me at dinner. +She was almost eclipsed by a huge green pasteboard box. + +"You're Mis' Orme, ain't you? This here's for you." + +The little white-cheeked maid hovered at the threshold while I lifted +the box cover and revealed the perfection of the American beauty buds +that lay there, all dewy and fragrant. The eyes of the little maid were +wide with wonder as she gazed, and because I had known flower-hunger I +separated two stately blossoms from the glowing cluster and held them +out to her. + +"For me!" she gasped, and brought her lips down to them, gently. +Then--"There's a high green jar downstairs you can have to stick your +flowers in. You ain't got nothin' big enough in here, except your water +pitcher. An' putting these grand flowers in a water pitcher--why, it'd +be like wearing a silk dress over a flannel petticoat, wouldn't it?" + +When the anemic little boarding-house slavey with the beauty-loving soul +had fetched the green jar, I placed the shining stems in it with gentle +fingers. At the bottom of the box I found a card that read: "For it is +impossible to live in a room with red roses and still be traurig." + +How well he knew! And how truly impossible to be sad when red roses are +glowing for one, and filling the air with their fragrance! + +The interruption was fatal to book-writing. My thoughts were a chaos +of red roses, and anemic little maids with glowing eyes, and thoughtful +young doctors with a marvelous understanding of feminine moods. So +I turned out all the lights, undressed by moonlight, and, throwing a +kimono about me, carried my jar of roses to the window and sat down +beside them so that their exquisite scent caressed me. + +The moonlight had put a spell of white magic upon the lake. It was a +light-flooded world that lay below my window. Summer, finger on lip, +had stolen in upon the heels of spring. Dim, shadowy figures dotted the +benches of the park across the way. Just beyond lay the silver lake, a +dazzling bar of moonlight on its breast. Motors rushed along the roadway +with a roar and a whir and were gone, leaving a trail of laughter behind +them. From the open window of the room below came the slip-slap of +cards on the polished table surface, and the low buzz of occasional +conversation as the players held postmortems. Under the street light +the popcorn vender's cart made a blot on the mystic beauty of the scene +below. But the perfume of my red roses came to me, and their velvet +caressed my check, and beyond the noise and lights of the street lay +that glorious lake with the bar of moonlight on its soft breast. I gazed +and forgave the sour-faced landlady her dining room; forgave the elderly +parties their shawls and barley soup; forgot for a moment my weary +thoughts of Peter Orme; forgot everything except that it was June, and +moonlight and good to be alive. + +All the changes and events of that strange, eventful year came crowding +to my mind as I crouched there at the window. Four new friends, tried +and true! I conned them over joyously in my heart. What a strange +contrast they made! Blackie, of the elastic morals, and the still more +elastic heart; Frau Nirlanger, of the smiling lips and the lilting voice +and the tragic eyes--she who had stooped from a great height to pluck +the flower of love blooming below, only to find a worthless weed +sullying her hand; Alma Pflugel, with the unquenchable light of +gratefulness in her honest face; Von Gerhard, ready to act as buffer +between myself and the world, tender as a woman, gravely thoughtful, +with the light of devotion glowing in his steady eyes. + +"Here's richness," said I, like the fat boy in Pickwick Papers. And I +thanked God for the new energy which had sent me to this lovely city by +the lake. I thanked Him that I had not been content to remain a burden +to Max and Norah, growing sour and crabbed with the years. Those years +of work and buffeting had made of me a broader, finer, truer type +of womanhood--had caused me to forget my own little tragedy in +contemplating the great human comedy. And so I made a little prayer +there in the moon-flooded room. + +"O dear Lord," I prayed, and I did not mean that it should sound +irreverent. "O dear Lord, don't bother about my ambitions! Just let me +remain strong and well enough to do the work that is my portion from day +to day. Keep me faithful to my standards of right and wrong. Let +this new and wonderful love which has come into my life be a staff of +strength and comfort instead of a burden of weariness. Let me not +grow careless and slangy as the years go by. Let me keep my hair and +complexion and teeth, and deliver me from wearing soiled blouses and +doing my hair in a knob. Amen." + +I felt quite cheerful after that--so cheerful that the strange bumps in +the new bed did not bother me as unfamiliar beds usually did. The roses +I put to sleep in their jar of green, keeping one to hold against my +cheek as I slipped into dreamland. I thought drowsily, just before sleep +claimed me: + +"To-morrow, after office hours, I'll tuck up my skirt, and wrap my head +in a towel and have a housecleaning bee. I'll move the bed where the +wash-stand is now, and I'll make the chiffonnier swap places with the +couch. One feels on friendlier terms with furniture that one has shoved +about a little. How brilliant the moonlight is! The room is flooded with +it. Those roses--sweet!--sweet!--" + +When I awoke it was morning. During the days that followed I looked back +gratefully upon that night, with its moonlight, and its roses, and its +great peace. + + + + +CHAPTER XVII. THE SHADOW OF TERROR + +Two days before the date set for Von Gerhard's departure the book was +finished, typed, re-read, packed, and sent away. Half an hour after +it was gone all its most glaring faults seemed to marshall themselves +before my mind's eye. Whole paragraphs, that had read quite reasonably +before, now loomed ludicrous in perspective. I longed to snatch it back; +to tidy it here, to take it in there, to smooth certain rough places +neglected in my haste. For almost a year I had lived with this thing, +so close that its faults and its virtues had become indistinguishable to +me. Day and night, for many months, it had been in my mind. Of late some +instinct had prompted me to finish it. I had worked at it far into the +night, until I marveled that the ancient occupants of the surrounding +rooms did not enter a combined protest against the clack-clacking of my +typewriter keys. And now that it was gone I wondered, dully, if I could +feel Von Gerhard's departure more keenly. + +No one knew of the existence of the book except Norah, Von Gerhard, +Blackie and me. Blackie had a way of inquiring after its progress in +hushed tones of mock awe. Also he delighted in getting down on hands and +knees and guiding a yard-stick carefully about my desk with a view +to having a fence built around it, bearing an inscription which would +inform admiring tourists that here was the desk at which the brilliant +author had been wont to sit when grinding out heart-throb stories for +the humble Post. He took an impish delight in my struggles with my hero +and heroine, and his inquiries after the health of both were of such a +nature as to make any earnest writer person rise in wrath and slay him. +I had seen little of Blackie of late. My spare hours had been devoted +to the work in hand. On the day after the book was sent away I was +conscious of a little shock as I strolled into Blackie's sanctum and +took my accustomed seat beside his big desk. There was an oddly pinched +look about Blackie's nostrils and lips, I thought. And the deep-set +black eyes appeared deeper and blacker than ever in his thin little +face. + +A week of unseasonable weather had come upon the city. June was going +out in a wave of torrid heat such as August might have boasted. The day +had seemed endless and intolerably close. I was feeling very limp and +languid. Perhaps, thought I, it was the heat which had wilted Blackie's +debonair spirits. + +"It has been a long time since we've had a talk-talk, Blackie. I've +missed you. Also you look just a wee bit green around the edges. I'm +thinking a vacation wouldn't hurt you." + +Blackie's lean brown forefinger caressed the bowl of his favorite pipe. +His eyes, that had been gazing out across the roofs beyond his +window, came back to me, and there was in them a curious and quizzical +expression as of one who is inwardly amused. + +"I've been thinkin' about a vacation. None of your measly little two +weeks' affairs, with one week on salary, and th' other without. I ain't +goin' t' take my vacation for a while--not till fall, p'raps, or maybe +winter. But w'en I do take it, sa-a-ay, girl, it's goin' t' be a real +one." + +"But why wait so long?" I asked. "You need it now. Who ever heard of +putting off a vacation until winter!" + +"Well, I dunno," mused Blackie. "I just made my arrangements for that +time, and I hate t' muss 'em up. You'll say, w'en the time comes, that +my plans are reasonable." + +There was a sharp ring from the telephone at Blackie's elbow. He +answered it, then thrust the receiver into my hand. "For you," he said. + +It was Von Gerhard's voice that came to me. "I have something to tell +you," he said. "Something most important. If I call for you at six we +can drive out to the bay for supper, yes? I must talk to you." + +"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. "They 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 road-side. + +"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 to-night. 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?" + +I looked up for a moment. "He could make you think that it was a concert +grand, couldn't he? He hasn't forgotten even that?" + +"Forgotten? Girl, I don't know what his accomplishments was when you +knew him, but if he was any more fascinatin' than he is now, then I'm +glad I didn't know him. He could charm the pay envelope away from a +reporter that was Saturday broke. Somethin' seemed t' urge me t' go up +t' him an' say: 'Have a game of billiards?' + +"'Don't care if I do,' says he, and swung his long legs off the piano +stool and we made for the billiard room, with the whole gang after us. +Sa-a-ay, girl, I'm a modest violet, I am, but I don't mind mentionin' +that the general opinion up at the club is that I'm a little wizard with +the cue. Well, w'en he got through with me I looked like little sister +when big brother is tryin' t' teach her how to hold the cue in her +fingers. He just sent them balls wherever he thought they'd look pretty. +I bet if he'd held up his thumb and finger an' said, 'jump through +this!' them balls would of jumped." + +Von Gerhard took a couple of quick steps in Blackie's direction. His +eyes were blue steel. + +"Is this then necessary?" he asked. "All this leads to what? Has not +Mrs. Orme suffered enough, that she should undergo this idle chatter? +It is sufficient that she knows this--this man is here. It is a time for +action, not for words." + +"Action's comin' later, Doc," drawled Blackie, looking impish. +"Monologuin' ain't my specialty. I gener'ly let the other gink talk. You +never can learn nothin' by talkin'. But I got somethin' t' say t' Dawn +here. Now, in case you're bored the least bit, w'y don't hesitate one +minnit t'--" + +"Na, you are quite right, and I was hasty," said Von Gerhard, and his +eyes, with the kindly gleam in them, smiled down upon the little man. +"It is only that both you and I are over-anxious to be of assistance to +this unhappy lady. Well, we shall see. You talked with this man at the +Press Club?" + +"He talked. I listened." + +"That would be Peter's way," I said, bitterly. "How he used to love to +hold forth, and how I grew to long for blessed silence--for fewer words, +and more of that reserve which means strength!" + +"All this time," continued Blackie, "I didn't know his name. When we'd +finished our game of billiards he hung up his cue, and then he turned +around like lightning, and faced the boys that were standing around with +their hands in their pockets. He had a odd little smile on his face--a +smile with no fun it, if you know what I mean. Guess you do, maybe, if +you've seen it. + +"'Boys,' says he, smilin' that twisted kind of smile, 'boys, I'm lookin' +for a job. I'm not much of a talker, an' I'm only a amateur at music, +and my game of billiards is ragged. But there's one thing I can do, +fellows, from abc up to xyz, and that's write. I can write, boys, in a +way to make your pet little political scribe sound like a high school +paper. I don't promise to stick. As soon as I get on my feet again I'm +going back to New York. But not just yet. Meanwhile, I'm going to the +highest bidder.' + +"Well, you know since Merkle left us we haven't had a day when we wasn't +scooped on some political guff. 'I guess we can use you--some place,' I +says, tryin' not t' look too anxious. If your ideas on salary can take a +slump be tween New York and Milwaukee. Our salaries around here is more +what is elegantly known as a stipend. What's your name, Bo?' + +"'Name?' says he, smiling again, 'Maybe it'll be familiar t' you. That +is, it will if my wife is usin' it. Orme's my name--Peter Orme. Know a +lady of that name? Good.' + +"I hadn't said I did, but those eyes of his had seen the look on my +face. + +"'Friends in New York told me she was here,' he says. 'Where is she now? +Got her address?' he says. + +"'She expectin' you?' I asked. + +"'N-not exactly,' he says, with that crooked grin. + +"'Thought not,' I answered, before I knew what I was sayin'. 'She's up +north with her folks on a vacation.' + +"'The devil she is!' he says. 'Well, in that case can you let me have +ten until Monday?'" + +Blackie came over to me as I sat cowering in my chair. He patted my +shoulder with one lean brown hand. "Now kid, you dig, see? Beat it. Go +home for a week. I'll fix it up with Norberg. No tellin' what a guy like +that's goin' t' do. Send your brother-in-law down here if you want to +make it a family affair, and between us, we'll see this thing through." + +I looked up at Von Gerhard. He was nodding approval. It all seemed so +easy, so temptingly easy. To run away! Not to face him until I was +safe in the shelter of Norah's arms! I stood up, resolve lending me new +strength and courage. + +"I am going. I know it isn't brave, but I can't be brave any longer. I'm +too tired--too old--" + +I grasped the hand of each of those men who had stood by me so staunchly +in the year that was past. The words of thanks that I had on my lips +ended in dry, helpless sobs. And because Blackie and Von Gerhard looked +so pathetically concerned and so unhappy in my unhappiness my sobs +changed to hysterical laughter, in which the two men joined, after one +moment's bewildered staring. + +So it was that we did not hear the front door slam, or the sound of +footsteps in the hall. Our overstrained nerves found relief in laughter, +so that Peter Orme, a lean, ominous figure in the doorway looked in upon +a merry scene. + +I was the first to see him. And at the sight of the emaciated figure, +with its hollow cheeks and its sunken eyes all terror and hatred left +me, and I felt only a great pity for this wreck of manhood. Slowly I +went up to him there in the doorway. + +"Well, Peter?" I said. + +"Well, Dawn old girl," said he "you're looking wonderfully fit. Grass +widowhood seems to agree with you, eh?" + +And I knew then that my dread dream had come true. + +Peter advanced into the room with his old easy grace of manner. His eyes +glowed as he looked at Blackie. Then he laughed, showing his even, white +teeth. "Why, you little liar!" he said, in his crisp, clear English. +"I've a notion to thwack you. What d' you mean by telling me my wife's +gone? You're not sweet on her yourself, eh?" + +Von Gerhard stifled an exclamation, and Orme turned quickly in his +direction. "Who are you?" he asked. "Still another admirer? Jolly +time you were having when I interrupted." He stared at Von Gerhard +deliberately and coolly. A little frown of dislike came into his face. +"You're a doctor, aren't you? I knew it. I can tell by the hands, and +the eyes, and the skin, and the smell. Lived with 'em for ten years, +damn them! Dawn, tell these fellows they're excused, will you? And by +the way, you don't seem very happy to see me?" + +I went up to him then, and laid my hand on his arm. "Peter, you don't +understand. These two gentlemen have been all that is kind to me. I am +happy to know that you are well again. Surely you do not expect me to be +joyful at seeing you. All that pretense was left out of our lives long +before your--illness. It hasn't been all roses for me since then, Peter. +I've worked until I wanted to die with weariness. You know what this +newspaper game is for a woman. It doesn't grow easier as she grows older +and tireder." + +"Oh, cut out the melodrama, Dawn," sneered Peter. "Have either of you +fellows the makin's about you? Thanks. I'm famished for a smoke." + +The worrying words of ten years ago rose automatically to my lips. +"Aren't you smoking too much, Peter?" The tone was that of a harassed +wife. + +Peter stared. Then he laughed his short, mirthless little laugh. "By +Jove! Dawn, I believe you're as much my wife now as you were ten years +ago. I always said, you know, that you would have become a first-class +nagger if you hadn't had such a keen sense of humor. That saved you." He +turned his mocking eyes to Von Gerhard. "Doesn't it beat the devil, how +these good women stick to a man, once they're married! There's a certain +dog-like devotion about it that's touching." + +There was a dreadful little silence. For the first time in my knowledge +of him I saw a hot, painful red dyeing Blackie's sallow face. His eyes +had a menace in their depths. Then, very quietly, Von Gerhard stepped +forward and stopped directly before me. + +"Dawn," he said, very softly and gently, "I retract my statement of an +hour ago. If you will give me another chance to do as you asked me, I +shall thank God for it all my life. There is no degradation in that. To +live with this man--that is degradation. And I say you shall not suffer +it." + +I looked up into his face, and it had never seemed so dear to me. "The +time for that is past," I said, my tone as calm and even as his own. "A +man like you cannot burden himself with a derelict like me--mast gone, +sails gone, water-logged, drifting. Five years from now you'll thank +me for what I am saying now. My place is with this other wreck--tossed +about by wind and weather until we both go down together." There came a +sharp, insistent ring at the door-bell. No answering sound came from the +regions above stairs. The ringing sounded again, louder than before. + +"I'll be the Buttons," said Blackie, and disappeared into the hallway. + +"Oh, yes, I've heard about you," came to our ears a moment later, in a +high, clear voice--a dear, beloved voice that sent me flying to the door +in an agony of hope. + +"Norah!" I cried, "Norah! Norah! Norah!" And as her blessed arms closed +about me the tears that had been denied me before came in a torrent of +joy. + +"There, there!" murmured she, patting my shoulder with those comforting +mother-pats. "What's all this about? And why didn't somebody meet me? I +telegraphed. You didn't get it? Well, I forgive you. Howdy-do, Peter? +I suppose you are Peter. I hope you haven't been acting devilish again. +That seems to be your specialty. Now don't smile that Mephistophelian +smile at me. It doesn't frighten me. Von Gerhard, take him down to his +hotel. I'm dying for my kimono and bed. And this child is trembling +like a race-horse. Now run along, all of you. Things that look +greenery-yallery at night always turn pink in the morning. Great +Heavens! There's somebody calling down from the second-floor landing. +It sounds like a landlady. Run, Dawn, and tell her your perfectly +respectable sister has come. Peter! Von Gerhard! Mr. Blackie! Shoo!" + + + + +CHAPTER XIX. A TURN OF THE WHEEL + + +"You who were ever alert to befriend a man You who were ever the first +to defend a man, You who had always the money to lend a man Down on his +luck and hard up for a V, Sure you'll be playing a harp in beatitude +(And a quare sight you will be in that attitude) Some day, where +gratitude seems but a platitude, You'll find your latitude." + +From my desk I could see Peter standing in the doorway of the news +editor's room. I shut my eyes for a moment. Then I opened them again, +quickly. No, it was not a dream. He was there, a slender, graceful, +hateful figure, with the inevitable cigarette in his unsteady +fingers--the expensive-looking, gold-tipped cigarette of the old days. +Peter was Peter. Ten years had made little difference. There were queer +little hollow places in his cheeks, and under the jaw-bone, and at the +base of the head, and a flabby, parchment-like appearance about the +skin. That was all that made him different from the Peter of the old +days. + +The thing had adjusted itself, as Norah had said it would. The situation +that had filled me with loathing and terror the night of Peter's return +had been transformed into quite a matter-of-fact and commonplace affair +under Norah's deft management. And now I was back in harness again, and +Peter was turning out brilliant political stuff at spasmodic intervals. +He was not capable of any sustained effort. He never would be again; +that was plain. He was growing restless and dissatisfied. He spoke +of New York as though it were Valhalla. He said that he hadn't seen a +pretty girl since he left Forty-second street. He laughed at Milwaukee's +quaint German atmosphere. He sneered at our journalistic methods, and +called the newspapers "country sheets," and was forever talking of the +World, and the Herald, and the Sun, until the men at the Press Club +fought shy of him. Norah had found quiet and comfortable quarters +for Peter in a boarding-house near the lake, and just a square or two +distant from my own boarding-house. He hated it cordially, as only the +luxury-loving can hate a boarding-house, and threatened to leave daily. + +"Let's go back to the big town, Dawn, old girl," he would say. "We're +buried alive in this overgrown Dutch village. I came here in the first +place on your account. Now it's up to you to get me out of it. Think of +what New York means! Think of what I've been! And I can write as well as +ever." + +But I always shook my head. "We would not last a month in New York, +Peter. New York has hurried on and left us behind. We're just two pieces +of discard. We'll have to be content where we are." + +"Content! In this silly hole! You must be mad!" Then, with one of his +unaccountable changes of tone and topic, "Dawn, let me have some +money. I'm strapped. If I had the time I'd get out some magazine stuff. +Anything to get a little extra coin. Tell me, how does that little +sport you call Blackie happen to have so much ready cash? I've never yet +struck him for a loan that he hasn't obliged me. I think he's sweet on +you, perhaps, and thinks he's doing you a sort of second-hand favor." + +At times such as these all the old spirit that I had thought dead within +me would rise up in revolt against this creature who was taking, from +me my pride, my sense of honor, my friends. I never saw Von Gerhard now. +Peter had refused outright to go to him for treatment, saying that he +wasn't going to be poisoned by any cursed doctor, particularly not by +one who had wanted to run away with his wife before his very eyes. + +Sometimes I wondered how long this could go on. I thought of the old +days with the Nirlangers; of Alma Pflugel's rose-encircled cottage; +of Bennie; of the Knapfs; of the good-natured, uncouth aborigines, +and their many kindnesses. I saw these dear people rarely now. Frau +Nirlanger's resignation to her unhappiness only made me rebel more +keenly against my own. + +If only Peter could become well and strong again, I told myself, +bitterly. If it were not for those blue shadows under his eyes, and the +shrunken muscles, and the withered skin, I could leave him to live +his life as he saw fit. But he was as dependent as a child, and as +capricious. What was the end to be? I asked myself. Where was it all +leading me? + +And then, in a fearful and wonderful manner, my question was answered. + +There came to my desk one day an envelope bearing the letter-head of +the publishing house to which I had sent my story. I balanced it for a +moment in my fingers, woman-fashion, wondering, hoping, surmising. + +"Of course they can't want it," I told myself, in preparation for any +disappointment that was in store for me. "They're sending it back. This +is the letter that will tell me so." + +And then I opened it. The words jumped out at me from the typewritten +page. I crushed the paper in my hands, and rushed into Blackie's little +office as I had been used to doing in the old days. He was at his desk, +pipe in mouth. I shook his shoulder and flourished the letter wildly, +and did a crazy little dance about his chair. + +"They want it! They like it! Not only that, they want another, as soon +as I can get it out. Think of it!" + +Blackie removed his pipe from between his teeth and wiped his lips with +the back of his hand. "I'm thinkin'," he said. "Anything t' oblige +you. When you're through shovin' that paper into my face would you mind +explainin' who wants what?" + +"Oh, you're so stupid! So slow! Can't you see that I've written a real +live book, and had it accepted, and that I am going to write another if +I have to run away from a whole regiment of husbands to do it properly? +Blackie, can't you see what it means! Oh, Blackie, I know I'm maudlin +in my joy, but forgive me. It's been so long since I've had the taste of +it." + +"Well, take a good chew while you got th'chance an' don't count too high +on this first book business. I knew a guy who wrote a book once, an' he +planned to take a trip to Europe on it, and build a house when he got +home, and maybe a yacht or so, if he wasn't too rushed. Sa-a-ay, +girl, w'en he got through gettin' those royalties for that book they'd +dwindled down to fresh wall paper for the dinin'-room, and a new gas +stove for his wife, an' not enough left over to take a trolley trip to +Oshkosh on. Don't count too high." + +"I'm not counting at all, Blackie, and you can't discourage me." + +"Don't want to. But I'd hate to see you come down with a thud." Suddenly +he sat up and a grin overspread his thin face. "Tell you what we'll do, +girlie. We'll celebrate. Maybe it'll be the last time. Let's pretend +this is six months ago, and everything's serene. You get your bonnet. +I'll get the machine. It's too hot to work, anyway. We'll take a spin +out to somewhere that's cool, and we'll order cold things to eat, and +cold things to drink, and you can talk about yourself till you're tired. +You'll have to take it out on somebody, an' it might as well be me." + +Five minutes later, with my hat in my hand, I turned to find Peter at my +elbow. + +"Want to talk to you," he said, frowning. + +"Sorry, Peter, but I can't stop. Won't it do later?" + +"No. Got an assignment? I'll go with you." + +"N-not exactly, Peter. The truth is, Blackie has taken pity on me and +has promised to take me out for a spin, just to cool off. It has been so +insufferably hot." + +Peter turned away. "Count me in on that," he said, over his shoulder. + +"But I can't, Peter," I cried. "It isn't my party. And anyway--" + +Peter turned around, and there was an ugly glow in his eyes and an ugly +look on his face, and a little red ridge that I had not noticed before +seemed to burn itself across his forehead. "And anyway, you don't want +me, eh? Well, I'm going. I'm not going to have my wife chasing all over +the country with strange men. Remember, you're not the giddy grass widdy +you used to be. You can take me, or stay at home, understand?" + +His voice was high-pitched and quavering. Something in his manner struck +a vague terror to my heart. "Why, Peter, if you care that much I shall +be glad to have you go. So will Blackie, I am sure. Come, we'll go down +now. He'll be waiting for us." + +Blackie's keen, clever mind grasped the situation as soon as he saw us +together. His dark face was illumined by one of his rare smiles. "Coming +with us, Orme? Do you good. Pile into the tonneau, you two, and hang on +to your hair. I'm going to smash the law." + +Peter sauntered up to the steering-wheel. "Let me drive," he said. "I'm +not bad at it." + +"Nix with the artless amateur," returned Blackie. "This ain't no +demonstration car. I drive my own little wagon when I go riding, and I +intend to until I take my last ride, feet first." + +Peter muttered something surly and climbed into the front seat next to +Blackie, leaving me to occupy the tonneau in solitary state. + +Peter began to ask questions--dozens of them, which Blackie answered, +patiently and fully. I could not hear all that they said, but I saw +that Peter was urging Blackie to greater speed, and that Blackie was +explaining that he must first leave the crowded streets behind. Suddenly +Peter made a gesture in the direction of the wheel, and said something +in a high, sharp voice. Blackie's answer was quick and decidedly in +the negative. The next instant Peter Orme rose in his place and leaning +forward and upward, grasped the wheel that was in Blackie's hands. The +car swerved sickeningly. I noticed, dully, that Blackie did not go white +as novelists say men do in moments of horror. A dull red flush crept to +the very base of his neck. With a twist of his frail body he tried to +throw off Peter's hands. I remember leaning over the back of the seat +and trying to pull Peter back as I realized that it was a madman with +whom we were dealing. Nothing seemed real. It was ridiculously like the +things one sees in the moving picture theaters. I felt no fear. + +"Sit down, Orme!" Blackie yelled. "You'll ditch us! Dawn! God!--" + +We shot down a little hill. Two wheels were lifted from the ground. The +machine was poised in the air for a second before it crashed into the +ditch and turned over completely, throwing me clear, but burying Blackie +and Peter under its weight of steel and wood and whirring wheels. + +I remember rising from the ground, and sinking back again and rising +once more to run forward to where the car lay in the ditch, and tugging +at that great frame of steel with crazy, futile fingers. Then I ran +screaming down the road toward a man who was tranquilly working in a +field nearby. + + + + +CHAPTER XX. BLACKIE'S VACATION COMES + +The shabby blue office coat hangs on the hook in the little sporting +room where Blackie placed it. No one dreams of moving it. There it +dangles, out at elbows, disreputable, its pockets burned from many a hot +pipe thrust carelessly into them, its cuffs frayed, its lapels bearing +the marks of cigarette, paste-pot and pen. + +It is that faded old garment, more than anything else, which makes +us fail to realize that its owner will never again slip into its +comfortable folds. We cannot believe that a lifeless rag like that can +triumph over the man of flesh and blood and nerves and sympathies. With +what contempt do we look upon those garments during our lifetime! And +how they live on, defying time, long, long after we have been gathered +to our last rest. + +In some miraculous manner Blackie had lived on for two days after that +ghastly ride. Peter had been killed instantly, the doctors said. They +gave no hope for Blackie. My escape with but a few ridiculous bruises +and scratches was due, they said, to the fact that I had sat in the +tonneau. I heard them all, in a stupor of horror and grief, and wondered +what plan Fate had in store for me, that I alone should have been +spared. Norah and Max came, and took things in charge, and I saw Von +Gerhard, but all three appeared dim and shadowy, like figures in a mist. +When I closed my eyes I could see Peter's tense figure bending over +Blackie at the wheel, and heard his labored breathing as he struggled in +his mad fury, and felt again the helpless horror that had come to me as +we swerved off the road and into the ditch below, with Blackie, rigid +and desperate, still clinging to the wheel. I lived it all over and +over in my mind. In the midst of the blackness I heard a sentence that +cleared the fog from my mind, and caused me to raise myself from my +pillows. + +Some one--Norah, I think--had said that Blackie was conscious, and that +he was asking for some of the men at the office, and for me. For me! I +rose and dressed, in spite of Norah's protests. I was quite well, I told +them. I must see him. I shook them off with trembling fingers and when +they saw that I was quite determined they gave in, and Von Gerhard +telephoned to the hospital to learn the hour at which I might meet the +others who were to see Blackie for a brief moment. + +I met them in the stiff little waiting room of he hospital--Norberg, +Deming, Schmidt, Holt--men who had known him from the time when they +had yelled, "Heh, boy!" at him when they wanted their pencils sharpened. +Awkwardly we followed the fleet-footed nurse who glided ahead of us +down the wide hospital corridors, past doorways through which we caught +glimpses of white beds that were no whiter than the faces that lay on +the pillows. We came at last into a very still and bright little room +where Blackie lay. + +Had years passed over his head since I saw him last? The face that tried +to smile at us from the pillow was strangely wizened and old. It was as +though a withering blight had touched it. Only the eyes were the same. +They glowed in the sunken face, beneath the shock of black hair, with a +startling luster and brilliancy. + +I do not know what pain he suffered. I do not know what magic medicine +gave him the strength to smile at us, dying as he was even then. + +"Well, what do you know about little Paul Dombey?" he piped in a high, +thin voice. The shock of relief was too much. We giggled hysterically, +then stopped short and looked at each other, like scared and naughty +children. + +"Sa-a-ay, boys and girls, cut out the heavy thinking parts. Don't make +me do all the social stunts. What's the news? What kind of a rotten +cotton sportin' sheet is that dub Callahan gettin' out? Who won +to-day--Cubs or Pirates? Norberg, you goat, who pinned that purple tie +on you?" + +He was so like the Blackie we had always known that we were at our ease +immediately. The sun shone in at the window, and some one laughed a +little laugh somewhere down the corridor, and Deming, who is Irish, +plunged into a droll description of a brand-new office boy who had +arrived that day. + +"S'elp me, Black, the kid wears spectacles and a Norfolk suit, and +low-cut shoes with bows on 'em. On the square he does. Looks like one of +those Boston infants you see in the comic papers. I don't believe he's +real. We're saving him until you get back, if the kids in the alley +don't chew him up before that time." + +An almost imperceptible shade passed over Blackie's face. He closed his +eyes for a moment. Without their light his countenance was ashen, and +awful. + +A nurse in stripes and cap appeared in the doorway. She looked keenly at +the little figure in the bed. Then she turned to us. + +"You must go now," she said. "You were just to see him for a minute or +two, you know." + +Blackie summoned the wan ghost of a smile to his lips. "Guess you guys +ain't got th' stimulatin' effect that a bunch of live wires ought to +have. Say, Norberg, tell that fathead, Callahan, if he don't keep the +third drawer t' the right in my desk locked, th' office kids'll swipe +all the roller rink passes surest thing you know." + +"I'll--tell him, Black," stammered Norberg, and turned away. + +They said good-by, awkwardly enough. Not one of them that did not owe +him an unpayable debt of gratitude. Not one that had not the memory of +some secret kindness stored away in his heart. It was Blackie who had +furnished the money that had sent Deming's sick wife west. It had +been Blackie who had rescued Schmidt time and again when drink got a +strangle-hold. Blackie had always said: "Fire Schmidt! Not much! Why, +Schmidt writes better stuff drunk than all the rest of the bunch sober." +And Schmidt would be granted another reprieve by the Powers that Were. + +Suddenly Blackie beckoned the nurse in the doorway. She came swiftly and +bent over him. + +"Gimme two minutes more, that's a good nursie. There's something I want +to say t' this dame. It's de rigger t' hand out last messages, ain't +it?" + +The nurse looked at me, doubtfully. "But you're not to excite yourself." + +"Sa-a-ay, girl, this ain't goin' t' be no scene from East Lynne. Be a +good kid. The rest of the bunch can go." + +And so, when the others had gone, I found myself seated at the side of +his bed, trying to smile down at him. I knew that there must be nothing +to excite him. But the words on my lips would come. + +"Blackie," I said, and I struggled to keep my voice calm and +emotionless, "Blackie, forgive me. It is all my fault--my wretched +fault." + +"Now, cut that," interrupted Blackie. "I thought that was your game. +That's why I said I wanted t' talk t' you. Now, listen. Remember my +tellin' you, a few weeks ago, 'bout that vacation I was plannin'? This +is it, only it's come sooner than I expected, that's all. I seen two +three doctor guys about it. Your friend Von Gerhard was one of 'em. +They didn't tell me t' take no ocean trip this time. Between 'em, they +decided my vacation would come along about November, maybe. Well, I beat +'em to it, that's all. Sa-a-ay, girl, I ain't kickin'. You can't live on +your nerves and expect t' keep goin'. Sooner or later you'll be suein' +those same nerves for non-support. But, kid, ain't it a shame that I +got to go out in a auto smashup, in these days when even a airship exit +don't make a splash on the front page!" + +The nervous brown hand was moving restlessly over the covers. Finally it +met my hand, and held it in a tense little grip. + +"We've been good pals, you and me, ain't we, kid?" + +"Yes, Blackie." + +"Ain't regretted it none?" + +"Regretted it! I am a finer, truer, better woman for having known you, +Blackie." + +He gave a little contented sigh at that, and his eyes closed. When he +opened them the old, whimsical smile wrinkled his face. + +"This is where I get off at. It ain't been no long trip, but sa-a-ay, +girl, I've enjoyed every mile of the road. All kinds of scenery--all +kinds of lan'scape--plain--fancy--uphill--downhill--" + +I leaned forward, fearfully. + +"Not--yet," whispered Blackie. "Say Dawn--in the story +books--they--always--are strong on the--good-by kiss, what?" + +And as the nurse appeared in the doorway again, disapproval on her face, +I stooped and gently pressed my lips to the pain-lined cheek. + + + + +CHAPTER XXI. HAPPINESS + +We laid Peter to rest in that noisy, careless, busy city that he had +loved so well, and I think his cynical lips would have curled in a +bitterly amused smile, and his somber eyes would have flamed into sudden +wrath if he could have seen how utterly and completely New York had +forgotten Peter Orme. He had been buried alive ten years before--and +Newspaper Row has no faith in resurrections. Peter Orme was not even a +memory. Ten years is an age in a city where epochs are counted by hours. + +Now, after two weeks of Norah's loving care, I was back in the pretty +little city by the lake. I had come to say farewell to all those who +had filled my life so completely in that year. My days of newspaper work +were over. The autumn and winter would be spent at Norah's, occupied +with hours of delightful, congenial work, for the second book was to be +written in the quiet peace of my own little Michigan town. Von Gerhard +was to take his deferred trip to Vienna in the spring, and I knew that +I was to go with him. The thought filled my heart with a great flood of +happiness. + +Together Von Gerhard and I had visited Alma Pflugel's cottage, and the +garden was blooming in all its wonder of color and scent as we opened +the little gate and walked up the worn path. We found them in the cool +shade of the arbor, the two women sewing, Bennie playing with the +last wonderful toy that Blackie had given him. They made a serene and +beautiful picture there against the green canopy of the leaves. We spoke +of Frau Nirlanger, and of Blackie, and of the strange snarl of events +which had at last been unwound to knit a close friendship between us. +And when I had kissed them and walked for the last time in many months +up the flower-bordered path, the scarlet and pink, and green and gold of +that wonderful garden swam in a mist before my eyes. + +Frau Nirlanger was next. When we spoke of Vienna she caught her breath +sharply. + +"Vienna!" she repeated, and the longing in her voice was an actual +pain. "Vienna! Gott! Shall I ever see it again? Vienna! My boy is there. +Perhaps--" + +"Perhaps," I said, gently. "Stranger things have happened. Perhaps if +I could see them, and talk to them--if I could tell them--they might be +made to understand. I haven't been a newspaper reporter all these +years without acquiring a golden gift of persuasiveness. Perhaps--who +knows?--we may meet again in Vienna. Stranger things have happened." + +Frau Nirlanger shook her head with a little hopeless sigh. "You do not +know Vienna; you do not know the iron strength of caste, and custom and +stiff-necked pride. I am dead in Vienna. And the dead should rest in +peace." + +It was late in the afternoon when Von Gerhard and I turned the corner +which led to the building that held the Post. I had saved that for the +last. + +"I hope that heaven is not a place of golden streets, and twanging harps +and angel choruses," I said, softly. "Little, nervous, slangy, restless +Blackie, how bored and ill at ease he would be in such a heaven! How +lonely, without his old black pipe, and his checked waistcoats, and +his diamonds, and his sporting extra. Oh, I hope they have all those +comforting, everyday things up there, for Blackie's sake." + +"How you grew to understand him in that short year," mused Von Gerhard. +"I sometimes used to resent the bond between you and this little Blackie +whose name was always on your tongue." + +"Ah, that was because you did not comprehend. It is given to very few +women to know the beauty of a man's real friendship. That was the bond +between Blackie and me. To me he was a comrade, and to him I was a +good-fellow girl--one to whom he could talk without excusing his pipe +or cigarette. Love and love-making were things to bring a kindly, amused +chuckle from Blackie." + +Von Gerhard was silent. Something in his silence held a vague irritation +for me. I extracted a penny from my purse, and placed it in his hand. + +"I was thinking," he said, "that none are so blind as those who will not +see." + +"I don't understand," I said, puzzled. + +"That is well," answered Von Gerhard, as we entered the building. "That +is as it should be." And he would say nothing more. + +The last edition of the paper had been run off for the day. I had +purposely waited until the footfalls of the last departing reporter +should have ceased to echo down the long corridor. The city room was +deserted except for one figure bent over a pile of papers and proofs. +Norberg, the city editor, was the last to leave, as always. His desk +light glowed in the darkness of the big room, and his typewriter alone +awoke the echoes. + +As I stood in the doorway he peered up from beneath his green eye-shade, +and waved a cloud of smoke away with the palm of his hand. + +"That you, Mrs. Orme?" he called out. "Lord, we've missed you! That new +woman can't write an obituary, and her teary tales sound like they were +carved with a cold chisel. When are you coming back?" + +"I'm not coming back," I replied. "I've come to say good-by to you +and--Blackie." + +Norberg looked up quickly. "You feel that way, too? Funny. So do the +rest of us. Sometimes I think we are all half sure that it is only +another of his impish tricks, and that some morning he will pop open the +door of the city room here and call out, 'Hello, slaves! Been keepin' m' +memory green?'" + +I held out my hand to him, gratefully. He took it in his great palm, +and a smile dimpled his plump cheeks. "Going to blossom into a regular +little writer, h'm? Well, they say it's a paying game when you get the +hang of it. And I guess you've got it. But if ever you feel that you +want a real thrill--a touch of the old satisfying newspaper feeling--a +sniff of wet ink--the music of some editorial cussing--why come up here +and I'll give you the hottest assignment on my list, if I have to take +it away from Deming's very notebook." + +When I had thanked him I crossed the hall and tried the door of the +sporting editor's room. Von Gerhard was waiting for me far down at the +other end of the corridor. The door opened and I softly entered and shut +it again. The little room was dim, but in the half-light I could see +that Callahan had changed something--had shoved a desk nearer the +window, or swung the typewriter over to the other side. I resented it. I +glanced up at the corner where the shabby old office coat had been wont +to hang. There it dangled, untouched, just as he had left it. Callahan +had not dared to change that. I tip-toed over to the corner and touched +it gently with my fingers. A light pall of dust had settled over the +worn little garment, but I knew each worn place, each ink-spot, each +scorch or burn from pipe or cigarette. I passed my hands over it +reverently and gently, and then, in the dimness of that quiet little +room I laid my cheek against the rough cloth, so that the scent of the +old black pipe came back to me once more, and a new spot appeared on the +coat sleeve--a damp, salt spot. Blackie would have hated my doing that. +But he was not there to see, and one spot more or less did not matter; +it was such a grimy, disreputable old coat. + +"Dawn!" called Von Gerhard softly, outside the door. "Dawn! Coming, +Kindchen?" + +I gave the little coat a parting pat. "Goodby," I whispered, under my +breath, and turned toward the door. + +"Coming!" 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If you + don't derive profits, no royalty is due. Royalties are + payable to "Project Gutenberg Association/Carnegie-Mellon + University" within the 60 days following each + date you prepare (or were legally required to prepare) + your annual (or equivalent periodic) tax return. + +WHAT IF YOU *WANT* TO SEND MONEY EVEN IF YOU DON'T HAVE TO? +The Project gratefully accepts contributions in money, time, +scanning machines, OCR software, public domain etexts, royalty +free copyright licenses, and every other sort of contribution +you can think of. Money should be paid to "Project Gutenberg +Association / Carnegie-Mellon University". + +*END*THE SMALL PRINT! FOR PUBLIC DOMAIN ETEXTS*Ver.04.29.93*END* + + + + + +This etext was prepared with the use of Calera WordScan Plus 2.0 + + + + + +DAWN O'HARA +THE GIRL WHO LAUGHED + +by EDNA FERBER + + + + +TO MY DEAR MOTHER +WHO FREQUENTLY INTERRUPTS +AND TO +MY SISTER FANNIE +WHO SAYS "SH-SH-SH!" OUTSIDE MY DOOR + + + + +CONTENTS + + +I THE SMASH-UP +II MOSTLY EGGS +III GOOD As NEW +IV DAWN DEVELOPS A HEIMWEH +V THE ABSURD BECOMES SERIOUS +VI STEEPED IN GERMAN +VII BLACKIE'S PHILOSOPHY +VIII KAFFEE AND KAFFEEKUCHEN +IX THE LADY FROM VIENNA +X A TRAGEDY OF GOWNS +XI VON GERHARD SPEAKS +XII BENNIE THE CONSOLER +XIII THE TEST +XIV BENNIE AND THE CHARMING OLD MAID +XV FAREWELL TO KNAPFS' +XVI JUNE MOONLIGHT, AND A NEW BOARDING HOUSE +XVII THE SHADOW OF TERROR +XVIII PETER ORME +XIX A TURN OF THE WHEEL +XX BLACKIE'S VACATION COMES +XXI HAPPINESS + + + + +DAWN O'HARA + + + + +CHAPTER I + + +THE SMASH-UP + + +There are a number of things that are pleasanter than +being sick in a New York boarding-house when one's +nearest dearest is a married sister up in far-away +Michigan. + +Some one must have been very kind, for there were +doctors, and a blue-and-white striped nurse, and bottles +and things. There was even a vase of perky carnations-- +scarlet ones. I discovered that they had a trick of +nodding their heads, saucily. The discovery did not +appear to surprise me. + +"Howdy-do!" said I aloud to the fattest and reddest +carnation that overtopped all the rest. "How in the +world did you get in here?" + +The striped nurse (I hadn't noticed her before) rose +from some corner and came swiftly over to my bedside, +taking my wrist between her fingers. + +"I'm very well, thank you," she said, smiling, "and +I came in at the door, of course." + +"I wasn't talking to you," I snapped, crossly, "I was +speaking to the carnations; particularly to that elderly +one at the top--the fat one who keeps bowing and wagging +his head at me." + +"Oh, yes," answered the striped nurse, politely, "of +course. That one is very lively, isn't he? But suppose +we take them out for a little while now." + +She picked up the vase and carried it into the +corridor, and the carnations nodded their heads more +vigorously than ever over her shoulder. + +I heard her call softly to some one. The some one +answered with a sharp little cry that sounded like, +"Conscious!" + +The next moment my own sister Norah came quietly into +the room, and knelt at the side of my bed and took me in +her arms. It did not seem at all surprising that she +should be there, patting me with reassuring little love +pats, murmuring over me with her lips against my check, +calling me a hundred half-forgotten pet names that I had +not heard for years. But then, nothing seemed to +surprise me that surprising day. Not even the sight of +a great, red-haired, red-faced, scrubbed looking man who +strolled into the room just as Norah was in the midst of +denouncing newspapers in general, and my newspaper in +particular, and calling the city editor a slave-driver and +a beast. The big, red-haired man stood regarding us tolerantly. + +"Better, eh?" said he, not as one who asks a +question, but as though in confirmation of a thought. +Then he too took my wrist between his fingers. His touch +was very firm and cool. After that he pulled down my +eyelids and said, "H'm." Then he patted my cheek smartly +once or twice. "You'll do," he pronounced. He picked up +a sheet of paper from the table and looked it over, +keen-eyed. There followed a clinking of bottles and +glasses, a few low-spoken words to the nurse, and then, +as she left the room the big red-haired man seated +himself heavily in the chair near the bedside and rested +his great hands on his fat knees. He stared down at me +in much the same way that a huge mastiff looks at a +terrier. Finally his glance rested on my limp left hand. + +"Married, h'm?" + +For a moment the word would not come. I could hear +Norah catch her breath quickly. Then--"Yes," answered I. + +"Husband living?" I could see suspicion dawning in +his cold gray eye. + +Again the catch in Norah's throat and a little half +warning, half supplicating gesture. And again, "Yes," +said I. + +The dawn of suspicion burst into full glow. + +"Where is he?" growled the red-haired doctor. "At a +time like this?" + +I shut my eyes for a moment, too sick at heart to +resent his manner. I could feel, more than see, that Sis +was signaling him frantically. I moistened my lips and +answered him, bitterly. + +"He is in the Starkweather Hospital for the insane." + +When the red-haired man spoke again the growl was +quite gone from his voice. + +"And your home is--where?" + +"Nowhere," I replied meekly, from my pillow. But at +that Sis put her hand out quickly, as though she had been +struck, and said: + +"My home is her home." + +"Well then, take her there," he ordered, frowning, +"and keep her there as long as you can. Newspaper +reporting, h'm? In New York? That's a devil of a job +for a woman. And a husband who . . . Well, you'll have +to take a six months' course in loafing, young woman. +And at the end of that time, if you are still determined +to work, can't you pick out something easier--like taking +in scrubbing, for instance?" + +I managed a feeble smile, wishing that he would go +away quickly, so that I might sleep. He seemed to divine +my thoughts, for he disappeared into the corridor, taking +Norah with him. Their voices, low-pitched and carefully +guarded, could be heard as they conversed outside my +door. + +Norah was telling him the whole miserable business. +I wished, savagely, that she would let me tell it, if it +must be told. How could she paint the fascination of the +man who was my husband? She had never known the charm of +him as I had known it in those few brief months before +our marriage. She had never felt the caress of his +voice, or the magnetism of his strange, smoldering eyes +glowing across the smoke-dimmed city room as I had felt +them fixed on me. No one had ever known what he had +meant to the girl of twenty, with her brain full of +unspoken dreams--dreams which were all to become glorious +realities in that wonder-place, New York. + +How he had fired my country-girl imagination! He had +been the most brilliant writer on the big, brilliant +sheet--and the most dissolute. How my heart had pounded +on that first lonely day when this Wonder-Being looked up +from his desk, saw me, and strolled over to where I sat +before my typewriter! He smiled down at me, companionably. +I'm quite sure that my mouth must have been wide open with +surprise. He had been smoking a cigarette an +expensive-looking, gold-tipped one. Now he removed it +from between his lips with that hand that always shook a +little, and dropped it to the floor, crushing it lightly +with the toe of his boot. He threw back his handsome +head and sent out the last mouthful of smoke in a thin, +lazy spiral. I remember thinking what a pity it was that +he should have crushed that costly-looking cigarette, +just for me. + +"My name's Orme," he said, gravely. "Peter Orme. +And if yours isn't Shaughnessy or Burke at least, then +I'm no judge of what black hair and gray eyes stand for." + +"Then you're not," retorted I, laughing up at him, +"for it happens to be O'Hara--Dawn O'Hara, if ye plaze." + +He picked up a trifle that lay on my desk--a pencil, +perhaps, or a bit of paper--and toyed with it, absently, +as though I had not spoken. I thought he had not heard, +and I was conscious of feeling a bit embarrassed, and +very young. Suddenly he raised his smoldering eyes to +mine, and I saw that they had taken on a deeper glow. +His white, even teeth showed in a half smile. + +"Dawn O'Hara," said he, slowly, and the name had +never sounded in the least like music before, "Dawn +O'Hara. It sounds like a rose--a pink blush rose that is +deeper pink at its heart, and very sweet." + +He picked up the trifle with which he had been toying +and eyed it intently for a moment, as though his whole +mind were absorbed in it. Then he put it down, turned, +and walked slowly away. I sat staring after him like a +little simpleton, puzzled, bewildered, stunned. That had +been the beginning of it all. + +He had what we Irish call "a way wid him." I wonder +now why I did not go mad with the joy, and the pain, and +the uncertainty of it all. Never was a girl so dazzled, +so humbled, so worshiped, so neglected, so courted. He +was a creature of a thousand moods to torture one. What +guise would he wear to-day? Would he be gay, or dour, or +sullen, or teasing or passionate, or cold, or tender or +scintillating? I know that my hands were always cold, +and my cheeks were always hot, those days. + +He wrote like a modern Demosthenes, with +all political New York to quiver under his philippics. +The managing editor used to send him out on wonderful +assignments, and they used to hold the paper for his +stuff when it was late. Sometimes he would be gone for +days at a time, and when he returned the men would look +at him with a sort of admiring awe. And the city editor +would glance up from beneath his green eye-shade and call +out: + +"Say, Orme, for a man who has just wired in about a +million dollars' worth of stuff seems to me you don't +look very crisp and jaunty." + +"Haven't slept for a week," Peter Orme would growl, +and then he would brush past the men who were crowded +around him, and turn in my direction. And the old +hot-and-cold, happy, frightened, laughing, sobbing +sensation would have me by the throat again. + +Well, we were married. Love cast a glamour over his +very vices. His love of drink? A weakness which I would +transform into strength. His white hot flashes of +uncontrollable temper? Surely they would die down at my +cool, tender touch. His fits of abstraction and +irritability? Mere evidences of the genius within. Oh, +my worshiping soul was always alert with an excuse. + +And so we were married. He had quite tired +of me in less than a year, and the hand that had always +shaken a little shook a great deal now, and the fits of +abstraction and temper could be counted upon to appear +oftener than any other moods. I used to laugh, +sometimes, when I was alone, at the bitter humor of it +all. It was like a Duchess novel come to life. + +His work began to show slipshod in spots. They +talked to him about it and he laughed at them. Then, one +day, he left them in the ditch on the big story of the +McManus indictment, and the whole town scooped him, and +the managing editor told him that he must go. His lapses +had become too frequent. They would have to replace him +with a man not so brilliant, perhaps, but more reliable. + +I daren't think of his face as it looked when he came +home to the little apartment and told me. The smoldering +eyes were flaming now. His lips were flecked with a sort +of foam. I stared at him in horror. He strode over to +me, clasped his fingers about my throat and shook me as +a dog shakes a mouse. + +"Why don't you cry, eh?" he snarled. Why don't you +cry!" + +And then I did cry out at what I saw in his eyes. I +wrenched myself free, fled to my room, and locked the +door and stood against it with my hand pressed over my +heart until I heard the outer door slam and the echo of +his footsteps die away. + +Divorce! That was my only salvation. No, that would +be cowardly now. I would wait until he was on his feet +again, and then I would demand my old free life back once +more. This existence that was dragging me into the +gutter--this was not life! Life was a glorious, +beautiful thing, and I would have it yet. I laid my +plans, feverishly, and waited. He did not come back that +night, or the next, or the next, or the next. In +desperation I went to see the men at the office. No, +they had not seen him. Was there anything that they +could do? they asked. I smiled, and thanked them, and +said, oh, Peter was so absent-minded! No doubt he had +misdirected his letters, or something of the sort. And +then I went back to the flat to resume the horrible +waiting. + +One week later he turned up at the old office which +had cast him off. He sat down at his former desk and +began to write, breathlessly, as he used to in the days +when all the big stories fell to him. One of the men +reporters strolled up to him and touched him on the +shoulder, man-fashion. Peter Orme raised his head and +stared at him, and the man sprang back in terror. +The smoldering eyes had burned down to an ash. +Peter Orme was quite bereft of all reason. They took him +away that night, and I kept telling myself that it wasn't +true; that it was all a nasty dream, and I would wake up +pretty soon, and laugh about it, and tell it at the +breakfast table. + +Well, one does not seek a divorce from a husband who +is insane. The busy men on the great paper were very +kind. They would take me back on the staff. Did I think +that I still could write those amusing little human +interest stories? Funny ones, you know, with a punch in +'em. + +Oh, plenty of good stories left in me yet, I assured +them. They must remember that I was only twenty-one, +after all, and at twenty-one one does not lose the sense +of humor. + +And so I went back to my old desk, and wrote bright, +chatty letters home to Norah, and ground out very funny +stories with a punch in 'em, that the husband in the +insane asylum might be kept in comforts. With both hands +I hung on like grim death to that saving sense of humor, +resolved to make something of that miserable mess which +was my life--to make something of it yet. And now-- + +At this point in my musings there was an end +of the low-voiced conversation in the hall. Sis tiptoed +in and looked her disapproval at finding me sleepless. + +"Dawn, old girlie, this will never do. Shut your +eyes now, like a good child, and go to sleep. Guess what +that great brute of a doctor said! I may take you home +with me next week! Dawn dear, you will come, won't you? +You must! This is killing you. Don't make me go away +leaving you here. I couldn't stand it." + +She leaned over my pillow and closed my eyelids +gently with her sweet, cool fingers. "You are coming +home with me, and you shall sleep and eat, and sleep and +eat, until you are as lively as the Widow Malone, ohone, +and twice as fat. Home, Dawnie dear, where we'll forget +all about New York. Home, with me." + +I reached up uncertainly, and brought her hand down +to my lips and a great peace descended upon my sick soul. +"Home--with you," I said, like a child, and fell asleep. + + + + +CHAPTER II + + +MOSTLY EGGS + + +Oh, but it was clean, and sweet, and wonderfully +still, that rose-and-white room at Norah's! No street +cars to tear at one's nerves with grinding brakes and +clanging bells; no tramping of restless feet on the +concrete all through the long, noisy hours; no shrieking +midnight joy-riders; not one of the hundred sounds which +make night hideous in the city. What bliss to lie there, +hour after hour, in a delicious half-waking, +half-sleeping, wholly exquisite stupor, only rousing +myself to swallow egg-nogg No. 426, and then to flop back +again on the big, cool pillow! + +New York, with its lights, its clangor, its millions, +was only a far-away, jumbled nightmare. The office, with +its clacking typewriters, its insistent, nerve-racking +telephone bells, its systematic rush, its smoke-dimmed +city room, was but an ugly part of the dream. + +Back to that inferno of haste and scramble and +clatter? Never! Never! I resolved, drowsily. And +dropped off to sleep again. + +And the sheets. Oh, those sheets of Norah's! Why, +they were white, instead of gray! And they actually +smelled of flowers. For that matter, there were rosebuds +on the silken coverlet. It took me a week to get chummy +with that rosebud-and-down quilt. I had to explain +carefully to Norah that after a half-dozen years of +sleeping under doubtful boarding-house blankets one does +not so soon get rid of a shuddering disgust for coverings +which are haunted by the ghosts of a hundred unknown +sleepers. Those years had taught me to draw up the sheet +with scrupulous care, to turn it down, and smooth it +over, so that no contaminating and woolly blanket should +touch my skin. The habit stuck even after Norah had +tucked me in between her fragrant sheets. Automatically +my hands groped about, arranging the old protecting +barrier. + +"What's the matter, Fuss-fuss?" inquired Norah, +looking on. "That down quilt won't bite you; what an old +maid you are!" + +"Don't like blankets next to my face," I elucidated, +sleepily, "never can tell who slept under 'em last--" + +You cat!" exclaimed Norah, making a little rush at +me. "If you weren't supposed to be ill I'd +shake you! Comparing my darling rosebud quilt to your +miserable gray blankets! Just for that I'll make you eat +an extra pair of eggs." + +There never was a sister like Norah. But then, who +ever heard of a brother-in-law like Max? No woman--not +even a frazzled-out newspaper woman--could receive the +love and care that they gave me, and fail to flourish +under it. They had been Dad and Mother to me since the +day when Norah had tucked me under her arm and carried me +away from New York. Sis was an angel; a comforting, +twentieth-century angel, with white apron strings for +wings, and a tempting tray in her hands in place of the +hymn books and palm leaves that the picture-book angels +carry. She coaxed the inevitable eggs and beef into more +tempting forms than Mrs. Rorer ever guessed at. She +could disguise those two plain, nourishing articles of +diet so effectually that neither hen nor cow would have +suspected either of having once been part of her anatomy. +Once I ate halfway through a melting, fluffy, +peach-bedecked plate of something before I discovered +that it was only another egg in disguise. + +"Feel like eating a great big dinner to-day, Kidlet? +"Norah would ask in the morning as she stood at my bedside +(with a glass of egg-something in her hand, of course). + +"Eat!"--horror and disgust shuddering through my +voice--"Eat! Ugh! Don't s-s-speak of it to me. And for +pity's sake tell Frieda to shut the kitchen door when you +go down, will you? I can smell something like ugh!--like +pot roast, with gravy!" And I would turn my face to the +wall. + +Three hours later I would hear Sis coming softly up +the stairs, accompanied by a tinkling of china and glass. +I would face her, all protest. + +"Didn't I tell you, Sis, that I couldn't eat a +mouthful? Not a mouthf--um-m-m-m! How perfectly +scrumptious that looks! What's that affair in the +lettuce leaf? Oh, can't I begin on that divine-looking +pinky stuff in the tall glass? H'm? Oh, please!" + +"I thought--" Norah would begin; and then she would +snigger softly. + +"Oh, well, that was hours ago," I would explain, +loftily. "Perhaps I could manage a bite or two now." + +Whereupon I would demolish everything except the +china and doilies. + +It was at this point on the road to recovery, just +halfway between illness and health, that Norah and Max +brought the great and unsmiling Von Gerhard on the scene. +It appeared that even New York was respectfully aware of +Von Gerhard, the nerve specialist, in spite of the fact +that he lived in Milwaukee. The idea of bringing him up +to look at me occurred to Max quite suddenly. I think it +was on the evening that I burst into tears when Max +entered the room wearing a squeaky shoe. The Weeping +Walrus was a self-contained and tranquil creature +compared to me at that time. The sight of a fly on the +wall was enough to make me burst into a passion of sobs. + +"I know the boy to steady those shaky nerves of +yours, Dawn," said Max, after I had made a shamefaced +apology for my hysterical weeping, "I'm going to have Von +Gerhard up here to look at you. He can run up Sunday, +eh, Norah?" + +"Who's Von Gerhard?" I inquired, out of the depths of +my ignorance. "Anyway, I won't have him. I'll bet he +wears a Vandyke and spectacles." + +"Von Gerhard!" exclaimed Norah, indignantly. "You +ought to be thankful to have him look at you, even if he +wears goggles and a flowing beard. Why, even that +red-haired New York doctor of yours cringed and looked +impressed when I told him that Von Gerhard was +a friend of my husband's, and that they had been comrades +at Heidelberg. I must have mentioned him dozens of times +in my letters." + +"Never." + +"Queer," commented Max, "he runs up here every now +and then to spend a quiet Sunday with Norah and me and +the Spalpeens. Says it rests him. The kids swarm all +over him, and tear him limb from limb. It doesn't look +restful, but he says it's great. I think he came here +from Berlin just after you left for New York, Dawn. +Milwaukee fits him as if it had been made for him." + +"But you're not going to drag this wonderful being up +here just for me!" I protested, aghast. + +Max pointed an accusing finger at me from the +doorway. "Aren't you what the bromides call a bundle of +nerves? And isn't Von Gerhard's specialty untying just +those knots? I'll write to him to-night." + +And he did. And Von Gerhard came. The Spalpeens +watched for him, their noses flattened against the +window-pane, for it was raining. As he came up the path +they burst out of the door to meet him. From my bedroom +window I saw him come prancing up the walk like a boy, +with the two children clinging to his coat-tails, all +three quite unmindful of the rain, and yelling like +Comanches. + + +Ten minutes later he had donned his professional +dignity, entered my room, and beheld me in all my limp +and pea-green beauty. I noted approvingly that he had to +stoop a bit as he entered the low doorway, and that the +Vandyke of my prophecy was missing. + +He took my hand in his own steady, reassuring clasp. +Then he began to talk. Half an hour sped away while we +discussed New York--books--music--theatres--everything +and anything but Dawn O'Hara. I learned later that as we +chatted he was getting his story, bit by bit, from every +twitch of the eyelids, from every gesture of the hands +that had grown too thin to wear the hateful ring; from +every motion of the lips; from the color of my nails; +from each convulsive muscle; from every shadow, and +wrinkle and curve and line of my face. + +Suddenly he asked: "Are you making the proper effort +to get well? You try to conquer those jumping nerfs, +yes?" + +I glared at him. "Try! I do everything. I'd eat +woolly worms if I thought they might benefit me. If ever +a girl has minded her big sister and her doctor, that +girl is I. I've eaten everything from pate de foie gras +to raw beef, and I've drunk everything from blood to +champagne." + +"Eggs? " queried Von Gerhard, as though making a +happy suggestion. + +"Eggs!" I snorted. "Eggs! Thousands of 'em! Eggs +hard and soft boiled, poached and fried, scrambled and +shirred, eggs in beer and egg-noggs, egg lemonades and +egg orangeades, eggs in wine and eggs in milk, and eggs +au naturel. I've lapped up iron-and-wine, and whole +rivers of milk, and I've devoured rare porterhouse and +roast beef day after day for weeks. So! Eggs!" + +"Mein Himmel!" ejaculated he, fervently, "And you +still live!" A suspicion of a smile dawned in his eyes. +I wondered if he ever laughed. I would experiment. + +"Don't breathe it to a soul," I whispered, +tragically, "but eggs, and eggs alone, are turning my +love for my sister into bitterest hate. She stalks me +the whole day long, forcing egg mixtures down my +unwilling throat. She bullies me. I daren't put out my +hand suddenly without knocking over liquid refreshment in +some form, but certainly with an egg lurking in its +depths. I am so expert that I can tell an egg orangeade +from an egg lemonade at a distance of twenty yards, with +my left hand tied behind me,and one eye shut, and my feet +in a sack." + +"You can laugh, eh? Well, that iss good," commented +the grave and unsmiling one. + +"Sure," answered I, made more flippant by his +solemnity. "Surely I can laugh. For what else was my +father Irish? Dad used to say that a sense of humor was +like a shillaly--an iligent thing to have around handy, +especially when the joke's on you." + +The ghost of a twinkle appeared again in the corners +of the German blue eyes. Some fiend of rudeness seized +me. + +"Laugh!" I commanded. + +Dr. Ernst von Gerhard stiffened. "Pardon?" inquired +he, as one who is sure that he has misunderstood. + +"Laugh!" I snapped again. "I'll dare you to do it. +I'll double dare you! You dassen't!" + +But he did. After a moment's bewildered surprise he +threw back his handsome blond head and gave vent to a +great, deep infectious roar of mirth that brought the +Spalpeens tumbling up the stairs in defiance of their +mother's strict instructions. + +After that we got along beautifully. He +turned out to be quite human, beneath the outer crust of +reserve. He continued his examination only after bribing +the Spalpeens shamefully, so that even their rapacious +demands were satisfied, and they trotted off contentedly. + +There followed a process which reduced me to a +giggling heap but which Von Gerhard carried out +ceremoniously. It consisted of certain raps at my knees, +and shins, and elbows, and fingers, and certain commands +to--"look at my finger! Look at the wall! Look at my +finger! Look at the wall!" + +"So!" said Von Gerhard at last, in a tone of +finality. I sank my battered frame into the nearest +chair. "This--this newspaper work--it must cease." He +dismissed it with a wave of the hand. + +"Certainly," I said, with elaborate sarcasm. "How +should you advise me to earn my living in the future? +In the stories they paint dinner cards, don't +they? or bake angel cakes?" + +"Are you then never serious?" asked Von Gerhard, in +disapproval. + +"Never," said I. "An old, worn-out, worked-out +newspaper reporter, with a husband in the mad-house, +can't afford to be serious for a minute, because if she +were she'd go mad, too, with the hopelessness of it all." +And I buried my face in my hands. + +The room was very still for a moment. Then the great +Von Gerhard came over, and took my hands gently from my +face. "I--I do beg your pardon," he said. He looked +strangely boyish and uncomfortable as he said it. "I was +thinking only of your good. We do that, sometimes, +forgetting that circumstances may make our wishes +impossible of execution. So. You will forgive me?" + +"Forgive you? Yes,indeed," I assured him. And we shook +hands, gravely. "But that doesn't help matters much, +after all, does it?" + +"Yes, it helps. For now we understand one another, +is it not so? You say you can only write for a living. +Then why not write here at home? Surely these years of +newspaper work have given you a great knowledge of human +nature. Then too, there is your gift of humor. Surely +that is a combination which should make your work +acceptable to the magazines. Never in my life have I +seen so many magazines as here in the United States. But +hundreds! Thousands!" + +"Me!" I exploded--"A real writer lady! No more +interviews with actresses! No more slushy Sunday +specials! No more teary tales! Oh, my! +When may I begin? To-morrow? You know I brought my +typewriter with me. I've almost forgotten where the +letters are on the keyboard." + +"Wait, wait; not so fast! In a month or two, +perhaps. But first must come other things outdoor +things. Also housework." + +"Housework!" I echoed, feebly. + +"Naturlich. A little dusting, a little scrubbing, +a little sweeping, a little cooking. The finest kind of +indoor exercise. Later you may write a little--but very +little. Run and play out of doors with the children. +When I see you again you will have roses in your cheeks +like the German girls, yes?" + +"Yes," I echoed, meekly, "I wonder how Frieda will +like my elephantine efforts at assisting with the +housework. If she gives notice, Norah will be lost to +you." + +But Frieda did not give notice. After I had helped +her clean the kitchen and the pantry I noticed an +expression of deepest pity overspreading her lumpy +features. The expression became almost one of agony as +she watched me roll out some noodles for soup, and delve +into the sticky mysteries of a new kind of cake. + +Max says that for a poor working girl who +hasn't had time to cultivate the domestic graces, my +cakes are a distinct triumph. Sis sniffs at that, and +mutters something about cups of raisins and nuts and +citron hiding a multitude of batter sins. She never +allows the Spalpeens to eat my cakes, and on my baking +days they are usually sent from the table howling. Norah +declares, severely, that she is going to hide the Green +Cook Book. The Green Cook Book is a German one. Norah +bought it in deference to Max's love of German cookery. +It is called Aunt Julchen's cook book, and the author, +between hints as to flour and butter, gets delightfully +chummy with her pupil. Her cakes are proud, rich cakes. +She orders grandly: + +"Now throw in the yolks of twelve eggs; one-fourth of +a pound of almonds; two pounds of raisins; a pound of +citron; a pound of orange-peel." + +As if that were not enough, there follow minor +instructions as to trifles like ounces of walnut meats, +pounds of confectioner's sugar, and pints of very rich +cream. When cold, to be frosted with an icing made up of +more eggs, more nuts, more cream, more everything. + +The children have appointed themselves official +lickers and scrapers of the spoons and icing pans, also +official guides on their auntie's walks. They regard +their Aunt Dawn as a quite ridiculous but altogether +delightful old thing. + +And Norah--bless her! looks up when I come in from a +romp with the Spalpeens and says: "Your cheeks are pink! +Actually! And you're losing a puff there at the back of +your ear, and your hat's on crooked. Oh, you are +beginning to look your old self, Dawn dear!" + +At which doubtful compliment I retort, recklessly: +"Pooh! What's a puff more or less, in a worthy cause? +And if you think my cheeks are pink now, just wait until +your mighty Von Gerhard comes again. By that time they +shall be so red and bursting that Frieda's, on wash day, +will look anemic by comparison. Say, Norah, how red are +German red cheeks, anyway?" + + + + + +CHAPTER III + + +GOOD AS NEW + +So Spring danced away, and Summer sauntered in. My +pillows looked less and less tempting. The wine of the +northern air imparted a cocky assurance. One +blue-and-gold day followed the other, and I spent hours +together out of doors in the sunshine, lying full length +on the warm, sweet ground, to the horror of the entire +neighborhood. To be sure, I was sufficiently discreet to +choose the lawn at the rear of the house. There I drank +in the atmosphere, as per doctor's instructions, while +the genial sun warmed the watery blood in my veins and +burned the skin off the end of my nose. + +All my life I had envied the loungers in the parks-- +those silent, inert figures that lie under the trees all +the long summer day, their shabby hats over their faces, +their hands clasped above their heads, legs sprawled in +uncouth comfort, while the sun dapples down between the +leaves and, like a good fairy godmother, touches their +frayed and wrinkled garments with flickering +figures of golden splendor, while they sleep. They +always seemed so blissfully care-free and at ease--those +sprawling men figures--and I, to whom such simple joys +were forbidden, being a woman, had envied them. + +Now I was reveling in that very joy, stretched prone +upon the ground, blinking sleepily up at the sun and the +cobalt sky, feeling my very hair grow, and health +returning in warm, electric waves. I even dared to cross +one leg over the other and to swing the pendant member +with nonchalant air, first taking a cautious survey of +the neighboring back windows to see if any one peeked. +Doubtless they did, behind those ruffled curtains, but I +grew splendidly indifferent. + +Even the crawling things--and there were myriads of +them--added to the enjoyment of my ease. With my ear so +close to the ground the grass seemed fairly to buzz with +them. Everywhere there were crazily busy ants, and I, +patently a sluggard and therefore one of those for whom +the ancient warning was intended, considered them lazily. +How they plunged about, weaving in and out, rushing here +and there, helter-skelter, like bargain-hunting women +darting wildly from counter to counter! + +"O, foolish, foolish anties!" I chided them, "stop +wearing yourselves out this way. Don't you know that the +game isn't worth the candle, and that you'll give +yourselves nervous jim-jams and then you'll have to go +home to be patched up? Look at me! I'm a horrible +example." + +But they only bustled on, heedless of my advice, and +showed their contempt by crawling over me as I lay there +like a lady Gulliver. + +Oh, I played what they call a heavy thinking part. +It was not only the ants that came in for lectures. I +preached sternly to myself. + +"Well, Dawn old girl, you've made a beautiful mess of +it. A smashed-up wreck at twenty-eight! And what have +you to show for it? Nothing! You're a useless pulp, +like a lemon that has been squeezed dry. Von Gerhard was +right. There must be no more newspaper work for you, me +girl. Not if you can keep away from the fascination of +it, which I don't think you can." + +Then I would fall to thinking of those years of +newspapering--of the thrills of them, and the ills of +them. It had been exhilarating, and educating, but +scarcely remunerative. Mother had never approved. Dad +had chuckled and said that it was a curse descended upon +me from the terrible old Kitty O'Hara, the only old maid +in the history of the O'Haras, and famed in her +day for a caustic tongue and a venomed pen. Dad and +Mother--what a pair of children they had been! The very +dissimilarity of their natures had been a bond between +them. Dad, light-hearted, whimsical, care-free, +improvident; Mother, gravely sweet, anxious-browed, +trying to teach economy to the handsome Irish husband +who, descendant of a long and royal line of spendthrift +ancestors, would have none of it. + +It was Dad who had insisted that they name me Dawn. +Dawn O'Hara! His sense of humor must have been sleeping. +"You were such a rosy, pinky, soft baby thing," Mother +had once told me, "that you looked just like the first +flush of light at sunrise. That is why your father +insisted on calling you Dawn." + +Poor Dad! How could he know that at twenty-eight I +would be a yellow wreck of a newspaper reporter--with a +wrinkle between my eyes. If he could see me now he would +say: + +"Sure, you look like the dawn yet, me girl but a +Pittsburgh dawn." + +At that, Mother, if she were here, would pat my check +where the hollow place is, and murmur: "Never mind, +Dawnie dearie, Mother thinks you are beautiful just the +same." Of such blessed stuff are mothers made. + +At this stage of the memory game I would bury my face +in the warm grass and thank my God for having taken +Mother before Peter Orme came into my life. And then I +would fall asleep there on the soft, sweet grass, with my +head snuggled in my arms, and the ants wriggling, +unchided, into my ears. + +On the last of these sylvan occasions I awoke, not +with a graceful start, like the story-book ladies, but +with a grunt. Sis was digging me in the ribs with her +toe. I looked up to see her standing over me, a foaming +tumbler of something in her hand. I felt that it was +eggy and eyed it disgustedly. + +"Get up," said she, "you lazy scribbler, and drink +this." + +I sat up, eyeing her severely and picking grass and +ants out of my hair. + +"D' you mean to tell me that you woke me out of that +babe-like slumber to make me drink that goo? What is it, +anyway? I'll bet it's another egg-nogg." + +"Egg-nogg it is; and swallow it right away, because +there are guests to see you." + +I emerged from the first dip into the yellow mixture +and fixed on her as stern and terrible a look at any one +can whose mouth is encircled by a mustache of yellow +foam. + +"Guests!" I roared, "not for me! Don't you dare to +say that they came to see me!" + +"Did too," insists Norah, with firmness, "they came +especially to see you. Asked for you, right from the +jump." + +I finished the egg-nogg in four gulps, returned the +empty tumbler with an air of decision, and sank upon the +grass. + +"Tell 'em I rave. Tell 'em that I'm unconscious, and +that for weeks I have recognized no one, not even my dear +sister. Say that in my present nerve-shattered condition +I--" + +"That wouldn't satisfy them," Norah calmly. +interrupts, "they know you're crazy because they saw you +out here from their second story back windows. That's +why they came. So you may as well get up and face them. +I promised them I'd bring you in. You can't go on +forever refusing to see people, and you know the Whalens +are--" + +"Whalens!" I gasped. "How many of them? Not--not +the entire fiendish three?" + +"All three. I left them champing with impatience." + +The Whalens live just around the corner. The Whalens +are omniscient. They have a system of news gathering +which would make the efforts of a New York daily appear +antiquated. They know that Jenny Laffin feeds the family +on soup meat and oat-meal when Mr. Laffin is on the road; +they know that Mrs. Pearson only shakes out her rugs once +in four weeks; they can tell you the number of times a +week that Sam Dempster comes home drunk; they know that +the Merkles never have cream with their coffee because +little Lizzie Merkle goes to the creamery every day with +just one pail and three cents; they gloat over the knowledge +that Professor Grimes, who is a married man, is sweet on +Gertie Ashe, who teaches second reader in his school; +they can tell you where Mrs. Black got her seal coat, and +her husband only earning two thousand a year; they know +who is going to run for mayor, and how long poor Angela +Sims has to live, and what Guy Donnelly said to Min when +he asked her to marry him. + +The three Whalens--mother and daughters--hunt in a +group. They send meaning glances to one another across +the room, and at parties they get together and exchange +bulletins in a corner. On passing the Whalen house one +is uncomfortably aware of shadowy forms lurking in the +windows, and of parlor curtains that are agitated for no +apparent cause. + +Therefore it was with a groan that I rose and +prepared to follow Norah into the house. Something in my +eye caused her to turn at the very door. "Don't you dare!" +she hissed; then, banishing the warning scowl from her face, +and assuming a near-smile, she entered the room and I +followed miserably at her heels. + +The Whalens rose and came forward effusively; Mrs. +Whalen, plump, dark, voluble; Sally, lean, swarthy, +vindictive; Flossie, pudgy, powdered, over-dressed. They +eyed me hungrily. I felt that they were searching my +features for signs of incipient insanity. + +"Dear, DEAR girl!" bubbled the billowy Flossie, +kissing the end of my nose and fastening her eye on my +ringless left hand. + +Sally contented herself with a limp and fishy +handshake. She and I were sworn enemies in our +school-girl days, and a baleful gleam still lurked in +Sally's eye. Mrs. Whalen bestowed on me a motherly hug +that enveloped me in an atmosphere of liquid face-wash, +strong perfumery and fried lard. Mrs. Whalen is a famous +cook. Said she: + +"We've been thinking of calling ever since you were +brought home, but dear me! you've been looking so poorly +I just said to the girls, wait till the poor thing feels +more like seeing her old friends. Tell me, how are you +feeling now?" + +The three sat forward in their chairs in attitudes of +tense waiting. + +I resolved that if err I must it should be on the +side of safety. I turned to sister Norah. + +"How am I feeling anyway, Norah?" I guardedly +inquired. + +Norah's face was a study. "Why Dawn dear," she said, +sugar-sweet, "no doubt you know better than I. But I'm +sure that you are wonderfully improved--almost your old +self, in fact. Don't you think she looks splendid, Mrs. +Whalen?" + +The three Whalens tore their gaze from my blank +countenance to exchange a series of meaning looks. + +"I suppose," purred Mrs. Whalen, " that your awful +trouble was the real cause of your--a-a-a-sickness, +worrying about it and grieving as you must have." + +She pronounces it with a capital T, and I know she +means Peter. I hate her for it. + +"Trouble!" I chirped. "Trouble never troubles me. +I just worked too hard, that's all, and acquired an awful +`tired.' All work and no play makes Jill a nervous +wreck, you know." + +At that the elephantine Flossie wagged a playful +finger at me. "Oh, now, you can't make us believe that, +just because we're from the country! We know all about +you gay New Yorkers, with your Bohemian ways and your +midnight studio suppers, and your cigarettes, and +cocktails and high jinks!" + +Memory painted a swift mental picture of Dawn O'Hara +as she used to tumble into bed after a whirlwind day at +the office, too dog-tired to give her hair even one half +of the prescribed one hundred strokes of the brush. But +in turn I shook a reproving forefinger at Flossie. + +"You've been reading some naughty society novel! One +of those millionaire-divorce-actress-automobile novels. +Dear, dear! Shall I, ever forget the first New York +actress I ever met; or what she said!" + +I felt, more than saw, a warning movement from Sis. +But the three Whalens had hitched forward in their +chairs. + +"What did she say?" gurgled Flossie. "Was it +something real reezk?" + +"Well, it was at a late supper--a studio supper given +in her honor," I confessed. + +"Yes-s-s-s " hissed the Whalens. + +"And this actress--she was one of those musical +comedy actresses, you know; I remember her part called +for a good deal of kicking about in a short Dutch +costume--came in rather late, after the performance. She +was wearing a regal-looking fur-edged evening wrap, and +she still wore all her make-up"--out of the corner of my +eye I saw Sis sink back with an air of resignation--"and +she threw open the door and said-- + +"Yes-s-s-s! " hissed the Whalens again, wetting their +lips. + +"--said: `Folks, I just had a wire from mother, up +in Maine. The boy has the croup. I'm scared green. I +hate to spoil the party, but don't ask me to stay. I +want to go home to the flat and blubber. I didn't even +stop to take my make-up off. My God! If anything should +happen to the boy!--Well, have a good time without me. +Jim's waiting outside.'" A silence. + +Then--"Who was Jim?" asked Flossie, hopefully. + +"Jim was her husband, of course. He was in the same +company." + +Another silence. + +"Is that all?" demanded Sally from the corner in +which she had been glowering. + +"All! You unnatural girl! Isn't one husband +enough?" + +Mrs. Whalen smiled an uncertain, wavering smile. +There passed among the three a series of cabalistic +signs. They rose simultaneously. + +"How quaint you are!" exclaimed Mrs. Whalen, "and so +amusing! Come girls, we mustn't tire Miss--ah--Mrs.-- +er--"with another meaning look at my bare left hand. + +"My husband's name is still Orme," I prompted, quite, +quite pleasantly. + +"Oh, certainly. I'm so forgetful. And one reads +such queer things in the newspapers nowa-days. Divorces, +and separations, and soul-mates and things." There was +a note of gentle insinuation in her voice. + +Norah stepped firmly into the fray. "Yes, doesn't +one? What a comfort it must be to you to know that your +dear girls are safe at home with you, and no doubt will +be secure, for years to come, from the buffeting winds of +matrimony." + +There was a tinge of purple in Mrs. Whalen's face as +she moved toward the door, gathering her brood about her. +"Now that dear Dawn is almost normal again I shall send +my little girlies over real often. She must find it very +dull here after her--ah--life in New York." + +"Not at all," I said, hurriedly, "not at all. You +see I'm--I'm writing a book. My entire day is occupied." + +"A book!" screeched the three. "How interesting! What +is it? When will it be published?" + +I avoided Norah's baleful eye as I answered their +questions and performed the final adieux. + +As the door closed, Norah and I faced each other, +glaring. + +"Hussies!" hissed Norah. Whereupon it struck us +funny and we fell, a shrieking heap, into the nearest +chair. Finally Sis dabbed at her eyes with her +handkerchief, drew a long breath, and asked, with +elaborate sarcasm, why I hadn't made it a play instead of +a book, while I was about it. + +"But I mean it," I declared. "I've had enough of +loafing. Max must unpack my typewriter to-night. I'm +homesick for a look at the keys. And to-morrow I'm to be +installed in the cubbyhole off the dining-room and I defy +any one to enter it on peril of their lives. If you +value the lives of your offspring, warn them away from +that door. Von Gerhard said that there was writing in my +system, and by the Great Horn Spoon and the Beard of the +Prophet, I'll have it out! Besides, I need the money. +Norah dear, how does one set about writing a book? It +seems like such a large order." + + + + +CHAPTER IV + + +DAWN DEVELOPS A HEIMWEH + +It's hard trying to develop into a real Writer Lady in +the bosom of one's family, especially when the family +refuses to take one seriously. Seven years of newspaper +grind have taught me the fallacy of trying to write by +the inspiration method. But there is such a thing as a +train of thought, and mine is constantly being derailed, +and wrecked and pitched about. + +Scarcely am I settled in my cubby-hole, typewriter +before me, the working plan of a story buzzing about in +my brain, when I hear my name called in muffled tones, as +though the speaker were laboring with a mouthful of +hairpins. I pay no attention. I have just given my +heroine a pair of calm gray eyes, shaded with black +lashes and hair to match. A voice floats down from the +upstairs regions. + +"Dawn! Oh, Dawn! Just run and rescue the cucumbers +out of the top of the ice-box, will you? The iceman's +coming, and he'll squash 'em." + +A parting jab at my heroine's hair and eyes, and I'm +off to save the cucumbers. + +Back at my typewriter once more. Shall I make my +heroine petite or grande? I decide that stateliness +and Gibsonesque height should accompany the calm gray +eyes. I rattle away happily, the plot unfolding itself +in some mysterious way. Sis opens the door a little and +peers in. She is dressed for the street. + +"Dawn dear, I'm going to the dressmaker's. Frieda's +upstairs cleaning the bathroom, so take a little squint +at the roast now and then, will you? See that it doesn't +burn, and that there's plenty of gravy. Oh, and Dawn-- +tell the milkman we want an extra half-pint of cream +to-day. The tickets are on the kitchen shelf, back of +the clock. I'll be back in an hour." + +"Mhmph," I reply. + +Sis shuts the door, but opens it again almost +immediately. + +"Don't let the Infants bother you. But if Frieda's +upstairs and they come to you for something to eat, don't +let them have any cookies before dinner. If they're +really hungry they'll eat bread and butter." + +I promise, dreamily, my last typewritten sentence +still running through my head. The gravy seems to have +got into the heroine's calm gray eyes. What heroine +could remain calm-eyed when her creator's mind is filled +with roast beef? A half-hour elapses before I get back +on the track. Then appears the hero--a tall blond youth, +fair to behold. I make him two yards high, and endow him +with a pair of clothing-advertisement shoulders. + +There assails my nostrils a fearful smell of +scorching. The roast! A wild rush into the kitchen. I +fling open the oven door. The roast is mahogany-colored, +and gravyless. It takes fifteen minutes of the most +desperate first-aid-to-the-injured measures before the +roast is revived. + +Back to the writing. It has lost its charm. The +gray-eyed heroine is a stick; she moves like an Indian +lady outside a cigar shop. The hero is a milk-and-water +sissy, without a vital spark in him. What's the use of +trying to write, anyway? Nobody wants my stuff. Good +for nothing except dubbing on a newspaper! + +Rap! Rap! Rappity-rap-rap! Bing! Milk! + +I dash into the kitchen. No milk! No milkman! I +fly to the door. He is disappearing around the corner of +the house. + +"Hi! Mr. Milkman! Say, Mr. Milkman!" with frantic +beckonings. + +He turns. He lifts up his voice. "The screen door +was locked so I left youse yer milk on top of +the ice-box on the back porch. Thought like the hired +girl was upstairs an' I could git the tickets to-morra." + +I explain about the cream, adding that it is wanted +for short-cake. The explanation does not seem to cheer +him. He appears to be a very gloomy and reserved +milkman. I fancy that he is in the habit of indulging in +a little airy persiflage with Frieda o' mornings, and he +finds me a poor substitute for her red-cheeked +comeliness. + +The milk safely stowed away in the ice-box, I have +another look at the roast. I am dipping up spoonfuls of +brown gravy and pouring them over the surface of the +roast in approved basting style, when there is a rush, a +scramble, and two hard bodies precipitate themselves upon +my legs so suddenly that for a moment my head pitches +forward into the oven. I withdraw my head from the oven, +hastily. The basting spoon is immersed in the bottom of +the pan. I turn, indignant. The Spalpeens look up at me +with innocent eyes. + +"You little divils, what do you mean by shoving your +old aunt into the oven! It's cannibals you are!" + +The idea pleases them. They release my legs +and execute a savage war dance around me. The Spalpeens +are firm in the belief that I was brought to their home +for their sole amusement, and they refuse to take me +seriously. The Spalpeens themselves are two of the +finest examples of real humor that ever were perpetrated +upon parents. Sheila is the first-born. Norah decided +that she should be an Irish beauty, and bestowed upon her +a name that reeks of the bogs. Whereupon Sheila, at the +age of six, is as flaxen-haired and blue-eyed and stolid +a little German madchen as ever fooled her parents, and +she is a feminine reproduction of her German Dad. Two +years later came a sturdy boy, and they named him Hans, +in a flaunt of defiance. Hans is black-haired, gray-eyed +and Irish as Killarny. + +"We're awful hungry," announces Sheila. + +"Can't you wait until dinner time? Such a grand +dinner!" + +Sheila and Hans roll their eyes to convey to me that, +were they to wait until dinner for sustenance we should +find but their lifeless forms. + +"Well then, Auntie will get a nice piece of bread and +butter for each of you." + +"Don't want bread an' butty!" shrieks Hans. "Want +tooky!" + +"Cooky!" echoes Sheila, pounding on the kitchen table +with the rescued basting spoon. + +"You can't have cookies before dinner. They're bad +for your insides." + +"Can too," disputes Hans. "Fwieda dives us tookies. +Want tooky!" wailingly. + +"Please, ple-e-e-ease, Auntie Dawnie dearie," +wheedles Sheila, wriggling her soft little fingers in my +hand. + +"But Mother never lets you have cookies before +dinner," I retort severely. "She knows they are bad for +you." + +"Pooh, she does too! She always says, `No, not a +cooky!' And then we beg and screech, and then she says, +`Oh, for pity's sake, Frieda, give 'em a cooky and send +'em out. One cooky can't kill 'em.'" Sheila's imitation +is delicious. + +Hans catches the word screech and takes it as his +cue. He begins a series of ear-piercing wails. Sheila +surveys him with pride and then takes the wail up in a +minor key. Their teamwork is marvelous. I fly to the +cooky jar and extract two round and sugary confections. +I thrust them into the pink, eager palms. The wails +cease. Solemnly they place one cooky atop the other, +measuring the circlets with grave eyes. + +"Mine's a weeny bit bigger'n yours this time," +decides Sheila, and holds her cooky heroically while Hans +takes a just and lawful bite out of his sister's larger +share. + +"The blessed little angels! " I say to myself, +melting. "The dear, unselfish little sweeties!" and give +each of them another cooky. + +Back to my typewriter. But the words flatly refuse +to come now. I make six false starts, bite all my best +finger-nails, screw my hair into a wilderness of +cork-screws and give it up. No doubt a real Lady Writer +could write on, unruffled and unhearing, while the iceman +squashed the cucumbers, and the roast burned to a +frazzle, and the Spalpeens perished of hunger. Possessed +of the real spark of genius, trivialities like milkmen +and cucumbers could not dim its glow. Perhaps all +successful Lady Writers with real live sparks have cooks +and scullery maids, and need not worry about basting, and +gravy, and milkmen. + +This book writing is all very well for those who have +a large faith in the future and an equally large bank +account. But my future will have to be hand-carved, and +my bank account has always been an all too small pay +envelope at the end of each week. It will be months +before the book is shaped and finished. And my +pocketbook is empty. Last week Max sent money for the +care of Peter. He and Norah think that I do not know. + +Von Gerhard was here in August. I told him +that all my firm resolutions to forsake newspaperdom +forever were slipping away, one by one. + +"I have heard of the fascination of the newspaper +office," he said, in his understanding way. "I believe +you have a heimweh for it, not?" + +"Heimweh! That's the word," I had agreed. "After +you have been a newspaper writer for seven years--and +loved it--you will be a newspaper writer, at heart and by +instinct at least, until you die. There's no getting +away from it. It's in the blood. Newspaper men have +been known to inherit fortunes, to enter politics, to +write books and become famous, to degenerate into press +agents and become infamous, to blossom into personages, +to sink into nonentities, but their news-nose remained a +part of them, and the inky, smoky, stuffy smell of a +newspaper office was ever sweet in their nostrils." + +But, "Not yet," Von Gerhard had said, "It unless you +want to have again this miserable business of the sick +nerfs. Wait yet a few months." + +And so I have waited, saying nothing to Norah and +Max. But I want to be in the midst of things. I miss +the sensation of having my fingers at the pulse of the +big old world. I'm lonely for the noise and the rush and +the hard work; for a glimpse of the busy local room just +before press time, when the lights are swimming in a smoky +haze, and the big presses downstairs are thundering their +warning to hurry, and the men are breezing in from their +runs with the grist of news that will be ground finer and +finer as it passes through the mill of copy-readers' and +editors' hands. I want to be there in the thick of the +confusion that is, after all, so orderly. I want to be +there when the telephone bells are zinging, and the +typewriters are snapping, and the messenger boys are +shuffling in and out, and the office kids are scuffling +in a corner, and the big city editor, collar off, sleeves +rolled up from his great arms, hair bristling wildly +above his green eye-shade, is swearing gently and smoking +cigarette after cigarette, lighting each fresh one at the +dying glow of the last. I would give a year of my life +to hear him say: + +"I don't mind tellin' you, Beatrice Fairfax, that +that was a darn good story you got on the Millhaupt +divorce. The other fellows haven't a word that isn't +re-hash." + +All of which is most unwomanly; for is not marriage +woman's highest aim, and home her true sphere? Haven't +I tried both? I ought to know. I merely have been +miscast in this life's drama. My part should have been +that of one who makes her way alone. Peter, with his thin, +cruel lips, and his shaking hands, and his haggard face +and his smoldering eyes, is a shadow forever blotting out +the sunny places in my path. I was meant to be an old +maid, like the terrible old Kitty O'Hara. Not one of the +tatting-and-tea kind, but an impressive, bustling old +girl, with a double chin. The sharp-tongued Kitty O'Hara +used to say that being an old maid was a great deal like +death by drowning--a really delightful sensation when you +ceased struggling. + +Norah has pleaded with me to be more like other women +of my age, and for her sake I've tried. She has led me +about to bridge parties and tea fights, and I have tried +to act as though I were enjoying it all, but I knew that +I wasn't getting on a bit. I have come to the conclusion +that one year of newspapering counts for two years of +ordinary, existence, and that while I'm twenty-eight in +the family Bible I'm fully forty inside. When one day +may bring under one's pen a priest, a pauper, a +prostitute, a philanthropist, each with a story to tell, +and each requiring to be bullied, or cajoled, or bribed, +or threatened, or tricked into telling it; then the end +of that day's work finds one looking out at the world +with eyes that are very tired and as old as the world +itself. + +I'm spoiled for sewing bees and church sociables and +afternoon bridges. A hunger for the city is upon me. +The long, lazy summer days have slipped by. There is an +autumn tang in the air. The breeze has a touch that is +sharp. + +Winter in a little northern town! I should go mad. +But winter in the city! The streets at dusk on a frosty +evening; the shop windows arranged by artist hands for +the beauty-loving eyes of women; the rows of lights like +jewels strung on an invisible chain; the glitter of brass +and enamel as the endless procession of motors flashes +past; the smartly-gowned women; the keen-eyed, nervous +men; the shrill note of the crossing policeman's whistle; +every smoke-grimed wall and pillar taking on a mysterious +shadowy beauty in the purple dusk, every unsightly blot +obscured by the kindly night. But best of all, the +fascination of the People I'd Like to Know. They pop up +now and then in the shifting crowds, and are gone the +next moment, leaving behind them a vague regret. +Sometimes I call them the People I'd Like to Know and +sometimes I call them the People I Know I'd Like, but it +means much the same. Their faces flash by in the crowd, +and are gone, but I recognize them instantly as belonging +to my beloved circle of unknown friends. + +Once it was a girl opposite me in a car--a girl with +a wide, humorous mouth, and tragic eyes, and a hole in +her shoe. Once it was a big, homely, red-headed giant of +a man with an engineering magazine sticking out of his +coat pocket. He was standing at a book counter reading +Dickens like a schoolboy and laughing in all the right +places, I know, because I peaked over his shoulder to +see. Another time it was a sprightly little, grizzled +old woman, staring into a dazzling shop window in which +was displayed a wonderful collection of fashionably +impossible hats and gowns. She was dressed all in rusty +black, was the little old lady, and she had a quaint cast +in her left eye that gave her the oddest, most sporting +look. The cast was working overtime as she gazed at the +gowns, and the ridiculous old sprigs on her rusty black +bonnet trembled with her silent mirth. She looked like +one of those clever, epigrammatic, dowdy old duchesses +that one reads about in English novels. I'm sure she had +cardamon seeds in her shabby bag, and a carriage with a +crest on it waiting for her just around the corner. I +ached to slip my hand through her arm and ask her what +she thought of it all. I know that her reply would have +been exquisitely witty and audacious, and I did so long +to hear her say it. + +No doubt some good angel tugs at my common sense, +restraining me from doing these things that I am tempted +to do. Of course it would be madness for a woman to +address unknown red-headed men with the look of an +engineer about them and a book of Dickens in their hands; +or perky old women with nutcracker faces; or girls with +wide humorous mouths. Oh, it couldn't be done, I +suppose. They would clap me in a padded cell in no time +if I were to say: + +"Mister Red-headed Man, I'm so glad your heart is +young enough for Dickens. I love him too--enough to read +him standing at a book counter in a busy shop. And do +you know, I like the squareness of your jaw, and the way +your eyes crinkle up when you laugh; and as for your +being an engineer--why one of the very first men I ever +loved was the engineer in `Soldiers of Fortune.'" + +I wonder what the girl in the car would have said if +I had crossed over to her, and put my hand on her arm and +spoken, thus: + +"Girl with the wide, humorous mouth, and the tragic +eyes, and the hole in your shoe, I think you must be an +awfully good sort. I'll wager you paint, or write, or act, +or do something clever like that for a living. But from +that hole in your shoe which you have inked so carefully, +although it persists in showing white at the seams, I +fancy you are stumbling over a rather stony bit of Life's +road just now. And from the look in your eyes, girl, I'm +afraid the stones have cut and bruised rather cruelly. +But when I look at your smiling, humorous mouth I know +that you are trying to laugh at the hurts. I think that +this morning, when you inked your shoe for the dozenth +time, you hesitated between tears and laughter, and the +laugh won, thank God! Please keep right on laughing, and +don't you dare stop for a minute! Because pretty soon +you'll come to a smooth easy place, and then won't you be +glad that you didn't give up to lie down by the roadside, +weary of your hurts?" + +Oh, it would never do. Never. And yet no charm +possessed by the people I know and like can compare with +the fascination of those People I'd Like to Know, and +Know I Would Like. + +Here at home with Norah there are no faces in the +crowds. There are no crowds. When you turn the corner +at Main street you are quite sure that you will see the +same people in the same places. You know that Mamie +Hayes will be flapping her duster just outside the door +of the jewelry store where she clerks. She gazes up and +down Main street as she flaps the cloth, her bright eyes +keeping a sharp watch for stray traveling men that may +chance to be passing. You know that there will be the +same lounging group of white-faced, vacant-eyed youths +outside the pool-room. Dr. Briggs's patient runabout +will be standing at his office doorway. Outside his +butcher shop Assemblyman Schenck will be holding forth on +the subject of county politics to a group of red-faced, +badly dressed, prosperous looking farmers and townsmen, +and as he talks the circle of brown tobacco juice which +surrounds the group closes in upon them, nearer and +nearer. And there, in a roomy chair in a corner of the +public library reference room, facing the big front +window, you will see Old Man Randall. His white hair +forms a halo above his pitiful drink-marred face. He was +to have been a great lawyer, was Old Man Randall. But on +the road to fame he met Drink, and she grasped his arm, +and led him down by-ways, and into crooked lanes, and +finally into ditches, and he never arrived at his goal. +There in that library window nook it is cool in summer, +and warm in winter. So he sits and dreams, holding an +open volume, unread, on his knees. Some times he writes, +hunched up in his corner, feverishly scribbling at +ridiculous plays, short stories, and novels +which later he will insist on reading to the tittering +schoolboys and girls who come into the library to do +their courting and reference work. Presently, when it +grows dusk, Old Man Randall will put away his book, throw +his coat over his shoulders, sleeves dangling, flowing +white locks sweeping the frayed velvet collar. He will +march out with his soldierly tread, humming a bit of a +tune, down the street and into Vandermeister's saloon, +where he will beg a drink and a lunch, and some man will +give it to him for the sake of what Old Man Randall might +have been. + +All these things you know. And knowing them, what is +left for the imagination? How can one dream dreams about +people when one knows how much they pay their hired girl, +and what they have for dinner on Wednesdays? + + + + + +CHAPTER V + + +THE ABSURD BECOMES SERIOUS + +I can understand the emotions of a broken-down war horse +that is hitched to a vegetable wagon. I am going to +Milwaukee to work! It is a thing to make the gods hold +their sides and roll down from their mountain peaks with +laughter. After New York--Milwaukee! + +Of course Von Gerhard is to blame. But I think even +he sees the humor of it. It happened in this way, on a +day when I was indulging in a particularly +greenery-yallery fit of gloom. Norah rushed into my +room. I think I was mooning over some old papers, or +letters, or ribbons, or some such truck in the charming, +knife-turning way that women have when they are blue. + +"Out wid yez!" cried Norah. "On with your hat and +coat! I've just had a wire from Ernst von Gerhard. He's +coming, and you look like an under-done dill pickle. You +aren't half as blooming as when he was here in August, +and this is October. Get out and walk until your cheeks +are so red that Von Gerhard will refuse to believe that +this fiery-faced puffing, bouncing creature is the green +and limp thing that huddled in a chair a few months ago. +Out ye go!" + +And out I went. Hatless, I strode countrywards, +leaving paved streets and concrete walks far behind. +There were drifts of fallen leaves all about, and I +scuffled through them drearily, trying to feel gloomy, +and old, and useless, and failing because of the tang in +the air, and the red-and-gold wonder of the frost-kissed +leaves, and the regular pump-pump of good red blood that +was coursing through my body as per Norah's request. + +In a field at the edge of the town, just where city +and country begin to have a bowing acquaintance, the +college boys were at football practice. Their scarlet +sweaters made gay patches of color against the dull +gray-brown of the autumn grass. + +"Seven-eighteen-two-four!" called a voice. There +followed a scuffle, a creaking of leather on leather, a +thud. I watched them, a bit enviously, walking backwards +until a twist in the road hid them from view. That same +twist transformed my path into a real country road-- +a brown, dusty, monotonous Michigan country road that +went severely about its business, never once stopping to +flirt with the blushing autumn woodland at its left, or +to dally with the dimpling ravine at its right. + +"Now if that were an English country road," thought +I, "a sociably inclined, happy-go-lucky, out-for-pleasure +English country road, one might expect something of it. +On an English country road this would be the +psychological moment for the appearance of a blond god, +in gray tweed. What a delightful time of it Richard Le +Gallienne's hero had on his quest! He could not stroll +down the most innocent looking lane, he might not loiter +along the most out-of-the-way path, he never ambled over +the barest piece of country road, that he did not come +face to face with some witty and lovely woman creature, +also in search of things unconventional, and able to +quote charming lines from Chaucer to him." + +Ah, but that was England, and this is America. I +realize it sadly as I step out of the road to allow a +yellow milk wagon to rattle past. The red letters on the +yellow milk cart inform the reader that it is the +property of August Schimmelpfennig, of Hickory Grove. +The Schimmelpfennig eye may be seen staring down upon me +from the bit of glass in the rear as the cart rattles +ahead, doubtless being suspicious of hatless +young women wandering along country roads at dusk, alone. +There was that in the staring eye to which I took +exception. It wore an expression which made me feel sure +that the mouth below it was all a-grin, if I could but +have seen it. It was bad enough to be stared at by the +fishy Schimmelpfennig eye, but to be grinned at by the +Schimmelpfennig mouth!--I resented it. In order to show +my resentment I turned my back on the Schimmelpfennig +cart and pretended to look up the road which I had just +traveled. + +I pretended to look up the road, and then I did look +in earnest. No wonder the Schimmelpfennig eye and mouth +had worn the leering expression. The blond god in gray +tweed was swinging along toward me! I knew that he was +blond because he wore no hat and the last rays of the +October sun were making a little halo effect about his +head. I knew that his-gray clothes were tweed because +every well regulated hero on a country road wears tweed. +It's almost a religion with them. He was not near enough +to make a glance at his features possible. I turned +around and continued my walk. The yellow cart, with its +impudent Schimmelpfennig leer, was disappearing in a +cloud of dust. Shades of the "Duchess" and Bertha M. Clay! +How does one greet a blond god in gray tweed on a country +road, when one has him! + +The blond god solved the problem for me. + +"Hi!" he called. I did not turn. There was a +moment's silence. Then there came a shrill, insistent +whistle, of the kind that is made by placing four fingers +between the teeth. It is a favorite with the gallery +gods. I would not have believed that gray tweed gods +stooped to it. + +"Hi!" called the voice again, very near now. +"Lieber Gott! Never have I seen so proud a young woman!" + +I whirled about to face Von Gerhard; a strangely +boyish and unprofessional looking Von Gerhard. + +"Young man," I said severely, "have you been +a-follerin' of me?" + +"For miles," groaned he, as we shook hands. You walk +like a grenadier. I am sent by the charming Norah to +tell you that you are to come home to mix the salad +dressing, for there is company for supper. I am the +company." + +I was still a bit dazed. "But how did you know which +road to take? And when--" + +"Wunderbar, nicht wahr?" laughed Von Gerhard. "But +really quite simple. I come in on an earlier train than +I had expected, chat a moment with sister Norah, inquire +after the health of my patient, and am told that she is +running away from a horde of blue devils!--quote your +charming sister--that have swarmed about her all day. What +direction did her flight take? I ask. Sister Norah shrugs +her shoulders and presumes that it is the road which shows +the reddest and yellowest autumn colors. That road will +be your road. So!" + +"Pooh! How simple! That is the second`disappointment +you have given me to-day." + +"But how is that possible? The first has not had +time to happen." + +"The first was yourself," I replied, rudely. + +"I had been longing for an adventure. And when I saw +you 'way up the road, such an unusual figure for our +Michigan country roads, I forgot that I was a +disappointed old grass widder with a history, and I grew +young again, and my heart jumped up into my throat, and +I sez to mesilf, sez I: `Enter the hero!' And it was +only you." + +Von Gerhard stared a moment, a curious look on his +face. Then he laughed one of those rare laughs of his, +and I joined him because I was strangely young, light, +and happy to be alive. + +"You walk and enjoy walking, yes?" asked Von Gerhard, +scanning my face. "Your cheeks they are like--well, as +unlike the cheeks of the German girls as Diana's are +unlike a dairy maid's. And the nerfs? They no longer +jump, eh?" + +"Oh, they jump, but not with weariness. They jump to +get into action again. From a life of too much +excitement I have gone to the other extreme. I shall be +dead of ennui in another six months." + +"Ennui?" mused he, "and you are--how is it?-- +twenty-eight years, yes? H'm!" + +There was a world of exasperation in the last +exclamation. + +"I am a thousand years old," it made me exclaim, "a +million!" + +"I will prove to you that you are sixteen," declared +Von Gerhard, calmly. + +We had come to a fork in the road. At the right the +narrower road ran between two rows of great maples that +made an arch of golden splendor. The frost had kissed +them into a gorgeous radiance. + +"Sunshine Avenue," announced Von Gerhard. "It +beckons us away from home, and supper and salad dressing +and duty, but who knows what we shall find at the end of +it!" + +"Let's explore," I suggested. "It is splendidly +golden enough to be enchanted." + +We entered the yellow canopied pathway. + +"Let us pretend this is Germany, yes?" pleaded Von +Gerhard. "This golden pathway will end in a neat little +glass-roofed restaurant, with tables and chairs outside, +and comfortable German papas and mammas and pig-tailed +children sitting at the tables, drinking coffee or beer. +There will be stout waiters, and a red-faced host. And +we will seat ourselves at one of the tables, and I will +wave my hand, and one of the stout waiters will come +flying. `Will you have coffee, _Fraulein_, or beer?' It +sounds prosaic, but it is very, very good, as you will +see. Pathways in Germany always end in coffee and Kuchen +and waiters in white aprons." + +But, "Oh, no!" I exclaimed, for his mood was +infectious. "This is France. Please! The golden +pathway will end in a picturesque little French farm, +with a dairy. And in the doorway of the farmhouse there +will be a red-skirted peasant woman, with a white cap! +and a baby on her arm! and sabots! Oh, surely she will +wear sabots!" + +"Most certainly she will wear sabots," Von Gerhard +said, heatedly, "and blue knitted stockings. And the +baby's name is Mimi! + +We had taken hands and were skipping down the pathway +now, like two excited children. + +"Let's run," I suggested. And run we did, like two +mad creatures, until we rounded a gentle curve and +brought up, panting, within a foot of a decrepit rail +fence. The rail fence enclosed a stubbly, lumpy field. +The field was inhabited by an inquiring cow. Von Gerhard +and I stood quite still, hand in hand, gazing at the cow. +Then we turned slowly and looked at each other. + +"This pathway of glorified maples ends in a cow," I +said, solemnly. At which we both shrieked with mirth, +leaning on the decrepit fence and mopping our eyes with +our handkerchiefs. + +"Did I not say you were sixteen?" taunted Von +Gerhard. We were getting surprisingly well acquainted. + +"Such a scolding as we shall get! It will be quite +dark before we are home. Norah will be tearing her +hair." + +It was a true prophecy. As we stampeded up the steps +the door was flung open, disclosing a tragic figure. + +"Such a steak!" wailed Norah, " and it has been done +for hours and hours, and now it looks like a piece of fried +ear. Where have you two driveling idiots been? And +mushrooms too." + +"She means that the ruined steak was further enhanced +by mushrooms," I explained in response to Von Gerhard's +bewildered look. We marched into the house, trying not +to appear like sneak thieves. Max, pipe in mouth, +surveyed us blandly. + +"Fine color you've got, Dawn," he remarked. + +"There is such a thing as overdoing this health +business," snapped Norah, with a great deal of acidity +for her. "I didn't tell you to make them purple, you +know." + +Max turned to Von Gerhard. "Now what does she mean +by that do you suppose, eh Ernst?" + +"Softly, brother, softly!" whispered Von Gerhard. +"When women exchange remarks that apparently are simple, +and yet that you, a man, cannot understand, then know +there is a woman's war going on, and step softly, and +hold your peace. Aber ruhig!" + +Calm was restored with the appearance of the steak, +which was found to have survived the period of waiting, +and to be incredibly juicy and tender. Presently we +were all settled once more in the great beamed living +room, Sis at the piano, the two men smoking their +after-dinner cigars with that idiotic expression of +contentment which always adorns the masculine face on +such occasions. + +I looked at them--at those three who had done so much +for my happiness and well being, and something within me +said: "Now! Speak now!" Norah was playing very softly, +so that the Spalpeens upstairs might not be disturbed. +I took a long breath and made the plunge. + +"Norah, if you'll continue the slow music, I'll be +much obliged. `The time has come, the Walrus said, to +talk of many things.'" + +"Don't be absurd," said Norah, over her shoulder, and +went on playing. + +"I never was more serious in my life, good folkses +all. I've got to be. This butterfly existence has gone +on long enough. Norah, and Max, and Mr. Doctor Man, I am +going away." + +Norah's hands crashed down on the piano keys with a +jangling discord. She swung about to face me. + +"Not New York again, Dawn! Not New York!" + +"I am afraid so," I answered. + +Max--bless his great, brotherly heart-- rose and came +over to me and put a hand on my shoulder. + +"Don't you like it here, girlie? Want to be hauled +home on a shutter again, do you? You know that as long +as we have a home, you have one. We need you here." + +But I shook my head. From his chair at the other +side of the room I could feel Von Gerhard's gaze fixed +upon us. He had said nothing. + +"Need me! No one needs me. Don't worry; I'm not +going to become maudlin about it. But I don't belong +here, and you know, it. I have my work to do. Norah is +the best sister that a woman ever had. And Max, you're +an angel brother-in-law. But how can I stay on here and +keep my self-respect?" I took Max's big hand in mine and +gathered courage from it. + +"But you have been working," wailed Norah, "every +morning. And I thought the book was coming on +beautifully. And I'm sure it will be a wonderful book, +Dawn dear. You are so clever." + +"Oh, the book--it is too uncertain. Perhaps it will +go, but perhaps it won't. And then--what? It will be +months before the book is properly polished off. And +then I may peddle it around for more months. No; I can't +afford to trifle with uncertainties. Every newspaper man +or woman writes a book. It's like having the measles. +There is not a newspaper man living who does not believe, +in his heart, that if he could only take a month or two +away from the telegraph desk or the police run, he could +write the book of the year, not to speak of the great +American Play. Why, just look at me! I've only been +writing`seriously for a few weeks, and already the best +magazines in the country are refusing my manuscripts daily." + +"Don't joke," said Norah, coming over to me, "I can't +stand it." + +"Why not? Much better than weeping, isn't it? And +anyway, I'm no subject for tears any more. Dr. von +Gerhard will tell you how well and strong I am. Won't +you, Herr Doktor?" + +Well," said Von Gerhard, in his careful, deliberate +English, "since you ask me, I should say that you might +last about one year, in New York." + +"There! What did I tell you!" cried Norah. + +"What utter blither!" I scoffed, turning to glare at +Von Gerhard. + +"Gently," warned Max. "Such disrespect to the man +who pulled you back from the edge of the yawning grave +only six months ago!" + +"Yawning fiddlesticks!" snapped I, elegantly. "There +was nothing wrong with me except that I wanted to be +fussed over. And I have been. And I've loved it. But +it must stop now." I rose and walked over to the table +and faced Von Gerhard, sitting there in the depths of a +great chair. "You do not seem to realize that I am not +free to come and go, and work and play, and laugh and +live like other women. There is my living to make. And +there is--Peter Orme. Do you think that I could stay on +here like this? Oh, I know that Max is not a poor man. +But he is not a rich man, either. And there are the +children to be educated, and besides, Max married Norah +O'Hara, not the whole O'Hara tribe. I want to go to +work. I am not a free woman, but when I am working, I +forget, and am almost, happy. I tell you I must be well +again! I will be well! I am well!" + +At the end of which dramatic period I spoiled the +whole effect by bowing my head on the table and giving +way to a fit of weeping such as I had not had since the +days of my illness. + +"Looks like it," said Max, at which I decided to +laugh, and the situation was saved. + +It was then that Von Gerhard proposed the thing that +set us staring at him in amused wonder. He came over and +stood looking down at us, his hands outspread upon the +big library table, his body bent forward in an attitude +of eager intentness. I remember thinking what wonderful +hands they were, true indexes of the man's character; +broad, white, surgeonly hands; the fingers almost square +at the tips. They were hands as different from those +slender, nervous, unsteady, womanly hands of Peter Orme +as any hands could be, I thought. They were hands made +for work that called for delicate strength, if such a +paradox could be; hands to cling to; to gain courage +from; hands that spelled power and reserve. I looked at +them, fascinated, as I often had done before, and thought +that I never had seen such SANE hands. + +"You have done me the honor to include me in this +little family conclave," began Ernst von Gerhard. "I am +going to take advantage of your trust. I shall give you +some advice--a thing I usually keep for unpleasant +professional occasions. Do not go back to New York." + +"But I know New York. And New York --the newspaper +part of it--knows me. Where else can I go?" + +"You have your book to finish. You could never +finish it there, is it not so?" + +I'm afraid I shrugged my shoulders. It was all so +much harder than I had expected. What did they want me +to do? I asked myself, bitterly. + +Von Gerhard went on. "Why not go where the newspaper +work will not be so nerve-racking? where you still might +find time for this other work that is dear to you, and +that may bring its reward in time." He reached out and +took my hand, into his great, steady clasp. "Come to the +happy, healthy, German town called Milwaukee, yes? Ach, +you may laugh. But newspaper work is newspaper work the +world over, because men and women are just men and women +the world over. But there you could live sanely, and +work not too hard, and there would be spare hours for the +book that is near your heart. And I--I will speak of you +to Norberg, of the Post. And on Sundays, if you are +good, I may take you along the marvelous lake drives in +my little red runabout, yes? Aber wunderbar, those +drives are! So." + +Then--"Milwaukee!" shrieked Max and Norah and I, +together. "After New York--Milwaukee!" + +"Laugh," said Von Gerhard, quite composedly. "I give +you until to-morrow morning to stop laughing. At the end +of that time it will not seem quite so amusing. No joke +is so funny after one has contemplated it for twelve +hours." + +The voice of Norah, the temptress, sounded close to +my ear. "Dawn dear, just think how many million miles +nearer you would be to Max, and me, and home." + +"Oh, you have all gone mad! The thing is impossible. +I shan't go back to a country sheet in my old age. I +suppose that in two more years I shall be editing a +mothers' column on an agricultural weekly." + +"Norberg would be delighted to get you," mused Von +Gerhard, "and it would be day work instead of night +work." + +"And you would send me a weekly bulletin on Dawn's +health, wouldn't you, Ernst?" pleaded Norah. "And you'd +teach her to drink beer and she shall grow so fat that +the Spalpeens won't know their auntie." + +At last--"How much do they pay?" I asked, in +desperation. And the thing that had appeared so absurd +at first began to take on the shape of reality. + +Von Gerhard did speak to Norberg of the Post. And +I am to go to Milwaukee next week. The skeleton of the +book manuscript is stowed safely away in the bottom of my +trunk and Norah has filled in the remaining space with +sundry flannels, and hot water bags and medicine flasks, +so that I feel like a schoolgirl on her way to +boarding-school, instead of like a seasoned old newspaper +woman with a capital PAST and a shaky future. I wish +that I were chummier with the Irish saints. I need them +now. + + + +CHAPTER VI + + +STEEPED IN GERMAN + +I am living at a little private hotel just across from +the court house square with its scarlet geraniums and its +pretty fountain. The house is filled with German civil +engineers, mechanical engineers, and Herr Professors from +the German academy. On Sunday mornings we have +Pfannkuchen with currant jelly, and the Herr Professors +come down to breakfast in fearful flappy German slippers. +I'm the only creature in the place that isn't just over +from Germany. Even the dog is a dachshund. It is so +unbelievable that every day or two I go down to Wisconsin +Street and gaze at the stars and stripes floating from +the government building, in order to convince myself that +this is America. It needs only a Kaiser or so, and a bit +of Unter den Linden to be quite complete. + +The little private hotel is kept by Herr and Frau +Knapf. After one has seen them, one quite understands why +the place is steeped in a German atmosphere up to its +eyebrows. + +I never would have found it myself. It was Doctor +von Gerhard who had suggested Knapf's, and who had paved +the way for my coming here. + +"You will find it quite unlike anything you have ever +tried before," he warned me. "Very German it is, and +very, very clean, and most inexpensive. Also I think you +will find material there--how is it you call it?--copy, +yes? Well, there should be copy in plenty; and types! +But you shall see." + +From the moment I rang the Knapf doorbell I saw. The +dapper, cheerful Herr Knapf, wearing a disappointed +Kaiser Wilhelm mustache, opened the door. I scarcely had +begun to make my wishes known when he interrupted with a +large wave of the hand, and an elaborate German bow. + +"Ach yes! You would be the lady of whom the Herr +Doktor has spoken. Gewiss! Frau Orme, not? But so a +young lady I did not expect to see. A room we have saved +for you--aber wunderhubsch! It makes me much pleasure to +show. Folgen Sie mir, bitte." + +"You--you speak English?" I faltered, with visions of +my evenings spent in expressing myself in the sign language. + +"Englisch? But yes. Here in Milwaukee it gives aber +mostly German. And then too, I have been only twenty +years in this country. And always in Milwaukee. Here is +it gemutlich--and mostly it gives German." + +I tried not to look frightened, and followed him up +to the "but wonderfully beautiful" room. To my joy I +found it high-ceilinged, airy, and huge, with a great +vault of a clothes closet bristling with hooks, and +boasting an unbelievable number of shelves. My trunk was +swallowed up in it. Never in all my boarding-house +experience have I seen such a room, or such a closet. +The closet must have been built for a bride's trousseau +in the days of hoop-skirts and scuttle bonnets. There +was a separate and distinct hook for each and every one +of my most obscure garments. I tried to spread them out. +I used two hooks to every petticoat, and three for my +kimono, and when I had finished there were rows of hooks +to spare. Tiers of shelves yawned for hat-boxes which I +possessed not. Bluebeard's wives could have held a +family reunion in that closet and invited all of +Solomon's spouses. Finally, in desperation, I gathered +all my poor garments together and hung them in a sociable +bunch on the hooks nearest the door. How I should have +loved to have shown that closet to a select circle of New +York boarding-house landladies! + +After wrestling in vain with the forest of hooks, I +turned my attention to my room. I yanked a towel thing +off the center table and replaced it with a scarf that +Peter had picked up in the Orient. I set up my +typewriter in a corner near a window and dug a gay +cushion or two and a chafing-dish out of my trunk. I +distributed photographs of Norah and Max and the +Spalpeens separately, in couples, and in groups. Then I +bounced up and down in a huge yellow brocade chair and +found it unbelievably soft and comfortable. Of course, +I reflected, after the big veranda, and the apple tree at +Norah's, and the leather-cushioned comfort of her +library, and the charming tones of her Oriental rugs and +hangings-- + +"Oh, stop your carping, Dawn!" I told myself. "You +can't expect charming tones, and Oriental do-dads and +apple trees in a German boarding-house. Anyhow there's +running water in the room. For general utility purposes +that's better than a pink prayer rug." + +There was a time when I thought that it was the +luxuries that made life worth living. That was in +the old Bohemian days. + +"Necessities!" I used to laugh, "Pooh! Who cares +about the necessities! What if the dishpan does leak? +It is the luxuries that count." + +Bohemia and luxuries! Half a dozen lean +boarding-house years have steered me safely past that. +After such a course in common sense you don't stand back +and examine the pictures of a pink Moses in a nest of +purple bullrushes, or complain because the bureau does +not harmonize with the wall paper. Neither do you +criticize the blue and saffron roses that form the rug +pattern. 'Deedy not! Instead you warily punch the +mattress to see if it is rock-stuffed, and you snoop into +the clothes closet; you inquire the distance to the +nearest bath room, and whether the payments are weekly or +monthly, and if there is a baby in the room next door. +Oh, there's nothing like living in a boarding-house for +cultivating the materialistic side. + +But I was to find that here at Knapf's things were +quite different. Not only was Ernst von Gerhard right in +saying that it was "very German, and very, very clean;" +he recognized good copy when he saw it. Types! I never +dreamed that such faces existed outside of the old German +woodcuts that one sees illustrating time-yellowed books. + +I had thought myself hardened to strange +boarding-house dining rooms, with their batteries of +cold, critical women's eyes. I had learned to walk +unruffled in the face of the most carping, suspicious and +the fishiest of these batteries. Therefore on my first +day at Knapf's I went down to dinner in the evening, +quite composed and secure in the knowledge that my collar +was clean and that there was no flaw to find in the fit +of my skirt in the back. + +As I opened the door of my room I heard sounds as of +a violent altercation in progress downstairs. I leaned +over the balusters and listened. The sounds rose and +fell and swelled and boomed. They were German sounds +that started in the throat, gutturally, and spluttered +their way up. They were sounds such as I had not heard +since the night I was sent to cover a Socialist meeting +in New York. I tip-toed down the stairs, although I +might have fallen down and landed with a thud without +having been heard. The din came from the direction of +the dining room. Well, come what might, I would not +falter. After all, it could not be worse than that awful +time when I had helped cover the teamsters' strike. I +peered into the dining room. + +The thunder of conversation went on as before. But +there was no bloodshed. Nothing but men and women +sitting at small tables, eating and talking. When I say +eating and talking I do not mean that those acts were +carried on separately. Not at all. The eating and the +talking went on simultaneously, neither interrupting the +other. A fork full of food and a mouthful of +ten-syllabled German words met, wrestled, and passed one +another, unscathed. I stood in the doorway, fascinated, +until Herr Knapf spied me, took a nimble skip in my +direction, twisted the discouraged mustaches into +temporary sprightliness, and waved me toward a table in +the center of the room. + +Then a frightful thing happened. When I think of it +now I turn cold. The battery was not that of women's +eyes, but of men's. And conversation ceased! The uproar +and the booming of vowels was hushed. The silence was +appalling. I looked up in horror to find that what +seemed to be millions of staring blue eyes were fixed on +me. The stillness was so thick that you could cut it +with a knife. Such men! Immediately I dubbed them the +aborigines, and prayed that I might find adjectives with +which to describe their foreheads. + +It appeared that the aborigines were especially +favored in that they were all placed at one long, untidy +table at the head of the room. The rest of us sat at +small tables. Later I learned that they were all +engineers. At meals they discuss engineering problems in +the most awe-inspiring German. After supper they smoke +impossible German pipes and dozens of cigarettes. They +have bulging, knobby foreheads and bristling pompadours, +and some of the rawest of them wear wild-looking beards, +and thick spectacles, and cravats and trousers that Lew +Fields never even dreamed of. They are all graduates of +high-sounding foreign universities and are horribly +learned and brilliant, but they are the worst mannered +lot I ever saw. + +In the silence that followed my entrance a +red-cheeked maid approached me and asked what I would +have for supper. Supper? I asked. Was not dinner served +in the evening? The aborigines nudged each other and +sniggered like fiendish little school-boys. + +The red-cheeked maid looked at me pityingly. Dinner +was served in the middle of the day, naturlich. For +supper there was Wienerschnitzel, and kalter Aufschnitt, +also Kartoffel Salat, and fresh Kaffeekuchen. + +The room hung breathless on my decision. I wrestled +with a horrible desire to shriek and run. Instead I +managed to mumble an order. The aborigines turned to one +another inquiringly. + +"Was hat sie gesagt?" they asked. "What did she +say?" Whereupon they fell to discussing my hair and +teeth and eyes and complexion in German as crammed with +adjectives as was the rye bread over which I was choking +with caraway. The entire table watched me with +wide-eyed, unabashed interest while I ate, and I advanced +by quick stages from red-faced confusion to purple mirth. +It appeared that my presence was the ground for a heavy +German joke in connection with the youngest of the +aborigines. He was a very plump and greasy looking +aborigine with a doll-like rosiness of cheek and a scared +and bristling pompadour and very small pig-eyes. The +other aborigines clapped him on the back and roared: + +"Ai Fritz! Jetzt brauchst du nicht zu weinen! Deine +Lena war aber nicht so huebsch, eh? " + +Later I learned that Fritz was the newest arrival and +that since coming to this country he had been rather low +in spirits in consequence of a certain flaxen-haired Lena +whom he had left behind in the fatherland. + +An examination of the dining room and its other +occupants served to keep my mind off the hateful long +table. The dining room was a double one, the floor +carpetless and clean. There was a little platform at one +end with hardy-looking plants in pots near the windows. +The wall was ornamented with very German pictures of very +plump, bare-armed German girls being chucked under the +chin by very dashing, mustachioed German lieutenants. It +was all very bare, and strange and foreign to my eyes, +and yet there was something bright and comfortable about +it. I felt that I was going to like it, aborigines and +all. The men drink beer with their supper and read the +Staats-Zeitung and the Germania and foreign papers +that I never heard of. It is uncanny, in these United +States. But it is going to be bully for my German. + +After my first letter home Norah wrote frantically, +demanding to know if I was the only woman in the house. +I calmed her fears by assuring her that, while the men +were interesting and ugly with the fascinating ugliness +of a bulldog, the women were crushed looking and +uninteresting and wore hopeless hats. I have +written Norah and Max reams about this household, from +the aborigines to Minna, who tidies my room and serves my +meals, and admires my clothes. Minna is related to Frau +Knapf, whom I have never seen. Minna is inordinately +fond of dress, and her remarks anent my own garments are +apt to be a trifle disconcerting, especially when she +intersperses her recital of dinner dishes with admiring +adjectives directed at my blouse or hat. Thus: + +"Wir haben roast beef, und spareribs mit Sauerkraut, +und schicken--ach, wie schon, Frau Orme! Aber ganz +prachtvoll!" Her eyes and hands are raised toward +heaven. + +"What's prachtful? " I ask, startled. "The +chicken?" + +"Nein; your waist. Selbst gemacht?" + +I am even becoming hardened to the manners of the +aborigines. It used to fuss me to death to meet one of +them in the halls. They always stopped short, brought +heels together with a click, bent stiffly from the waist, +and thundered: "Nabben', Fraulein!" + +I have learned to take the salutation quite calmly, +and even the wildest, most spectacled and knobby-browed +aborigine cannot startle me. Nonchalantly I reply, +"Nabben'," and wish that Norah could but see me in the +act. + +When I told Ernst von Gerhard about them, he laughed +a little and shrugged his shoulders and said: + +"Na, you should not look so young, and so pretty, and +so unmarried. In Germany a married woman brushes her +hair quite smoothly back, and pins it in a hard knob. +And she knows nothing of such bewildering collars and +fluffy frilled things in the front of the blouse. How do +you call them--jabots?" + +Von Gerhard has not behaved at all nicely. I did not +see him until two weeks after my arrival in Milwaukee, +although he telephoned twice to ask if there was anything +that he could do to make me comfortable. + +"Yes," I had answered the last time that I heard his +voice over the telephone. "It would be a whole heap of +comfort to me just to see you. You are the nearest thing +to Norah that there is in this whole German town, and +goodness knows you're far from Irish." + +He came. The weather had turned suddenly cold and he +was wearing a fur-lined coat with a collar of fur. He +looked most amazingly handsome and blond and splendidly +healthy. The clasp of his hands was just as big and sure +as ever. + +"You have no idea how glad I am to see +you," I told him. "If you had, you would have been here +days ago. Aren't you rather ill-mannered and neglectful, +considering that you are responsible for my being here?" + +"I did not know whether you, a married woman, would +care to have me here," he said, in his composed way. "In +a place like this people are not always kind enough to +take the trouble to understand. And I would not have +them raise their eyebrows at you, not for--" + +"Married!" I laughed, some imp of willfulness seizing +me, "I'm not married. What mockery to say that I am +married simply because I must write madam before my name! +I am not married, and I shall talk to whom I please." + +And then Von Gerhard did a surprising thing. He took +two great steps over to my chair, and grasped my hands +and pulled me to my feet. I stared up at him like a +silly creature. His face was suffused with a dull red, +and his eyes were unbelievably blue and bright. He had +my hands in his great grip, but his voice was very quiet +and contained. + +"You are married," he said. "Never forget that for +a moment. You are bound, hard and fast and tight. And +you are for no man. You are married as much as though +that poor creature in the mad house were here working for +you, instead of the case being reversed as it is. So." + +"What do you mean!" I cried, wrenching myself away +indignantly. "What right have you to talk to me like +this? You know what my life has been, and how I have +tried to smile with my lips and stay young in my heart! +I thought you understood. Norah thought so too, and +Max--" + +"I do understand. I understand so well that I would +not have you talk as you did a moment ago. And I said +what I said not so much for your sake, as for mine. For +see, I too must remember that you write madam before your +name. And sometimes it is hard for me to remember." + +"Oh," I said, like a simpleton, and stood staring +after him as he quietly gathered up his hat and gloves +and left me standing there. + + + + +CHAPTER VII + + +BLACKIE'S PHILOSOPHY + +I did not write Norah about Von Gerhard. After all, I +told myself, there was nothing to write. And so I was +the first to break the solemn pact that we had made. + +"You will write everything, won't you, Dawn dear?" +Norah had pleaded, with tears, in her pretty eyes. +"Promise me. We've been nearer to each other in these +last few months than we have been since we were girls. +And I've loved it so. Please don't do as you did during +those miserable years in New York, when you were fighting +your troubles alone and we knew nothing of it. You wrote +only the happy things. Promise me you'll write the +unhappy ones too--though the saints forbid that there +should be any to write! And Dawn, don't you dare to +forget your heavy underwear in November. Those lake +breezes!--Well, some one has to tell you, and I can't +leave those to Von Gerhard. He has promised to act as +monitor over your health." + +And so I promised. I crammed my letters with +descriptions of the Knapf household. I assured her that +I was putting on so much weight that the skirts which +formerly hung about me in limp, dejected folds now +refused to meet in the back, and all the hooks and eyes +were making faces at each other. My cheeks, I told her, +looked as if I were wearing plumpers, and I was beginning +to waddle and puff as I walked. + +Norah made frantic answer: + +"For mercy's sake child, be careful or you'll be +FAT!" + +To which I replied: "Don't care if I am. Rather be +hunky and healthy than skinny and sick. Have tried +both." + +It is impossible to avoid becoming round-cheeked when +one is working on a paper that allows one to shut one's +desk and amble comfortably home for dinner at least five +days in the week. Everybody is at least plump in this +comfortable, gemutlich town, where everybody placidly +locks his shop or office and goes home at noon to dine +heavily on soup and meat and vegetables and pudding, +washed down by the inevitable beer and followed by forty +winks on the dining room sofa with the German Zeitung +spread comfortably over the head as protection against +the flies. + +There is a fascination about the bright little city. +There is about it something quaint and foreign, as though +a cross-section of the old world had been dumped bodily +into the lap of Wisconsin. It does not seem at all +strange to hear German spoken everywhere--in the streets, +in the shops, in the theaters, in the street cars. One +day I chanced upon a sign hung above the doorway of a +little German bakery over on the north side. There were +Hornchen and Kaffeekuchen in the windows, and a brood of +flaxen-haired and sticky children in the back of the +shop. I stopped, open-mouthed, to stare at the worn sign +tacked over the door. + +"Hier wird Englisch gesprochen," it announced. + +I blinked. Then I read it again. I shut my eyes, +and opened them again suddenly. The fat German letters +spoke their message as before--"English spoken here." + +On reaching the office I told Norberg, the city +editor, about my find. He was not impressed. Norberg +never is impressed. He is the most soul-satisfying and +theatrical city editor that I have ever met. He is fat, +and unbelievably nimble, and keen-eyed, and untiring. He +says, "Hell!" when things go wrong; he smokes innumerable +cigarettes, inhaling the fumes and sending out the thin +wraith of smoke with little explosive sounds between +tongue and lips; he wears blue shirts, and no collar to +speak of, and his trousers are kept in place only by a +miracle and an inefficient looking leather belt. + +When he refused to see the story in the little German +bakery sign I began to argue. + +"But man alive, this is America! I think I know a +story when I see it. Suppose you were traveling in +Germany, and should come across a sign over a shop, +saying: `Hier wird Deutsch gesprochen.' Wouldn't you +think you were dreaming?" + +Norberg waved an explanatory hand. "This isn't +America. This is Milwaukee. After you've lived here a +year or so you'll understand what I mean. If we should +run a story of that sign, with a two-column cut, +Milwaukee wouldn't even see the joke." + +But it was not necessary that I live in Milwaukee a +year or so in order to understand its peculiarities, for +I had a personal conductor and efficient guide in the new +friend that had come into my life with the first day of +my work on the Post. Surely no woman ever had a stronger +friend than little "Blackie" Griffith, sporting editor of +the Milwaukee Post. We became friends, not step by +step, but in one gigantic leap such as sometimes triumphs +over the gap between acquaintance and liking. + +I never shall forget my first glimpse of him. He +strolled into the city room from his little domicile +across the hall. A shabby, disreputable, out-at-elbows +office coat was worn over his ultra-smart street clothes, +and he was puffing at a freakish little pipe in the shape +of a miniature automobile. He eyed me a moment from the +doorway, a fantastic, elfin little figure. I thought +that I had never seen so strange and so ugly a face as +that of this little brown Welshman with his lank, black +hair and his deep-set, uncanny black eyes. Suddenly he +trotted over to me with a quick little step. In the +doorway he had looked forty. Now a smile illumined the +many lines of his dark countenance, and in some +miraculous way he looked twenty. + +"Are you the New York importation?" he, asked, his +great black eyes searching my face. + +"I'm what's left of it," I replied, meekly. + +"I understand you've been in for repairs. Must of met +up with somethin' on the road. They say the goin' is full +of bumps in N' York." + +"Bumps!" I laughed, "it's uphill every bit of the +road, and yet you've got to go full speed to get +anywhere. But I'm running easily again, thank you." + +He waved away a cloud of pipe-smoke, and knowingly +squinted through the haze. "We don't speed up much here. +And they ain't no hill climbin' t' speak of. But say, if +you ever should hit a nasty place on the route, toot your +siren for me and I'll come. I'm a regular little human +garage when it comes to patchin' up those aggravatin' +screws that need oilin'. And, say, don't let Norberg +bully you. My name's Blackie. I'm goin' t' like you. +Come on over t' my sanctum once in a while and I'll show +you my scrapbook and let you play with the office +revolver." + +And so it happened that I had not been in Milwaukee +a month before Blackie and I were friends. + +Norah was horrified. My letters were full of him. +I told her that she might get a more complete mental +picture of him if she knew that he wore the pinkest +shirts, and the purplest neckties, and the blackest and +whitest of black-and-white checked vests that ever +aroused the envy of an office boy, and beneath them all, +the gentlest of hearts. And therefore one loves him. +There is a sort of spell about the illiterate little +slangy, brown Welshman. He is the presiding genius of +the place. The office boys adore him. The Old Man +takes his advice in selecting a new motor car; the +managing editor arranges his lunch hour to suit Blackie's +and they go off to the Press club together, arm in arm. +It is Blackie who lends a sympathetic ear to the society +editor's tale of woe. He hires and fires the office boys; +boldly he criticizes the news editor's makeup; he receives +delegations of tan-coated, red-faced prizefighting-looking +persons; he gently explains to the photographer why that +last batch of cuts make their subjects look as if afflicted +with the German measles; he arbitrates any row that the +newspaper may have with such dignitaries as the mayor or the +chief of police; he manages boxing shows; he skims about in a +smart little roadster; he edits the best sporting page in +the city; and at four o'clock of an afternoon he likes to +send around the corner for a chunk of devil's food cake +with butter filling from the Woman's Exchange. Blackie +never went to school to speak of. He doesn't know was +from were. But he can "see" a story quicker, and farther +and clearer than any newspaper man I ever knew--excepting +Peter Orme. + +There is a legend about to the effect that one day +the managing editor, who is Scotch and without a sense of +humor, ordered that Blackie should henceforth be +addressed by his surname of Griffith, as being a more +dignified appellation for the use of fellow reporters, +hangers-on, copy kids, office boys and others about the +big building. + +The day after the order was issued the managing +editor summoned a freckled youth and thrust a sheaf of +galley proofs into his hand. + +"Take those to Mr. Griffith," he ordered without +looking up. + +"T' who?" + +"To Mr. Griffith," said the managing editor, +laboriously, and scowling a bit. + +The boy took three unwilling steps toward the door. +Then he turned a puzzled face toward the managing editor. + +"Say, honest, I ain't never heard of dat guy. He +must be a new one. W'ere'll I find him?" + +"Oh, damn! Take those proofs to Blackie!" roared the +managing editor. And thus ended Blackie's enforced +flight into the realms of dignity. + +All these things, and more, I wrote to the +scandalized Norah. I informed her that he wore more +diamond rings and scarf pins and watch fobs than a +railroad conductor, and that his checked top-coat +shrieked to Heaven. + +There came back a letter in which every third word +was underlined, and which ended by asking what the morals +of such a man could be. + +Then I tried to make Blackie more real to Norah who, +in all her sheltered life, had never come in contact with +a man like this. + +" . . . As for his morals--or what you would consider +his morals, Sis--they probably are a deep crimson; but +I'll swear there is no yellow streak. I never have heard +anything more pathetic than his story. Blackie sold +papers on a down-town corner when he was a baby six years +old. Then he got a job as office boy here, and he used +to sharpen pencils, and run errands, and carry copy. +After office hours he took care of some horses in an +alley barn near by, and after that work was done he was +employed about the pressroom of one of the old German +newspaper offices. Sometimes he would be too weary to +crawl home after working half the night, and so he would +fall asleep, a worn, tragic little figure, on a pile of +old papers and sacks in a warm corner near the presses. +He was the head of a household, and every penny counted. +And all the time he was watching things, and learning. +Nothing escaped those keen black eyes. He used to help +the photographer when there was a pile of plates to +develop, and presently he knew more about photography +than the man himself. So they made him staff +photographer. In some marvelous way he knew more ball +players, and fighters and horsemen than the sporting +editor. He had a nose for news that was nothing short of +wonderful. He never went out of the office without +coming back with a story. They used to use him in the +sporting department when a rush was on. Then he became +one of the sporting staff; then assistant sporting +editor; then sporting editor. He knows this paper from +the basement up. He could operate a linotype or act as +managing editor with equal ease. + +"No, I'm afraid that Blackie hasn't had much time for +morals. But, Norah dear, I wish that you could hear him +when he talks about his mother. He may follow doubtful +paths, and associate with questionable people, and wear +restless clothes, but I wouldn't exchange his friendship +for that of a dozen of your ordinary so-called good men. +All these years of work and suffering have made an old +man of little Blackie, although he is young in years. But +they haven't spoiled his heart any. He is able to +distinguish between sham and truth because he has been +obliged to do it ever since he was a child selling papers +on the corner. But he still clings to the office that gave +him his start, although he makes more money in a single week +outside the office than his salary would amount to in half a +year. He says that this is a job that does not interfere +with his work." + +Such is Blackie. Surely the oddest friend a woman +ever had. He possesses a genius for friendship, and a +wonderful understanding of suffering, born of those years +of hardship and privation. Each learned the other's +story, bit by bit, in a series of confidences exchanged +during that peaceful, beatific period that follows just +after the last edition has gone down. Blackie's little +cubby-hole of an office is always blue with smoke, and +cluttered with a thousand odds and ends--photographs, +souvenirs, boxing-gloves, a litter of pipes and tobacco, +a wardrobe of dust-covered discarded coats and hats, and +Blackie in the midst of it all, sunk in the depths of his +swivel chair, and looking like an amiable brown gnome, or +a cheerful little joss-house god come to life. There is +in him an uncanny wisdom which only the streets can +teach. He is one of those born newspaper men who could +not live out of sight of the ticker-tape, and the +copy-hook and the proof-sheet. + +"Y' see, girl, it's like this here," Blackie +explained one day. "W're all workin' for some good +reason. A few of us are workin' for the glory of it, and +most of us are workin' t' eat, and lots of us are +pluggin' an' savin' in the hopes that some day we'll have +money enough to get back at some people we know; but +there is some few workin' for the pure love of the +work--and I guess I'm one of them fools. Y' see, I +started in at this game when I was such a little runt +that now it's a ingrowing habit, though it is comfortin' +t' know you got a place where you c'n always come in out +of the rain, and where you c'n have your mail sent." + +"This newspaper work is a curse," I remarked. "Show +me a clever newspaper man and I'll show you a failure. +There is nothing in it but the glory--and little of that. +We contrive and scheme and run about all day getting a +story. And then we write it at fever heat, searching our +souls for words that are cleancut and virile. And then +we turn it in, and what is it? What have we to show for +our day's work? An ephemeral thing, lacking the first +breath of life; a thing that is dead before +it is born. Why, any cub reporter, if he were to put +into some other profession the same amount of nerve, and +tact, and ingenuity and finesse, and stick-to-it-iveness +that he expends in prying a single story out of some +unwilling victim, could retire with a fortune in no +time." + +Blackie blew down the stem of his pipe, preparatory +to re-filling the bowl. There was a quizzical light in +his black eyes. The little heap of burned matches at his +elbow was growing to kindling wood proportions. It was +common knowledge that Blackie's trick of lighting pipe or +cigarette and then forgetting to puff at it caused his +bill for matches to exceed his tobacco expense account. + +"You talk," chuckled Blackie, "like you meant it. +But sa-a-ay, girl, it's a lonesome game, this retirin' +with a fortune. I've noticed that them guys who retire +with a barrel of money usually dies at the end of the +first year, of a kind of a lingerin' homesickness. You +c'n see their pictures in th' papers, with a pathetic +story of how they was just beginnin' t' enjoy life when +along comes the grim reaper an' claims 'em."} + +Blackie slid down in his chair and blew a column of +smoke ceilingward. + +"I knew a guy once--newspaper man, too--who retired +with a fortune. He used to do the city hall for us. +Well, he got in soft with the new administration before +election, and made quite a pile in stocks that was tipped +off to him by his political friends. His wife was crazy +for him to quit the newspaper game. He done it. An' +say, that guy kept on gettin' richer and richer till even +his wife was almost satisfied. But sa-a-ay, girl, was +that chap lonesome! One day he come up here looking like +a dog that's run off with the steak. He was just dyin' +for a kind word, an' he sniffed the smell of the ink and +the hot metal like it was June roses. He kind of wanders +over to his old desk and slumps down in the chair, and +tips it back, and puts his feet on the desk, with his hat +tipped back, and a bum stogie in his mouth. And along +came a kid with a bunch of papers wet from the presses +and sticks one in his hand, and--well, girl, that fellow, +he just wriggled he was so happy. You know as well as I +do that every man on a morning paper spends his day off +hanging around the office wishin' that a mob or a fire or +somethin' big would tear lose so he could get back into +the game. I guess I told you about the time Von Gerhard +sent me abroad, didn't I?" + +"Von Gerhard!" I repeated, startled. "Do you know +him?" + +"Well, he ain't braggin' about it none," Blackie +admitted. "Von Gerhard, he told me I had about five +years or so t' live, about two, three years ago. He +don't approve of me. Pried into my private life, old Von +Gerhard did, somethin' scand'lous. I had sort of went to +pieces about that time, and I went t' him to be patched +up. He thumps me fore 'an' aft, firing a volley of +questions, lookin' up the roof of m' mouth, and squintin' +at m' finger nails an' teeth like I was a prize horse for +sale. Then he sits still, lookin' at me for about half +a minute, till I begin t' feel uncomfortable. Then he +says, slow: `Young man, how old are you?' + +"`O, twenty-eight or so,' I says, airy. + +"`My Gawd!' said he. `You've crammed twice those +years into your life, and you'll have to pay for it. Now +you listen t' me. You got t' quit workin', an' smokin', +and get away from this. Take a ocean voyage,' he says, +`an' try to get four hours sleep a night, anyway.' + +"Well say, mother she was scared green. So I tucked +her under m' arm, and we hit it up across the ocean. +Went t' Germany, knowin' that it would feel homelike +there, an' we took in all the swell baden, and chased up +the Jungfrau -- sa-a-ay, that's a classy little mountain, +that Jungfrau. Mother, she had some swell time I guess. +She never set down except for meals, and she wrote picture +postals like mad. But sa-a-ay, girl, was I lonesome! Maybe +that trip done me good. Anyway, I'm livin' yet. I stuck it +out for four months, an' that ain't so rotten for a guy who +just grew up on printer's ink ever since he was old +enough to hold a bunch of papers under his arm. Well, +one day mother an' me was sittin' out on one of them +veranda cafes they run to over there, w'en somebody hits +me a crack on the shoulder, an' there stands old Ryan who +used t' do A. P. here. He was foreign correspondent for +some big New York syndicate papers over there. + +"`Well if it ain't Blackie!' he says. `What in Sam +Hill are you doing out of your own cell when Milwaukee's +just got four more games t' win the pennant?' + +"Sa-a-a-ay, girl, w'en I got through huggin' him +around the neck an' buyin' him drinks I knew it was me +for the big ship. `Mother,' I says, `if you got anybody +on your mind that you neglected t' send picture postals +to, now's' your last chance. 'F I got to die I'm going +out with m' scissors in one mitt, and m' trusty paste-pot +by m' side!' An' we hits it up for old Milwaukee. I +ain't been away since, except w'en I was out with the +ball team, sending in sportin' extry dope for the pink +sheet. The last time I was in at Baumbach's in comes Von +Gerhard an'--" + +"Who are Baumbach's?" I interrupted. + +Blackie regarded me pityingly. "You ain't never been +to Baumbach's? Why girl, if you don't know Baumbach's, +you ain't never been properly introduced to Milwaukee. +No wonder you ain't hep to the ways of this little +community. There ain't what the s'ciety editor would +call the proper ontong cordyal between you and the +natives if you haven't had coffee at Baumbach's. It +ain't hardly legal t' live in Milwaukee all this time +without ever having been inside of B--" + +"Stop! If you do not tell me at once just where this +wonderful place may be found, and what one does when one +finds it, and how I happened to miss it, and why it is so +necessary to the proper understanding of the city--" + +"I'll tell you what I'll do," said Blackie, grinning, +"I'll romp you over there to-morrow afternoon at four +o'clock. Ach Himmel! What will that for a grand time +be, no?" + +"Blackie, you're a dear to be so polite to an old +married cratur' like me. Did you notice--that is, does +Ernst von Gerhard drop in often at Baumbach's? " + + + + + + +CHAPTER VIII + + +KAFFEE AND KAFFEEKUCHEN + + +I have visited Baumbach's. I have heard Milwaukee +drinking its afternoon Kaffee. + +O Baumbach's, with your deliciously crumbling butter +cookies and your kaffee kuchen, and your thick cream, and +your thicker waitresses and your cockroaches, and your +dinginess and your dowdy German ladies and your black, +black Kaffee,where in this country is there another like +you! + +Blackie, true to his promise, had hailed me from the +doorway on the afternoon of the following day. In the +rush of the day's work I had quite forgotten about +Blackie and Baumbach's. + +"Come, Kindchen!" he called. "Get your bonnet on. +We will by Baumbach's go, no?" + +Ruefully I gazed at the grimy cuffs of my blouse, and +felt of my dishevelled hair. "Oh, I'm afraid I can't go. +I look so mussy. Haven't had time to brush up." + +"Brush up!" scoffed Blackie, "the only thing +about you that will need brushin' up is your German. I +was goin' t' warn you to rumple up your hair a little so +you wouldn't feel overdressed w'en you got there. Come +on, girl." + +And so I came. And oh, I'm so glad I came! + +I must have passed it a dozen times without once +noticing it--just a dingy little black shop nestling +between two taller buildings, almost within the shadow of +the city hall. Over the sidewalk swung a shabby black +sign with gilt letters that spelled, "Franz Baumbach." + +Blackie waved an introductory hand in the direction +of the sign. "There he is. That's all you'll ever see +of him." + +"Dead? " asked I, regretfully, as we entered the +narrow doorway. + +"No; down in the basement baking Kaffeekuchen." + +Two tiny show-windows faced the street--such queer, +old-fashioned windows in these days of plate glass. At +the back they were quite open to the shop, and in one of +them reposed a huge, white, immovable structure--a +majestic, heavy, nutty, surely indigestible birthday +cake. Around its edge were flutings and scrolls of white +icing, and on its broad breast reposed cherries, and +stout butterflies of jelly, and cunning traceries of +colored sugar. It was quite the dressiest cake I had +ever beheld. Surely no human hand could be wanton enough +to guide a knife through all that magnificence. But in +the center of all this splendor was an inscription in +heavy white letters of icing: "Charlottens +Geburtstag." + +Reluctantly I tore my gaze from this imposing example +of the German confectioner's art, for Blackie was tugging +impatiently at my sleeve. + +"But Blackie," I marveled, "do you honestly suppose +that that structure is intended for some Charlotte's +birthday?" + +"In Milwaukee," explained Blackie, "w'en you got a +birthday you got t' have a geburtstag cake, with your +name on it, and all the cousins and aunts and members of +the North Side Frauen Turner Verein Gesellchaft, in for +the day. It ain't considered decent if you don't. Are +you ready to fight your way into the main tent?" + +It was holiday time, and the single narrow aisle of +the front shop was crowded. It was not easy to elbow +one's way through the packed little space. Men and women +were ordering recklessly of the cakes of every +description that were heaped in cases and on shelves. + +Cakes! What a pale; dry name to apply to those +crumbling, melting, indigestible German +confections! Blackie grinned with enjoyment while I +gazed. There were cakes the like of which I had never +seen and of which I did not even know the names. There +were little round cup cakes made of almond paste that +melts in the mouth; there were Schnecken glazed with a +delicious candied brown sugar; there were Bismarcks +composed of layer upon layer of flaky crust inlaid with +an oozy custard that evades the eager consumer at the +first bite, and that slides down one's collar when chased +with a pursuing tongue. There were Pfeffernusse; there, +were Lebkuchen; there were cheese-kuchen; plum-kuchen, +peach-kuchen, Apfelkuchen, the juicy fruit stuck thickly +into the crust, the whole dusted over with powdered +sugar. There were Torten, and Hornchen, and butter +cookies. + +Blackie touched my arm, and I tore my gaze from a +cherry-studded Schaumtorte that was being reverently +packed for delivery. + +"My, what a greedy girl! Now get your mind all made +up. This is your chance. You know you're supposed t' +take a slant at th' things an' make up your mind w'at you +want before you go back w'ere th' tables are. Don't +fumble this thing. When Olga or Minna comes waddlin' up +t' you an' says: `Nu, Fraulein?' you gotta tell her +whether your heart says plum-kuchen oder Nusstorte, or +both, see? Just like that. Now make up your mind. I'd +hate t' have you blunder. Have you decided?" + +"Decided! How can I?" I moaned, watching a +black-haired, black-eyed Alsatian girl behind the counter +as she rolled a piece of white paper into a cone and +dipped a spoonful of whipped cream from a great brown +bowl heaped high with the snowy stuff. She filled the +paper cone, inserted the point of it into one end of a +hollow pastry horn, and gently squeezed. Presto! A +cream-filled Hornchen! + +"Oh, Blackie!" I gasped. "Come on. I want to go in +and eat." + +As we elbowed our way to the rear room separated from +the front shop only by a flimsy wooden partition, I +expected I know not what. + +But surely this was not Blackie's much-vaunted +Baumbach's! This long, narrow, dingy room, with its bare +floor and its iron-legged tables whose bare marble tops +were yellow with age and use! I said nothing as we +seated ourselves. Blackie was watching me out of the +tail of his eye. My glance wandered about the shabby, +smoke-filled room, and slowly and surely the charm of +that fusty, dingy little cafe came upon me. + +A huge stove glowed red in one corner. On +the wall behind the stove was suspended a wooden rack, +black with age, its compartments holding German, Austrian +and Hungarian newspapers. Against the opposite wall +stood an ancient walnut mirror, and above it hung a +colored print of Bismarck, helmeted, uniformed, and +fiercely mustached. The clumsy iron-legged tables stood +in two solemn rows down the length of the narrow room. +Three or four stout, blond girls plodded back and forth, +from tables to front shop, bearing trays of cakes and +steaming cups of coffee. There was a rumble and clatter +of German. Every one seemed to know every one else. A +game of chess was in progress at one table, and between +moves each contestant would refresh himself with a +long-drawn, sibilant mouthful of coffee. There was +nothing about the place or its occupants to remind one of +America. This dim, smoky, cake-scented cafe was Germany. + +"Time!" said Blackie. "Here comes Rosie to take our +order. You can take your choice of coffee or chocolate. +That's as fancy as they get here." + +An expansive blond girl paused at our table smiling +a broad welcome at Blackie. + +"Wie geht's, Roschen?" he greeted her. Roschen's +smile became still more pervasive, so that her blue eyes +disappeared in creases of good humor. She wiped the +marble table top with a large and careless gesture that +precipitated stray crumbs into our laps. "Gut!" murmured +she, coyly, and leaned one hand on a portly hip in an +attitude of waiting. + +"Coffee?" asked Blackie, turning to me. I nodded. + +"Zweimal Kaffee?" beamed Roschen, grasping the idea. + +"Now's your time to speak up," urged Blackie. "Go +ahead an' order all the cream gefillte things that looked +good to you out in front." + +But I leaned forward, lowering my voice discreetly. +"Blackie, before I plunge in too recklessly, tell me, are +their prices very--" + +"Sa-a-ay, child, you just can't spend half a dollar +here if you try. The flossiest kind of thing they got is +only ten cents a order. They'll smother you in whipped +cream f'r a quarter. You c'n come in here an' eat an' +eat an' put away piles of cakes till you feel like a +combination of Little Jack Horner an' old Doc Johnson. +An' w'en you're all through, they hand yuh your check, +an', say--it says forty-five cents. You can't beat it, +so wade right in an' spoil your complexion." + +With enthusiasm I turned upon the patient Rosie. "O, +bring me some of those cunning little round things with +the cream on 'em, you know--two of those, eh Blackie? +And a couple of those with the flaky crust and the +custard between, and a slice of that fluffy-looking cake +and some of those funny cocked-hat shaped cookies--" + +But a pall of bewilderment was slowly settling over +Rosie's erstwhile smiling face. Her plump shoulders went +up in a helpless shrug, and she turned her round blue +eyes appealingly to Blackie. + +"Was meint sie alles?" she asked. + +So I began all over again, with the assistance of +Blackie. We went into minute detail. We made elaborate +gestures. We drew pictures of our desired goodies on the +marble-topped table, using a soft-lead pencil. Rosie's +countenance wore a distracted look. In desperation I was +about to accompany her to the crowded shop, there to +point out my chosen dainties when suddenly, as they would +put it here, a light went her over. + +"Ach, yes-s-s-s! Sie wollten vielleicht abgeruhrter +Gugelhopf haben, und auch Schaumtorte, und Bismarcks, und +Hornchen mit cream gefullt, nicht?" + +"Certainly," I murmured, quite crushed. Roschen +waddled merrily off to the shop. + +Blackie was rolling a cigarette. He ran his funny +little red tongue along the edge of the paper and glanced +up at me in glee. "Don't bother about me," he generously +observed. "Just set still and let the atmosphere soak +in." + +But already I was lost in contemplation of a +red-faced, pompadoured German who was drinking coffee and +reading the Fliegende Blatter at a table just across +the way. There were counterparts of my aborigines at +Knapf's--thick spectacled engineers with high foreheads-- +actors and actresses from the German stock company-- +reporters from the English and German newspapers-- +business men with comfortable German consciences-- +long-haired musicians--dapper young lawyers--a giggling +group of college girls and boys--a couple of smartly +dressed women nibbling appreciatively at slices of +Nusstorte--low-voiced lovers whose coffee cups stood +untouched at their elbows, while no fragrant cloud of +steam rose to indicate that there was warmth within. +Their glances grow warmer as the neglected Kaffee grows +colder. The color comes and goes in the girl's face and +I watch it, a bit enviously, marveling that the old story +still should be so new. + +At a large square table near the doorway a group of +eight men were absorbed in an animated political +discussion, accompanied by much waving of arms, and +thundering of gutturals. It appeared to be a table of +importance, for the high-backed bench that ran along one +side was upholstered in worn red velvet, and every +newcomer paused a moment to nod or to say a word in +greeting. It was not of American politics that they +talked, but of the politics of Austria and Hungary. +Finally the argument resolved itself into a duel of words +between a handsome, red-faced German whose rosy skin +seemed to take on a deeper tone in contrast to the +whiteness of his hair and mustache, and a swarthy young +fellow whose thick spectacles and heavy mane of black +hair gave him the look of a caricature out of an +illustrated German weekly. The red-faced man argued +loudly, with much rapping of bare knuckles on the table +top. But the dark man spoke seldom, and softly, with a +little twisted half-smile on his lips; and whenever he +spoke the red-faced man grew redder, and there came a +huge laugh from the others who sat listening. + +"Say, wouldn't it curdle your English?" Blackie +laughed. + +Solemnly I turned to him. "Blackie Griffith, +these people do not even realize that there is anything +unusual about this." + +"Sure not; that's the beauty of it. They don't need +to make no artificial atmosphere for this place; it just +grows wild, like dandelions. Everybody comes here for +their coffee because their aunts an' uncles and +Grossmutters and Grosspapas used t' come, and come yet, +if they're livin'! An', after all, what is it but a +little German bakery?" + +"But O, wise Herr Baumbach down in the kitchen! O, +subtle Frau Baumbach back of the desk!" said I. "Others +may fit their shops with mirrors, and cut-glass +chandeliers and Oriental rugs and mahogany, but you sit +serenely by, and you smile, and you change nothing. You +let the brown walls grow dimmer with age; you see the +marble-topped tables turning yellow; you leave bare your +wooden floor, and you smile, and smile, and smile." + +"Fine!" applauded Blackie. "You're on. And here +comes Rosie." + +Rosie, the radiant, placed on the table cups and +saucers of an unbelievable thickness. She set them down +on the marble surface with a crash as one who knows well +that no mere marble or granite could shatter the solidity +of those stout earthenware receptacles. Napkins there +were none. I was to learn that fingers were rid of any +clinging remnants of cream or crumb by the simple +expedient of licking them. + +Blackie emptied his pitcher of cream into his cup of +black, black coffee, sugared it, stirred, tasted, and +then, with a wicked gleam in his black eyes he lifted the +heavy cup to his lips and took a long, gurgling mouthful. + +"Blackie," I hissed, "if you do that again I shall +refuse to speak to you!" + +"Do what?" demanded he, all injured innocence. + +"Snuffle up your coffee like that." + +"Why, girl, that's th' proper way t' drink coffee +here. Listen t' everybody else." And while I glared he +wrapped his hand lovingly about his cup, holding the +spoon imprisoned between first and second fingers, and +took another sibilant mouthful. "Any more of your back +talk and I'll drink it out of m' saucer an' blow on it +like the hefty party over there in the earrings is doin'. +Calm yerself an' try a Bismarck." + +I picked up one of the flaky confections and eyed it +in despair. There were no plates except that on which +the cakes reposed. + +"How does one eat them?" I inquired. + +"Yuh don't really eat 'em. The motion is +more like inhalin'. T' eat 'em successful you really +ought t' get into a bath-tub half-filled with water, +because as soon's you bite in at one end w'y the custard +stuff slides out at the other, an' no human mouth c'n be +two places at oncet. Shut your eyes girl, an' just wade +in." + +I waded. In silence I took a deep delicious bite, +nimbly chased the coy filling around a corner with my +tongue, devoured every bit down to the last crumb and +licked the stickiness off my fingers. Then I +investigated the interior of the next cake. + +"I'm coming here every day," I announced. + +"Better not. Ruin your complexion and turn all your +lines into bumps. Look at the dame with the earrings. +I've been keepin' count an' I've seen her eat three +Schnecken, two cream puffs, a Nusshornchen and a slice of +Torte with two cups of coffee. Ain't she a horrible +example! And yet she's got th' nerve t' wear a princess +gown!" + +"I don't care," I replied, recklessly, my voice +choked with whipped cream and butteriness. "I can just +feel myself getting greasy. Haven't I done beautifully +for a new hand? Now tell me about some of these people. +Who is the funny little man in the checked suit with the +black braid trimming, and the green cravat, and the +white spats, and the tan hat and the eyeglasses?" + +"Ain't them th' dizzy habiliments? "A note of envy +crept into Blackie's voice. "His name is Hugo Luders. +Used t' be a reporter on the Germania, but he's +reformed and gone into advertisin', where there's real +money. Some say he wears them clo'es on a bet, and some +say his taste in dress is a curse descended upon him from +Joseph, the guy with the fancy coat, but I think he +wears'em because he fancies 'em. He's been coming here +ever' afternoon for twelve years, has a cup of coffee, +game of chess, and a pow-wow with a bunch of cronies. If +Baumbach's ever decide to paint the front of their shop +or put in cut glass fixtures and handpainted china, Hugo +Luders would serve an injunction on 'em. Next!" + +"Who's the woman with the leathery complexion and the +belt to match, and the untidy hair and the big feet? I +like her face. And why does she sit at a table with all +those strange-looking men? And who are all the men? And +who is the fur-lined grand opera tenor just coming in-- +Oh!" + +Blackie glanced over his shoulder just as the tall +man in the doorway turned his face toward us. "That? +Why, girl, that's Von Gerhard, the man who gives me one +more year t' live. Look at everybody kowtowing to him. +He don't favor Baumbach's often. Too busy patching up the +nervous wrecks that are washed up on his shores." + +The tall figure in the doorway was glancing from +table to table, nodding here and there to an +acquaintance. His eyes traveled the length of the room. +Now they were nearing us. I felt a sudden, inexplicable +tightening at heart and throat, as though fingers were +clutching there. Then his eyes met mine, and I felt the +blood rushing to my face as he came swiftly over to our +table and took my hand in his. + +"So you have discovered Baumbach's," he said. "May +I have my coffee and cigar here with you? " + +"Blackie here is responsible for my being initiated +into the sticky mysteries of Baumbach's. I never should +have discovered it if he had not offered to act as +personal conductor. You know one another, I believe?" + +The two men shook hands across the table. There was +something forced and graceless about the act. Blackie +eyed Von Gerhard through a misty curtain of cigarette +smoke. Von Gerhard gazed at Blackie through narrowed +lids as he lighted his cigar. +"I'm th' gink you killed off two or three years back," +Blackie explained. + +"I remember you perfectly," Von Gerhard returned, +courteously. "I rejoice to see that I was mistaken." + +"Well," drawled Blackie, a wicked gleam in his black +eyes, "I'm some rejoiced m'self, old top. Angel wings +and a white kimono, worn bare-footy, would go some rotten +with my Spanish style of beauty, what? Didn't know that +you and m'dame friend here was acquainted. Known each +other long? + +I felt myself flushing again. + +"I knew Dr. von Gerhard back home. I've scarcely +seen him since I have been here. Famous specialists +can't be bothered with middle-aged relatives of their +college friends, can they, Herr Doktor?" + +And now it was Von Gerhard's face that flushed a deep +and painful crimson. He looked at me, in silence, and I +felt very little, and insignificant, and much like an +impudent child who has stuck out its tongue at its +elders. Silent men always affect talkative women in that +way. + +"You know that what you say is not true," he said, +slowly. + +"Well, we won't quibble. We--we were just about to +leave, weren't we Blackie?" + +"Just," said Blackie, rising. "Sorry t' see you +drinkin' Baumbach's coffee, Doc. It ain't fair t' your +patients." + +"Quite right," replied Von Gerhard; and rose with us. +"I shall not drink it. I shall walk home with Mrs. Orme +instead, if she will allow me. That will be more +stimulating than coffee, and twice as dangerous, perhaps, +but--" + +"You know how I hate that sort of thing," I said, +coldly, as we passed from the warmth of the little front +shop where the plump girls were still filling pasteboard +boxes with holiday cakes, to the brisk chill of the +winter street. The little black-and-gilt sign swung and +creaked in the wind. Whimsically, and with the memory of +that last cream-filled cake fresh in my mind, I saluted +the letters that spelled "Franz Baumbach." + +Blackie chuckled impishly. "Just the, same, try a +pinch of soda bicarb'nate when you get home, Dawn," he +advised. "Well, I'm off to the factory again. Got t' +make up for time wasted on m' lady friend. Auf +wiedersehen!" + +And the little figure in the checked top-coat trotted +off. + +"But he called you--Dawn," broke from Von Gerhard. + +"Mhum," I agreed. "My name's Dawn." + +"Surely not to him. You have known him but a few +weeks. I would not have presumed--" + +"Blackie never presumes," I laughed. "Blackie's +just--Blackie. Imagine taking offense at him! He knows +every one by their given name, from Jo, the boss of the +pressroom, to the Chief, who imports his office coats +from London. Besides, Blackie and I are newspaper men. +And people don't scrape and bow in a newspaper office-- +especially when they're fond of one another. You +wouldn't understand." + +As I looked at Von Gerhard in the light of the street +lamp I saw a tense, drawn look about the little group of +muscles which show when the teeth are set hard. When he +spoke those muscles had relaxed but little. + +"One man does not talk ill of another. But this is +different. I want to ask you--do you know what manner of +man this--this Blackie is? I ask you because I would +have you safe and sheltered always from such as he-- +because I--" + +"Safe! From Blackie? Now listen. There never was +a safer, saner, truer, more generous friend. Oh, I know +what his life has been. But what else could it have been, +beginning as he did? I have no wish to reform him. I +tried my hand at reforming one man, and made a glorious +mess of it. So I'll just take Blackie as he is, if you +please--slang, wickedness, pink shirt, red necktie, +diamond rings and all. If there's any bad in him, we +all know it, for it's right down on the table, face up. +You're just angry because he called you Doc." + +"Small one," said Von Gerhard, in his quaint German +idiom, "we will not quarrel, you and I. If I have been +neglectful it was because edged tools were never a chosen +plaything of mine. Perhaps your little Blackie realizes +that he need have no fear of such things, for the Great +Fear is upon him." + +"The Great Fear! You mean!--" + +"I mean that there are too many fine little lines +radiating from the corners of the sunken eyes, and that +his hand-clasp leaves a moisture in the palm. Ach! you +may laugh. Come, we will change the subject to something +more cheerful, yes? Tell me, how grows the book?" + +"By inches. After working all day on a bulletin +paper whose city editor is constantly shouting: `Boil it +now, fellows! Keep it down! We're crowded!' it is too +much of a wrench to find myself seated calmly before my +own typewriter at night, privileged to write one hundred +thousand words if I choose. I can't get over the habit of +crowding the story all into the first paragraph. Whenever +I flower into a descriptive passage I glance nervously +over my shoulder, expecting to find Norberg stationed +behind me, scissors and blue pencil in hand. +Consequently the book, thus far, sounds very much like a +police reporter's story of a fire four minutes before the +paper is due to go to press." + +Von Gerhard's face was unsmiling. "So," he said, +slowly. "You burn the candle at both ends. All day you +write, is it not so? And at night you come home to write +still more? Ach, Kindchen!--Na, we shall change all +that. We will be better comrades, we two, yes? You +remember that gay little walk of last autumn, when we +explored the Michigan country lane at dusk? I shall be +your Sunday Schatz, and there shall be more rambles like +that one, to bring the roses into your cheeks. We shall +be good Kameraden, as you and this little Griffith are-- +what is it they say--good fellows? That is it--good +fellows, yes? So, shall we shake hands on it? " + +But I snatched my hand away. "I don't +want to be a good fellow," I cried. "I'm tired of being +a good fellow. I've been a good fellow for years and +years, while every other married woman in the world has +been happy in her own home, bringing up her babies. When +I am old I want some sons to worry me, too, and to stay +awake nights for, and some daughters to keep me young, +and to prevent me from doing my hair in a knob and +wearing bonnets! I hate good-fellow women, and so do +you, and so does every one else! I--I--" + +"Dawn!" cried Von Gerhard. But I ran up the steps +and into the house and slammed the door behind me, +leaving him standing there. + + + + + +CHAPTER IX + + +THE LADY FROM VIENNA + + +Two more aborigines have appeared. One of them is a +lady aborigine. They made their entrance at supper and +I forgot to eat, watching them. The new-comers are from +Vienna. He is an expert engineer and she is a woman of +noble birth, with a history. Their combined appearance +is calculated to strike terror to the heart. He is +daringly ugly, with a chin that curves in under his lip +and then out in a peak, like pictures of Punch. She wore +a gray gown of a style I never had seen before and never +expect to see again. It was fastened with huge black +buttons all the way down the breathlessly tight front, +and the upper part was composed of that pre-historic +garment known as a basque. She curved in where she +should have curved out, and she bulged where she should +have had "lines." About her neck was suspended a string +of cannon-ball beads that clanked as she walked. On her +forehead rested a sparse fringe. + +"Mein Himmel!" thought I. "Am I dreaming? This +isn't Wisconsin. This is Nurnberg, or Strassburg, with +a dash of Heidelberg and Berlin thrown in. Dawn, old +girl, it's going to be more instructive than a Cook's +tour." + +That turned out to be the truest prophecy I ever +made. + +The first surprising thing that the new-comers did +was to seat themselves at the long table with the other +aborigines, the lady aborigine being the only woman among +the twelve men. It was plain that they had known one +another previous to this meeting, for they became very +good friends at once, and the men grew heavily humorous +about there being thirteen at table. + +At that the lady aborigine began to laugh. +Straightway I forgot the outlandish gown, forgot the +cannon-ball beads, forgot the sparse fringe, forgave the +absence of "lines." Such a voice! A lilting, melodious +thing. She broke into a torrent of speech, with +bewildering gestures, and I saw that her hands were +exquisitely formed and as expressive as her voice. Her +German was the musical tongue of the Viennese, possessing +none of the gutturals and sputterings. When she crowned +it with the gay little trilling laugh my views on the +language underwent a lightning change. It seemed the most +natural thing in the world to see her open the flat, +silver case that dangled at the end of the cannon-ball +chain, take out a cigarette, light it, and smoke it there +in that little German dining room. She wore the most +gracefully nonchalant air imaginable as she blew little +rings and wreaths, and laughed and chatted brightly with +her husband and the other men. Occasionally she broke +into French, her accent as charmingly perfect as it had +been in her native tongue. There was a moment of +breathless staring on the part of the respectable +middle-class Frauen at the other tables. Then they +shrugged their shoulders and plunged into their meal +again. There was a certain little high-born air of +assurance about that cigarette-smoking that no amount of +staring could ruffle. + +Watching the new aborigines grew to be a sort of +game. The lady aborigine of the golden voice, and the +ugly husband of the peaked chin had a strange fascination +for me. I scrambled downstairs at meal time in order not +to miss them, and I dawdled over the meal so that I need +not leave before they. I discovered that when the lady +aborigine was animated, her face was that of a young woman, +possessing a certain high-bred charm, but that when in +repose the face of the lady aborigine was that of a very +old and tired woman indeed. Also that her husband +bullied her, and that when he did that she looked at him +worshipingly. + +Then one evening, a week or so after the appearance +of the new aborigines, there came a clumping at my door. +I was seated at my typewriter and the book was balkier +than usual, and I wished that the clumper at the door +would go away. + +"Come!" I called, ungraciously enough. Then, on +second thought: "Herein!" + +The knob turned slowly, and the door opened just +enough to admit the top of a head crowned with a tight, +moist German knob of hair. I searched my memory to +recognize the knob, failed utterly and said again, this +time with mingled curiosity and hospitality: + +"Won't you come in?" + +The apparently bodiless head thrust itself forward a +bit, disclosing an apologetically smiling face, with high +check bones that glistened with friendliness and +scrubbing. + +"Nabben', Fraulein," said the head. + +"Nabben'," I replied, more mystified than ever. +"Howdy do! Is there anything--" + +The head thrust itself forward still more, showing a +pair of plump shoulders as its support. Then the plump +shoulders heaved into the room, disclosing a stout, +starched gingham body. + +"Ich bin Frau Knapf," announced the beaming vision. + +Now up to this time Frau Knapf had maintained a Mrs. +Harris-like mysteriousness. I had heard rumors of her, +and I had partaken of certain crispy dishes of German +extraction, reported to have come from her deft hands, +but I had not even caught a glimpse of her skirts +whisking around a corner. + +Therefore: "Frau Knapf!" I repeated. "Nonsense! +There ain't no sich person--that is, I'm glad to see you. +Won't you come in and sit down?" + +"Ach, no!" smiled the substantial Frau Knapf, +clinging tightly to the door knob. "I got no time. It +gives much to do to-night yet. Kuchen dough I must set, +und ich weiss nicht was. I got no time." + +Bustling, red-cheeked Frau Knapf! This was why I had +never had a glimpse of her. Always, she got no time. +For while Herr Knapf, dapper and genial, welcomed +new-comers, chatted with the diners, poured a glass +of foaming Doppel-brau for Herr Weber or, dexterously +carved fowl for the aborigines' table, Frau Knapf was +making the wheels go round. I discovered that it was she +who bakes the melting, golden German Pfannkuchen on +Sunday mornings; she it is who fries the crisp and +hissing Wienerschnitzel; she it is who prepares the plump +ducklings, and the thick gravies, and the steaming lentil +soup and the rosy sausages nestling coyly in their bed of +sauerkraut. All the week Frau Knapf bakes and broils and +stews, her rosy cheeks taking on a twinkling crimson from +the fire over which she bends. But on Sunday night Frau +Knapf sheds her huge apron and rolls down the sleeves +from her plump arms. On Sunday evening she leaves pots +and pans and cooking, and is a transformed Frau Knapf. +Then does she don a bright blue silk waist and a velvet +coat that is dripping with jet, and a black bonnet on +which are perched palpitating birds and weary-looking +plumes. Then she and Herr Knapf walk comfortably down to +the Pabst theater to see the German play by the German +stock company. They applaud their favorite stout, blond, +German comedienne as she romps through the acts of a +sprightly German comedy, and after the play they go to +their favorite Wein-stube around the corner. There they +have sardellen and cheese sandwiches and a great deal of +beer, and for one charmed evening Frau Knapf forgets all +about the insides of geese and the thickening for gravies, +and is happy. + +Many of these things Frau Knapf herself told me, +standing there by the door with the Kuchen heavy on her +mind. Some of them I got from Ernst von Gerhard when I +told him about my visitor and her errand. The errand was +not disclosed until Frau Knapf had caught me casting a +despairing glance at my last typewritten page. + +"Ach, see! you got no time for talking to, ain't it?" +she apologized. + +"Heaps of time," I politely assured her, "don't +hurry. But why not have a chair and be comfortable?" + +Frau Knapf was not to be deceived. "I go in a +minute. But first it is something I like to ask you. +You know maybe Frau Nirlanger?" + +I shook my head. + +"But sure you must know. From Vienna she is, with +such a voice like a bird." + +"And the beads, and the gray gown, and the fringe, +and the cigarettes?" + +"And the oogly husband," finished Frau Knapf, nodding. + +"Oogly," I agreed, "isn't the name for it. And so +she is Frau Nirlanger? I thought there would be a Von at +the very least." + +Whereupon my visitor deserted the doorknob, took half +a dozen stealthy steps in my direction and lowered her +voice to a hissing whisper of confidence. + +"It is more as a Von. I will tell you. Today comes +Frau Nirlanger by me and she says: `Frau Knapf, I wish +to buy clothes, aber echt Amerikanische. Myself, I do +not know what is modish, and I cannot go alone to buy.'" + +"That's a grand idea," said I, recalling the gray +basque and the cannon-ball beads. + +"Ja, sure it is," agreed Frau Knapf. "Soo-o-o, she +asks me was it some lady who would come with her by the +stores to help a hat and suit and dresses to buy. +Stylish she likes they should be, and echt Amerikanisch. +So-o-o-o, I say to her, I would go myself with you, only +so awful stylish I ain't, and anyway I got no time. But +a lady I know who is got such stylish clothes!" Frau +Knapf raised admiring hands and eyes toward heaven. +"Such a nice lady she is, and stylish, like anything! +And her name is Frau Orme." + +"Oh, really, Frau Knapf--" I murmured in blushing +confusion. + +"Sure, it is so," insisted Frau Knapf, coming a step +nearer, and sinking her, voice one hiss lower. "You +shouldn't say I said it, but Frau Nirlanger likes she +should look young for her husband. He is much younger as +she is--aber much. Anyhow ten years. Frau Nirlanger +does not tell me this, but from other people I have found +out." Frau Knapf shook her head mysteriously a great +many times. "But maybe you ain't got such an interest in +Frau Nirlanger, yes?" + +"Interest! I'm eaten up with curiosity. You shan't +leave this room alive until you've told me!" + +Frau Knapf shook with silent mirth. "Now you make +jokings, ain't? Well, I tell you. In Vienna, Frau +Nirlanger was a widow, from a family aber hoch edel--very +high born. From the court her family is, and friends +from the Emperor, und alles. Sure! Frau Nirlanger, she +is different from the rest. Books she likes, und +meetings, und all such komisch things. And what you +think!" + +"I don't know," I gasped, hanging on her words, "what +DO I think?" + +"She meets this here Konrad Nirlanger, and +falls with him in love. Und her family is mad! But +schrecklich mad! Forty years old she is, and from a +noble family, and Konrad Nirlanger is only a student from +a university, and he comes from the Volk. Sehr gebildet +he is, but not high born. So-o-o-o-o, she runs with him +away and is married." + +Shamelessly I drank it all in. "You don't mean it! +Well, then what happened? She ran away with him--with +that chin! and then what?" + +Frau Knapf was enjoying it as much as I. She drew a +long breath, felt of the knob of hair, and plunged once +more into the story. + +"Like a story-book it is, nicht? Well, Frau +Nirlanger, she has already a boy who is ten years old, +and a fine sum of money that her first husband left her. +Aber when she runs with this poor kerl away from her +family, and her first husband's family is so schrecklich +mad that they try by law to take from her her boy and her +money, because she has her highborn family disgraced, you +see? For a year they fight in the courts, and then it +stands that her money Frau Nirlanger can keep, but her +boy she cannot have. He will be taken by her highborn +family and educated, and he must forget all about his +mamma. To cry it is, ain't it? Das arme Kind! Well, +she can stand it no longer to live where her boy is, +and not to see him. So-o-o-o, Konrad Nirlanger he gets +a chance to come by Amerika where there is a big +engineering plant here in Milwaukee, and she begs her +husband he should come, because this boy she loves very +much--Oh, she loves her young husband too, but different, +yes?" + +"Oh, yes," I agreed, remembering the gay little +trilling laugh, and the face that was so young when +animated, and so old and worn in repose. "Oh, yes. +Quite, quite different." + +Frau Knapf smoothed her spotless skirt and shook her +head slowly and sadly. "So-o-o-o, by Amerika they come. +And Konrad Nirlanger he is maybe a little cross and so, +because for a year they have been in the courts, and it +might have been the money they would lose, and for money +Konrad Nirlanger cares--well, you shall see. But Frau +Nirlanger must not mourn and cry. She must laugh and +sing, and be gay for her husband. But Frau Nirlanger has +no grand clothes, for first she runs away with Konrad +Nirlanger, and then her money is tied in the law. Now +she has again her money, and she must be young--but +young!" + +With a gesture that expressed a world of pathos and +futility Frau Knapf flung out her arms. "He must not +see that she looks different as the ladies in this +country. So Frau Nirlanger wants she should buy +here in the stores new dresses--echt Amerikanische. +All new and beautiful things she would have, because +she must look young, ain't it? And perhaps her boy +will remember her when he is a fine young man, if +she is yet young when he grows up, you see? And too, +there is the young husband. First, she gives up her old +life, and her friends and her family for this man, and +then she must do all things to keep him. Men, they are +but children, after all," spake the wise Frau Knapf in +conclusion. "They war and cry and plead for that which +they would have, and when they have won, then see! They +are amused for a moment, and the new toy is thrown +aside." + +"Poor, plain, vivacious, fascinating little Frau +Nirlanger!" I said. "I wonder just how much of pain and +heartache that little musical laugh of hers conceals?" + +"Ja, that is so," mused Frau Knapf. Her eyes look +like eyes that have wept much, not? And so you will be +so kind and go maybe to select the so beautiful clothes?" + +"Clothes?" I repeated, remembering the original +errand. "But dear lady! How, does one select clothes +for a woman of forty who would not weary her husband? +That is a task for a French modiste, a wizard, and a +fairy godmother all rolled into one." + +"But you will do it, yes?" urged Frau Knapf. + +"I'll do it," I agreed, a bit ruefully, "if only to +see the face of the oogly husband when his bride is +properly corseted and shod." + +Whereupon Frau Knapf, in a panic, remembered the +unset Kuchen dough and rushed away, with her hand on her +lips and her eyes big with secrecy. And I sat staring at +the last typewritten page stuck in my typewriter and I +found that the little letters on the white page were +swimming in a dim purple haze. + + + + + +CHAPTER X + + +A TRAGEDY OF GOWNS + +From husbands in general, and from oogly German husbands +in particular may Hymen defend me! Never again will I +attempt to select "echt Amerikanische" clothes for a +woman who must not weary her young husband. But how was +I to know that the harmless little shopping expedition +would resolve itself into a domestic tragedy, with Herr +Nirlanger as the villain, Frau Nirlanger as the +persecuted heroine, and I as--what is it in tragedy that +corresponds to the innocent bystander in real life? That +would be my role. + +The purchasing of the clothes was a real joy. Next +to buying pretty things for myself there is nothing I +like better than choosing them for some one else. And +when that some one else happens to be a fascinating +little foreigner who coos over the silken stuffs in a +delightful mixture of German and English; and especially +when that some one else must be made to look so charming +that she will astonish her oogly husband, then does the +selecting of those pretty things cease to be a task, and +become an art. + +It was to be a complete surprise to Herr Nirlanger. +He was to know nothing of it until everything was +finished and Frau Nirlanger, dressed in the prettiest of +the pretty Amerikanisch gowns, was ready to astound him +when he should come home from the office of the vast +plant where he solved engineering problems. + +"From my own money I buy all this," Frau Nirlanger +confided to me, with a gay little laugh of excitement, as +we started out. "From Vienna it comes. Always I have +given it at once to my husband, as a wife should. +Yesterday it came, but I said nothing, and when my +husband said to me, `Anna, did not the money come as +usual to-day? It is time,' I told a little lie--but a +little one, is it not? Very amusing it was. Almost I +did laugh. Na, he will not be cross when he see how his +wife like the Amerikanische ladies will look. He admires +very much the ladies of Amerika. Many times he has said +so. + +("I'll wager he has--the great, ugly boor!" I +thought, in parenthesis.) "We'll show him!" I said, +aloud. "He won't know you. Such a lot of beautiful +clothes as we can buy with all this money. Oh, dear Frau +Nirlanger, it's going to be slathers of fun! I feel as +excited about it as though it were a trousseau we were +buying." + +"So it is," she replied, a little shadow of sadness +falling across the brightness of her face. "I had no +proper clothes when we were married--but nothing! You +know perhaps my story. In America, everyone knows +everything. It is wonderful. When I ran away to marry +Konrad Nirlanger I had only the dress which I wore; even +that I borrowed from one of the upper servants, on a +pretext, so that no one should recognize me. Ach Gott! +I need not have worried. So! You see, it will be after +all a trousseau." + +Why, oh, why should a woman with her graceful +carriage and pretty vivacity have been cursed with such +an ill-assorted lot of features! Especially when certain +boorish young husbands have expressed an admiration for +pink-and-white effects in femininity. + +"Never mind, Mr. Husband, I'll show yez!" I resolved +as the elevator left us at the floor where waxen ladies +in shining glass cases smiled amiably all the day. + +There must be no violent pinks or blues. Brown was +too old. She was not young enough for black. Violet was +too trying. And so the gowns began to strew tables and +chairs and racks, and still I shook my head, and Frau +Nirlanger looked despairing, and the be-puffed and real +Irish-crocheted saleswoman began to develop a baleful +gleam about the eyes. + +And then we found it! It was a case of love at first +sight. The unimaginative would have called it gray. The +thoughtless would have pronounced it pink. It was +neither, and both; a soft, rosily-gray mixture of the +two, like the sky that one sometimes sees at winter +twilight, the pink of the sunset veiled by the gray of +the snow clouds. It was of a supple, shining cloth, +simple in cut, graceful in lines. + +"There! We've found it. Let's pray that it will not +require too much altering." + +But when it had been slipped over her head we groaned +at the inadequacy of her old-fashioned stays. There +followed a flying visit to the department where hips were +whisked out of sight in a jiffy, and where lines +miraculously took the place of curves. Then came the +gown once more, over the new stays this time. The effect +was magical. The Irish-crocheted saleswoman and I +clasped hands and fell back in attitudes of admiration. +Frau Nirlanger turned this way and that before the long +mirror and chattered like a pleased child. Her +adjectives grew into words of six syllables. She cooed +over the soft-shining stuff in little broken exclamations +in French and German. + +Then came a straight and simple street suit of blue +cloth, a lingerie gown of white, hats, shoes and even a +couple of limp satin petticoats. The day was gone before +we could finish. + +I bullied them into promising the pinky-gray gown for +the next afternoon. + +"Sooch funs!" giggled Frau Nirlanger, "and how it +makes one tired. So kind you were, to take this trouble +for me. Me, I could never have warred with that Fraulein +who served us--so haughty she was, nicht? But it is good +again pretty clothes to have. Pretty gowns I lofe--you +also, not?" + +"Indeed I do lofe 'em. But my money comes to me in +a yellow pay envelope, and it is spent before it reaches +me, as a rule. It doesn't leave much of a margin for +general recklessness." + +A tiny sigh came from Frau Nirlanger. "There will be +little to give to Konrad this time. So much money they +cost, those clothes! But Konrad, he will not care when +he sees the so beautiful dresses, is it not so?" + +"Care!" I cried with a great deal of bravado, +although a tiny inner voice spake in doubt. "Certainly +not. How could he?" + +Next day the boxes came, and we smuggled them into my +room. The unwrapping of the tissue paper folds was a +ceremony. We reveled in the very crackle of it. I had +scuttled home from the office as early as decency would +permit, in order to have plenty of time for the +dressing. It must be quite finished before Herr +Nirlanger should arrive. Frau Nirlanger had purchased +three tickets for the German theater, also as a surprise, +and I was to accompany the happily surprised husband and +the proud little wife of the new Amerikanische clothes. + +I coaxed her to let me do things to her hair. +Usually she wore a stiff and ugly coiffure that could +only be described as a chignon. I do not recollect +ever having seen a chignon, but I know that it must +look like that. I was thankful for my Irish deftness of +fingers as I stepped back to view the result of my +labors. The new arrangement of the hair gave her +features a new softness and dignity. + +We came to the lacing of the stays, with their +exaggerated length. "Aber!" exclaimed Frau Nirlanger, +not daring to laugh because of the strange snugness. "Ach!" +and again, Aber to laugh it is! " + +We had decided the prettiest of the new gowns must do +honor to the occasion. "This shade is called ashes of +roses," I explained, as I slipped it over her head. + +"Ashes of roses!" she echoed. "How pretty, yes? +But a little sad too, is it not so? Like rosy hopes that +have been withered. Ach, what a foolish talk! So, now +you will fasten it please. A real trick it is to button +such a dress--so sly they are, those fastenings." + +When all the sly fastenings were secure I stood at +gaze. + +"Nose is shiny," I announced, searching in a drawer +for chamois and powder. + +Frau Nirlanger raised an objecting hand. "But Konrad +does not approve of such things. He has said so. He +has--" + +"You tell your Konrad that a chamois skin isn't half +as objectionable as a shiny one. Come here and let me +dust this over your nose and chin, while I breathe a +prayer of thanks that I have no overzealous husband near +to forbid me the use of a bit of powder. There! If I +sez it mesilf as shouldn't, yez ar-r-re a credit t' me, +me darlint." + +"You are satisfied. There is not one small thing +awry? Ach, how we shall laugh at Konrad's face." + +"Satisfied! I'd kiss you if I weren't afraid that I +should muss you up. You're not the same woman. You look +like a girl! And so pretty! Now skedaddle into your own +rooms, but don't you dare to sit down for a moment. I'm +going down to get Frau Knapf before your husband +arrives." + +"But is there then time?" inquired Frau Nirlanger. +"He should be here now." + +"I'll bring her up in a jiffy, just for one peep. +She won't know you! Her face will be a treat! Don't +touch your hair--it's quite perfect. And f'r Jawn's +sake! Don't twist around to look at yourself in the back +or something will burst, I know it will. I'll be back in +a minute. Now run!" + +The slender, graceful figure disappeared with a gay +little laugh, and I flew downstairs for Frau Knapf. She +was discovered with a spoon in one hand and a spluttering +saucepan in the other. I detached her from them, clasped +her big, capable red hands and dragged her up the stairs, +explaining as I went. + +"Now don't fuss about that supper! Let 'em wait. +You must see her before Herr Nirlanger comes home. He's +due any minute. She looks like a girl. So young! And +actually pretty! And her figure--divine! Funny what a +difference a decent pair of corsets, and a gown, and some +puffs will make, h'm?" + +Frau Knapf was panting as I pulled her after me in +swift eagerness. Between puffs she brought out +exclamations of surprise and unbelief such as: +"Unmoglich! (Puff! Puff!) Aber--wunderbar! (Puff! +Puff!) + +We stopped before Frau Nirlanger's door. I struck a +dramatic pose. "Prepare!" I cried grandly, and threw +open the door with a bang. + +Crouched against the wall at a far corner of the room +was Frau Nirlanger. Her hands were clasped over her +breast and her eyes were dilated as though she had been +running. In the center of the room stood Konrad +Nirlanger, and on his oogly face was the very oogliest +look that I have ever seen on a man. He glanced at us as +we stood transfixed in the doorway, and laughed a short, +sneering laugh that was like a stinging blow on the +cheek. + +"So!" he said; and I would not have believed that men +really said "So!" in that way outside of a melodrama. +"So! You are in the little surprise, yes? You carry +your meddling outside of your newspaper work, eh? I +leave behind me an old wife in the morning and in the +evening, presto! I find a young bride. Wonderful!-- +but wonderful!" He laughed an unmusical and mirthless +laugh. + +"But--don't you like it?" I asked, like a simpleton. + +Frau Nirlanger seemed to shrink before our very eyes, +so that the pretty gown hung in limp folds about her. + +I stared, fascinated, at Konrad Nirlanger's cruel +face with its little eyes that were too close together +and its chin that curved in below the mouth and out again +so grotesquely. + +"Like it?" sneered Konrad Nirlanger. "For a young +girl, yes. But how useless, this belated trousseau. +What a waste of good money! For see, a young wife I do +not want. Young women one can have in plenty, always. +But I have an old woman married, and for an old woman the +gowns need be few--eh, Frau Orme? And you too, Frau +Knapf?" + +Frau Knapf, crimson and staring, was dumb. There +came a little shivering moan from the figure crouched in +the corner, and Frau Nirlanger, her face queerly withered +and ashen, crumpled slowly in a little heap on the floor +and buried her shamed head in her arms. + +Konrad Nirlanger turned to his wife, the black look +on his face growing blacker. + +"Come, get up Anna," he ordered, in German. "These +heroics become not a woman of your years. And too, you +must not ruin the so costly gown that will be returned +to-morrow." + +Frau Nirlanger's white face was lifted from the +shelter of her arms. The stricken look was still upon +it, but there was no cowering in her attitude now. +Slowly she rose to her feet. I had not realized that she +was so tall. + +"The gown does not go back," she said. + +"So?" he snarled, with a savage note in his voice. +"Now hear me. There shall be no more buying of gowns and +fripperies. You hear? It is for the wife to come to the +husband for the money; not for her to waste it wantonly +on gowns, like a creature of the streets. You," his +voice was an insult, "you, with your wrinkles and your +faded eyes in a gown of--" he turned inquiringly toward +me--"How does one call it, that color, Frau Orme?" + +There came a blur of tears to my eyes. "It is called +ashes of roses," I answered. "Ashes of roses." + +Konrad Nirlanger threw back his head and laughed a +laugh as stinging as a whip-lash. "Ashes of roses! So? It +is well named. For my dear wife it is poetically fit, is it +not so? For see, her roses are but withered ashes, eh Anna?" + +Deliberately and in silence Anna Nirlanger walked to +the mirror and stood there, gazing at the woman in the +glass. There was something dreadful and portentous about +the calm and studied deliberation with which she +critically viewed that reflection. She lifted her arms +slowly and patted into place the locks that had become +disarranged, turning her head from side to side to study +the effect. Then she took from a drawer the bit of +chamois skin that I had given her, and passed it lightly +over her eyelids and cheeks, humming softly to herself +the while. No music ever sounded so uncanny to my ears. +The woman before the mirror looked at the woman in the +mirror with a long, steady, measuring look. Then, slowly +and deliberately, the long graceful folds of her lovely +gown trailing behind her, she walked over to where her +frowning husband stood. So might a queen have walked, +head held high, gaze steady. She stopped within half a +foot of him, her eyes level with his. For a long +half-minute they stood thus, the faded blue eyes of the +wife gazing into the sullen black eyes of the husband, +and his were the first to drop, for all the noble +blood in Anna Nirlanger's veins, and all her long line of +gently bred ancestors were coming to her aid in dealing +with her middle-class husband. + +"You forget," she said, very slowly and distinctly. +"If this were Austria, instead of Amerika, you would not +forget. In Austria people of your class do not speak in +this manner to those of my caste." + +"Unsinn!" laughed Konrad Nirlanger. This is +Amerika." + +"Yes," said Anna Nirlanger, "this is Amerika. And in +Amerika all things are different. I see now that my +people knew of what they spoke when they called me mad to +think of wedding a clod of the people, such as you." + +For a moment I thought that he was going to strike +her. I think he would have, if she had flinched. But +she did not. Her head was held high, and her eyes did +not waver. + +"I married you for love. It is most comical, is it +not? With you I thought I should find peace, and +happiness and a re-birth of the intellect that was being +smothered in the splendor and artificiality and the +restrictions of my life there. Well, I was wrong. But +wrong. Now hear me!" Her voice was +tense with passion. "There will be gowns--as many and as +rich as I choose. You have said many times that the +ladies of Amerika you admire. And see! I shall be also +one of those so-admired ladies. My money shall go for +gowns! For hats! For trifles of lace and velvet and +fur! You shall learn that it is not a peasant woman whom +you have married. This is Amerika, the land of the free, +my husband. And see! Who is more of Amerika than I? +Who?" + +She laughed a high little laugh and came over to me, +taking my hands in her own. + +"Dear girl, you must run quickly and dress. For this +evening we go to the theater. Oh, but you must. There +shall be no unpleasantness, that I promise. My husband +accompanies us--with joy. Is it not so, Konrad? With +joy? So!" + +Wildly I longed to decline, but I dared not. So I +only nodded, for fear of the great lump in my throat, and +taking Frau Knapf's hand I turned and fled with her. +Frau Knapf was muttering: + +"Du Hund! Du unverschamter Hund du!" in good +Billingsgate German, and wiping her eyes with her apron. +And I dressed with trembling fingers because I dared not +otherwise face the brave little Austrian, the plucky little +aborigine who, with the donning of the new Amerikanische +gown had acquired some real Amerikanisch nerve. + + + + + +CHAPTER XI + + +VON GERHARD SPEAKS + +Of Von Gerhard I had not had a glimpse since that evening +of my hysterical outburst. On Christmas day there had +come a box of roses so huge that I could not find vases +enough to hold its contents, although I pressed into +service everything from Mason jars from the kitchen to +hand-painted atrocities from the parlor. After I had +given posies to Frau Nirlanger, and fastened a rose in +Frau Knapf's hard knob of hair, where it bobbed in +ludicrous discomfort, I still had enough to fill the +washbowl. My room looked like a grand opera star's +boudoir when she is expecting the newspaper reporters. +I reveled in the glowing fragrance of the blossoms and +felt very eastern and luxurious and popular. It had been +a busy, happy, work-filled week, in which I had had to +snatch odd moments for the selecting of certain wonderful +toys for the Spalpeens. There had been dolls and +doll-clothes and a marvelous miniature kitchen for the +practical and stolid Sheila, and ingenious bits of +mechanism that did unbelievable things when wound up, +for the clever, imaginative Hans. I was not to have the +joy of seeing their wide-eyed delight, but I knew that +there would follow certain laboriously scrawled letters, +filled with topsy-turvy capitals and crazily leaning words +of thanks to the doting old auntie who had been such good +fun the summer before. + +Boarding-house Christmases had become an old story. +I had learned to accept them, even to those obscure and +foreign parts of turkey which are seen only on +boarding-house plates, and which would be recognized +nowhere else as belonging to that stately bird. + +Christmas at Knapf's had been a happy surprise; a day +of hearty good cheer and kindness. There had even been +a Christmas tree, hung with stodgy German angels and +Pfeffernuesse and pink-frosted cakes. I found myself the +bewildered recipient of gifts from everyone--from the +Knapfs, and the aborigines and even from one of the +crushed-looking wives. The aborigine whom they called +Fritz had presented me with a huge and imposing +Lebkuchen, reposing in a box with frilled border, +ornamented with quaint little red-and-green German +figures in sugar, and labeled Nurnberg in +stout letters, for it had come all the way from that +kuchen-famous city. The Lebkuchen I placed on my mantel +shelf as befitted so magnificent a work of art. It was +quite too elaborate and imposing to be sent the way of +ordinary food, although it had a certain tantalizingly +spicy scent that tempted one to break off a corner here +and there. + +On the afternoon of Christmas day I sat down to thank +Dr. von Gerhard for the flowers as prettily as might be. +Also I asked his pardon, a thing not hard to do with the +perfume of his roses filling the room. + +"For you," I wrote, "who are so wise in the ways of +those tricky things called nerves, must know that it was +only a mild hysteria that made me say those most +unladylike things. I have written Norah all about it. +She has replied, advising me to stick to the good-fellow +role but not to dress the part. So when next you see me +I shall be a perfectly safe and sane comrade in +petticoats. And I promise you--no more outbursts." + +So it happened that on the afternoon of New Year's +day Von Gerhard and I gravely wished one another many +happy and impossible things for the coming year, looking +fairly and squarely into each other's eyes as we did so. + +"So," said Von Gerhard, as one who is satisfied. "The +nerfs are steady to-day. What do you say to a brisk walk +along the lake shore to put us in a New Year frame of +mind, and then a supper down-town somewhere, with a toast +to Max and Norah?" + +"You've saved my life! Sit down here in the parlor +and gaze at the crepe-paper oranges while I powder my +nose and get into some street clothes. I have such a +story to tell you! It has made me quite contented with +my lot." + +The story was that of the Nirlangers; and as we +struggled against a brisk lake breeze I told it, and +partly because of the breeze, and partly because of the +story, there were tears in my eyes when I had finished. +Von Gerhard stared at me, aghast. + +"But you are--crying!" he marveled, watching a tear +slide down my nose. + +"I'm not," I retorted. "Anyway I know it. I think +I may blubber if I choose to, mayn't I, as well as other +women?" + +"Blubber?" repeated Von Gerhard, he of the careful +and cautious English. "But most certainly, if you wish. +I had thought that newspaper women did not indulge in the +luxury of tears." + +"They don't--often. Haven't the time. If a woman +reporter were to burst into tears every time +she saw something to weep over she'd be going about with +a red nose and puffy eyelids half the time. Scarcely a +day passes that does not bring her face to face with +human suffering in some form. Not only must she see +these things, but she must write of them so that those +who read can also see them. And just because she does +not wail and tear her hair and faint she popularly is +supposed to be a flinty, cigarette-smoking creature who +rampages up and down the land, seeking whom she may rend +with her pen and gazing, dry-eyed, upon scenes of horrid +bloodshed." + +"And yet the little domestic tragedy of the +Nirlangers can bring tears to your eyes?" + +"Oh, that was quite different. The case of the +Nirlangers had nothing to do with Dawn O'Hara, newspaper +reporter. It was just plain Dawn O'Hara, woman, who +witnessed that little tragedy. Mein Himmel! Are all +German husbands like that?" + +"Not all. I have a very good friend named Max--" + +"O, Max! Max is an angel husband. Fancy Max and +Norah waxing tragic on the subject of a gown! Now you--" + +"I? Come, you are sworn to good-fellowship. As +one comrade to another, tell me, what sort of husband +do you think I should make, eh? The boorish +Nirlanger sort, or the charming Max variety. Come, tell +me--you who always have seemed so--so damnably able to +take care of yourself." His eyes were twinkling in the +maddening way they had. + +I looked out across the lake to where a line of +white-caps was piling up formidably only to break in +futile wrath against the solid wall of the shore. And +there came over me an equally futile wrath; that savage, +unreasoning instinct in women which prompts them to hurt +those whom they love. + +"Oh, you!" I began, with Von Gerhard's amused eyes +laughing down upon me. "I should say that you would be +more in the Nirlanger style, in your large, immovable, +Germansure way. Not that you would stoop to wrangle +about money or gowns, but that you would control those +things. Your wife will be a placid, blond, rather plump +German Fraulein, of excellent family and no imagination. +Men of your type always select negative wives. Twenty +years ago she would have run to bring you your Zeitung +and your slippers. She would be that kind, if +Zeitung-and-slipper husbands still were in existence. +You will be fond of her, in a patronizing sort of way, +and she will never know the difference between that and +being loved, not having a great deal of imagination, as +I have said before. And you will go on becoming more +and more famous, and she will grow plumper and more +placid, and less and less understanding of what those +komisch medical journals have to say so often about her +husband who is always discovering things. And you will +live happily ever after--" + +A hand gripped my shoulder. I looked up, startled, +into two blue eyes blazing down into mine. Von Gerhard's +face was a painful red. I think that the hand on my +shoulder even shook me a little, there on that bleak and +deserted lake drive. I tried to wrench my shoulder free +with a jerk. + +"You are hurting me!" I cried. + +A quiver of pain passed over the face that I had +thought so calmly unemotional. "You talk of hurts! You, +who set out deliberately and maliciously to make me +suffer! How dare you then talk to me like this! You +stab with a hundred knives--you, who know how I--" + +"I'm sorry," I put in, contritely. "Please don't be +so dreadful about it. After all, you asked me, didn't +you? Perhaps I've hurt your vanity. There, I didn't +mean that, either. Oh, dear, let's talk about something +impersonal. We get along wretchedly of late." + +The angry red ebbed away from Von Gerhard's face. +The blaze of wrath in his eyes gave way to a deeper, +brighter light that held me fascinated, and there came to +his lips a smile of rare sweetness. The hand that had +grasped my shoulder slipped down, down, until it met my +hand and gripped it. + +"Na, 's ist schon recht, Kindchen. Those that we +most care for we would hurt always. When I have told you +of my love for you, although already you know it, then +you will tell me. Hush! Do not deny this thing. There +shall be no more lies between us. There shall be only +the truth, and no more about plump, blonde German wives +who run with Zeitung and slippers. After all, it is no +secret. Three months ago I told Norah. It was not news +to her. But she trusted me." + +I felt my face to be as white and as tense as his +own. "Norah--knows!" + +"It is better to speak these things. Then there need +be no shifting of the eyes, no evasive words, no tricks, +no subterfuge." + +We had faced about and were retracing our steps, past +the rows of peculiarly home-like houses that line +Milwaukee's magnificent lake shore. Windows were hung +with holiday scarlet and holly, and here and there a +face was visible at a window, looking out at the man +and woman walking swiftly along the wind-swept heights +that rose far above the lake. + +A wretched revolt seized me as I gazed at the +substantial comfort of those normal, happy homes. + +"Why did you tell me! What good can that do? At +least we were make-believe friends before. Suppose I +were to tell you that I care, then what." + +"I do not ask you to tell me," Von Gerhard replied, +quietly. + +"You need not. You know. You knew long, long ago. +You know I love the big quietness of you, and your +sureness, and the German way you have of twisting your +sentences about, and the steady grip of your great firm +hands, and the rareness of your laugh, and the simplicity +of you. Why I love the very cleanliness of your ruddy +skin, and the way your hair grows away from your +forehead, and your walk, and your voice and--Oh, what is +the use of it all?" + +"Just this, Dawn. The light of day sweetens all +things. We have dragged this thing out into the +sunlight, where, if it grows, it will grow +sanely and healthily. It was but an ugly, distorted, +unsightly thing, sending out pale unhealthy shoots in the +dark, unwholesome cellars of our inner consciences. +Norah's knowing was the cleanest, sweetest thing about +it." + +"How wonderfully you understand her, and how right +you are! Her knowing seems to make it as it should be, +doesn't it? I am braver already, for the knowledge of +it. It shall make no difference between us?" + +"There is no difference, Dawn," said he. + +"No. It is only in the story-books that they sigh, +and groan and utter silly nonsense. We are not like +that. Perhaps, after a bit, you will meet some one you +care for greatly--not plump, or blond, or German, +perhaps, but still--" + +"Doch you are flippant?" + +"I must say those things to keep the tears back. You +would not have me wailing here in the street. Tell me +just one thing, and there shall be no more fluttering +breaths and languishing looks. Tell me, when did you +begin to care?" + +We had reached Knapfs' door-step. The short winter +day was already drawing to its close. In the half-light +Von Gerhard's eyes glowed luminous. + +"Since the day I first met you at Norah's," he said, +simply. + +I stared at him, aghast, my ever-present sense of +humor struggling to the surface. "Not--not on that day +when you came into the room where I sat in the chair by +the window, with a flowered quilt humped about my +shoulders! And a fever-sore twisting my mouth! And my +complexion the color of cheese, and my hair plastered +back from my forehead, and my eyes like boiled onions!" + +"Thank God for your gift of laughter," Von Gerhard +said, and took my hand in his for one brief moment before +he turned and walked away. + +Quite prosaically I opened the big front door at +Knapfs' to find Herr Knapf standing in the hallway with +his: + +"Nabben', Frau Orme." + +And there was the sane and soothing scent of +Wienerschnitzel and spluttering things in the air. And +I ran upstairs to my room and turned on all the lights +and looked at the starry-eyed creature in the mirror. +Then I took the biggest, newest photograph of Norah from +the mantel and looked at her for a long, long minute, +while she looked back at me in her brave true way. + +"Thank you, dear," I said to her. "Thank you. Would +you think me stagey and silly if I were to kiss you, just +once, on your beautiful trusting eyes?" + +A telephone bell tinkled downstairs and Herr Knapf +stationed himself at the foot of the stairs and roared my +name. + +When I had picked up the receiver: "This is Ernst," +said the voice at the other end of the wire. "I have +just remembered that I had asked you down-town for +supper." + +"I would rather thank God fasting," I replied, very +softly, and hung the receiver on its hook. + + + + + +CHAPTER XII + + +BENNIE THE CONSOLER + +In a corner of Frau Nirlanger's bedroom, sheltered from +draughts and glaring light, is a little wooden bed, +painted blue and ornamented with stout red roses that are +faded by time and much abuse. Every evening at eight +o'clock three anxious-browed women hold low-spoken +conclave about the quaint old bed, while its occupant +sleeps and smiles as he sleeps, and clasps to his breast +a chewed-looking woolly dog. For a new joy has come to +the sad little Frau Nirlanger, and I, quite by accident, +was the cause of bringing it to her. The queer little +blue bed, with its faded roses, was brought down from the +attic by Frau Knapf, for she is one of the three foster +mothers of the small occupant of the bed. The occupant +of the bed is named Bennie, and a corporation formed for +the purpose of bringing him up in the way he should go is +composed of: Dawn O'Hara Orme, President and Distracted +Guardian; Mrs. Konrad Nirlanger, Cuddler-in-chief and +Authority on the Subject of Bennie's Bed-time; Mr. Blackie +Griffith, Good Angel, General Cut-up and Monitor off'n +Bennie's Neckties and Toys; Dr. Ernst von Gerhard, Chief +Medical Adviser, and Sweller of the Exchequer, with the +Privilege of Selecting All Candies. Members of the +corporation meet with great frequency evenings and Sundays, +much to the detriment of a certain Book-in-the-making with +which Dawn O'Hara Orme was wont to struggle o' evenings. + +Bennie had been one of those little tragedies that +find their way into juvenile court. Bennie's story was +common enough, but Bennie himself had been different. +Ten minutes after his first appearance in the court room +everyone, from the big, bald judge to the newest +probation officer, had fallen in love with him. Somehow, +you wanted to smooth the hair from his forehead, tip his +pale little face upward, and very gently kiss his smooth, +white brow. Which alone was enough to distinguish +Bennie, for Juvenile court children, as a rule, are +distinctly not kissable. + +Bennie's mother was accused of being unfit to care +for her boy, and Bennie was temporarily installed in the +Detention Home. There the superintendent and his plump +and kindly wife had fallen head over heels in love with +him, and had dressed him in a smart little Norfolk +suit and a frivolous plaid silk tie. There were +delays in the case, and postponement after postponement, +so that Bennie appeared in the court room every Tuesday +for four weeks. The reporters, and the probation +officers and policemen became very chummy with Bennie, +and showered him with bright new pennies and certain +wonderful candies. Superintendent Arnett of the +Detention Home was as proud of the boy as though he were +his own. And when Bennie would look shyly and +questioningly into his face for permission to accept the +proffered offerings, the big superintendent would chuckle +delightedly. Bennie had a strangely mobile face for such +a baby, and the whitest, smoothest brow I have ever seen. + +The comedy and tears and misery and laughter of the +big, white-walled court room were too much for Bennie. +He would gaze about with puzzled blue eyes; then, giving +up the situation as something too vast for his +comprehension, he would fall to drawing curly-cues on a +bit of paper with a great yellow pencil presented him by +one of the newspaper men. + +Every Tuesday the rows of benches were packed with a +motley crowd of Poles, Russians, Slavs, Italians, Greeks, +Lithuanians--a crowd made up of fathers, mothers, +sisters, brothers, aunts, uncles, neighbors, friends, and +enemies of the boys and girls whose fate was in the hands +of the big man seated in the revolving chair up in front. +But Bennie's mother was not of this crowd; this pitiful, +ludicrous crowd filling the great room with the stifling, +rancid odor of the poor. Nor was Bennie. He sat, clear-eyed +and unsmiling, in the depths of a great chair on the +court side of the railing and gravely received the +attentions of the lawyers, and reporters and court room +attaches who had grown fond of the grave little figure. + +Then, on the fifth Tuesday, Bennie's mother appeared. +How she had come to be that child's mother God only +knows--or perhaps He had had nothing to do with it. She +was terribly sober and frightened. Her face was swollen +and bruised, and beneath one eye there was a puffy +green-and-blue swelling. Her sordid story was common +enough as the probation officer told it. The woman had +been living in one wretched room with the boy. Her +husband had deserted her. There was no food, and little +furniture. The queer feature of it, said the probation +officer, was that the woman managed to keep the boy +fairly neat and clean, regardless of her own condition, +and he generally had food of some sort, although the +mother sometimes went without food for days. Through the +squalor and misery and degradation of her own life Bennie +had somehow been kept unsullied, a thing apart. + +"H'm! " said judge Wheeling, and looked at Bennie. +Bennie was standing beside his mother. He was very +quiet, and his eyes were smiling up into those of the +battered creature who was fighting for him. "I guess +we'll have to take you out of this," the judge decided, +abruptly. "That boy is too good to go to waste." + +The sodden, dazed woman before him did not +immediately get the full meaning of his words. She still +stood there, swaying a bit, and staring unintelligently +at the judge. Then, quite suddenly, she realized it. +She took a quick step forward. Her hand went up to her +breast, to her throat, to her lips, with an odd, stifled +gesture. + +"You ain't going to take him away! From me! No, you +wouldn't do that, would you? Not for--not for always! +You wouldn't do that--you wouldn't--" + +Judge Wheeling waved her away. But the woman dropped +to her knees. + +"Judge, give me a chance! I'll stop drinking. Only +don't take him away from me! Don't, judge, don't! He's all +I've got in the world. Give me a chance. Three months! +Six months! A year!" + +"Get up!" ordered judge Wheeling, gruffly, "and stop +that! It won't do you a bit of good." + +And then a wonderful thing happened. The woman rose +to her feet. A new and strange dignity had come into her +battered face. The lines of suffering and vice were +erased as by magic, and she seemed to grow taller, +younger, almost beautiful. When she spoke again it was +slowly and distinctly, her words quite free from the blur +of the barroom and street vernacular. + +"I tell you you must give me a chance. You cannot +take a child from a mother in this way. I tell you, if +you will only help me I can crawl back up the road that +I've traveled. I was not always like this. There was +another life, before--before--Oh, since then there have +been years of blackness, and hunger, and cold and--worse! +But I never dragged the boy into it. Look at him!" + +Our eyes traveled from the woman's transfigured face +to that of the boy. We could trace a wonderful likeness +where before we had seen none. But the woman went on in +her steady, even tone. + +"I can't talk as I should, because my brain isn't +clear. It's the drink. When you drink, you forget. But +you must help me. I can't do it alone. I can remember +how to live straight, just as I can remember how to talk +straight. Let me show you that I'm not all bad. Give me +a chance. Take the boy and then give him back to me when +you are satisfied. I'll try--God only knows how I'll +try. Only don't take him away forever, Judge! Don't do +that!" + +Judge Wheeling ran an uncomfortable finger around his +collar's edge. + +"Any friends living here?" + +"No! No!" + +"Sure about that?" + +"Quite sure." + +"Now see here; I'm going to give you your chance. I +shall take this boy away from you for a year. In that +time you will stop drinking and become a decent, +self-supporting woman. You will be given in charge of +one of these probation officers. She will find work for +you, and a good home, and she'll stand by you, and you +must report to her. If she is satisfied with you at the +end of the year, the boy goes back to you." + +"She will be satisfied," the woman said, simply. She +stooped and taking Bennie's face between her +hands kissed him once. Then she stepped aside and stood +quite still, looking after the little figure that passed +out of the court room with his hand in that of a big, +kindly police officer. She looked until the big door had +opened and closed upon them. + +Then--well, it was just another newspaper story. It +made a good one. That evening I told Frau Nirlanger +about it, and she wept, softly, and murmured: "Ach, das +arme baby! Like my little Oscar he is, without a +mother." I told Ernst about him too, and Blackie, +because I could not get his grave little face out of my +mind. I wondered if those who had charge of him now +would take the time to bathe the little body, and brush +the soft hair until it shone, and tie the gay plaid silk +tie as lovingly as "Daddy" Arnett of the Detention Home +had done. + +Then it was that I, quite unwittingly, stepped into +Bennie's life. + +There was an anniversary, or a change in the board of +directors, or a new coat of paint or something of the +kind in one of the orphan homes, and the story fell to +me. I found the orphan home to be typical of its kind--a +big, dreary, prison-like structure. The woman at +the door did not in the least care to let me in. She was +a fish-mouthed woman with a hard eye, and as I told my +errand her mouth grew fishier and the eye harder. +Finally she led me down a long, dark, airless stretch of +corridor and departed in search of the matron, leaving me +seated in the unfriendly reception room, with its +straight-backed chairs placed stonily against the walls, +beneath rows of red and blue and yellow religious +pictures. + +Just as I was wondering why it seemed impossible to +be holy and cheerful at the same time, there came a +pad-padding down the corridor. The next moment the +matron stood in the doorway. She was a mountainous, +red-faced woman, with warts on her nose. + +"Good-afternoon," I said, sweetly. ("Ugh! What a +brute!") I thought. Then I began to explain my errand +once more. Criticism of the Home? No indeed, I assured +her. At last, convinced of my disinterestedness she +reluctantly guided me about the big, gloomy building. +There were endless flights of shiny stairs, and endless +stuffy, airless rooms, until we came to a door which she +flung open, disclosing the nursery. It seemed to me that +there were a hundred babies--babies at every stage of +development, of all sizes, and ages and types. They glanced +up at the opening of the door, and then a dreadful thing +happened. + +Every child that was able to walk or creep scuttled +into the farthest corners and remained quite, quite still +with a wide-eyed expression of fear and apprehension on +every face. + +For a moment my heart stood still. I turned to look +at the woman by my side. Her thin lips were compressed +into a straight, hard line. She said a word to a nurse +standing near, and began to walk about, eying the +children sharply. She put out a hand to pat the head of +one red-haired mite in a soiled pinafore; but before her +hand could descend I saw the child dodge and the tiny +hand flew up to the head, as though in defense. + +"They are afraid of her!" my sick heart told me. +"Those babies are afraid of her! What does she do to +them? I can't stand this. I'm going." + +I mumbled a hurried "Thank you," to the fat matron as +I turned to leave the big, bare room. At the head of the +stairs there was a great, black door. I stopped before +it--God knows why!--and pointed toward it. + +"What is in that room?" I asked. Since then I have +wondered many times at the unseen power that prompted me +to put the question. + +The stout matron bustled on, rattling her keys as she +walked. + +"That--oh, that's where we keep the incorrigibles." + +"May I see them?" I asked, again prompted by that +inner voice. + +"There is only one." She grudgingly unlocked the +door, using one of the great keys that swung from her +waist. The heavy, black door swung open. I stepped into +the bare room, lighted dimly by one small window. In the +farthest corner crouched something that stirred and +glanced up at our entrance. It peered at us with an ugly +look of terror and defiance, and I stared back at it, in +the dim light. During one dreadful, breathless second I +remained staring, while my heart stood still. Then-- +"Bennie!" I cried. And stumbled toward him. "Bennie-- +boy!" + +The little unkempt figure, in its soiled +knickerbocker suit, the sunny hair all uncared for, the +gay plaid tie draggled and limp, rushed into my arms with +a crazy, inarticulate cry. + +Down on my knees on the bare floor I held him close-- +close! and his arms were about my neck as though they +never should unclasp. + +"Take me away! Take me away!" His wet cheek was +pressed against my own streaming one. "I want my mother! +I want Daddy Arnett! Take me away!" + +I wiped his cheeks with my notebook or something, +picked him up in my arms, and started for the door. I +had quite forgotten the fat matron. + +"What are you doing?" she asked, blocking the doorway +with her huge bulk. + +"I'm going to take him back with me. Please let me! +I'll take care of him until the year is up. He shan't +bother you any more." + +"That is impossible," she said, coldly. "He has been +sent here by the court, for a year, and he must stay +here. Besides, he is a stubborn, uncontrollable child." + +"Uncontrollable! He's nothing of the kind! Why +don't you treat him as a child should be treated, instead +of like a little animal? You don't know him! Why, he's +the most lovable--I And he's only a baby! Can't you +see that? A baby!" + +She only stared her dislike, her little pig eyes +grown smaller and more glittering. + +"You great--big--thing! " I shrieked at her, like an +infuriated child. With the tears streaming down my +cheeks I unclasped Bennie's cold hands from about my +neck. He clung to me, frantically, until I had to push +him away and run. + +The woman swung the door shut, and locked it. But +for all its thickness I could hear Bennie's helpless +fists pounding on its panels as I stumbled down the +stairs, and Bennie's voice came faintly to my ears, +muffled by the heavy door, as he shrieked to me to take +him away to his mother, and to Daddy Arnett. + +I blubbered all the way back in the car, until +everyone stared, but I didn't care. When I reached the +office I made straight for Blackie's smoke-filled +sanctum. When my tale was ended he let me cry all over +his desk, with my head buried in a heap of galley-proofs +and my tears watering his paste-pot. He sat calmly by, +smoking. Finally he began gently to philosophize. "Now +girl, he's prob'ly better off there than he ever was at +home with his mother soused all the time. Maybe he give +that warty matron friend of yours all kinds of trouble, +yellin' for his ma." + +I raised my head from the desk. "Oh, you can talk! +You didn't see him. What do you care! But if you could +have seen him, crouched there--alone--like a little +animal! He was so sweet--and lovable--and--and--he +hadn't been decently washed for weeks--and his arms clung +to me--I can feel his hands about my neck!--" + +I buried my head in the papers again. Blackie went +on smoking. There was no sound in the little room except +the purr-purring of Blackie's pipe. Then: + +"I done a favor for Wheeling once," mused he. + +I glanced up, quickly. "Oh, Blackie, do you think--" + +"No, I don't. But then again, you can't never tell. +That was four or five years ago, and the mem'ry of past +favors grows dim fast. Still, if you're through waterin' +the top of my desk, why I'd like t' set down and do a +little real brisk talkin' over the phone. You're +excused." + +Quite humbly I crept away, with hope in my heart. + +To this day I do not know what secret string the +resourceful Blackie pulled. But the next afternoon I +found a hastily scrawled note tucked into the roll of my +typewriter. It sent me scuttling across the hall to the +sporting editor's smoke-filled room. And there on a +chair beside the desk, surrounded by scrap-books, lead +pencils, paste-pot and odds and ends of newspaper office +paraphernalia, sat Bennie. His hair +was parted very smoothly on one side, and under his +dimpled chin bristled a very new and extremely lively +green-and-red plaid silk tie. + +The next instant I had swept aside papers, brushes, +pencils, books, and Bennie was gathered close in my arms. +Blackie, with a strange glow in his deep-set black eyes +regarded us with an assumed disgust. + +"Wimmin is all alike. Ain't it th' truth? I used t' +think you was different. But shucks! It ain't so. Got +t' turn on the weeps the minute you're tickled or mad. +Why say, I ain't goin' t' have you comin' in here an' +dampenin' up the whole place every little while! It's +unhealthy for me, sittin' here in the wet." + +"Oh, shut up, Blackie," I said, happily. "How in the +world did you do it?" + +"Never you mind. The question is, what you goin' t' +do with him, now you've got him? Goin' t' have a French +bunny for him, or fetch him up by hand? Wheeling +appointed a probation skirt to look after the crowd of +us, and we got t' toe the mark." + +"Glory be!" I ejaculated. "I don't know what I shall +do with him. I shall have to bring him down with me +every morning, and perhaps you can make a sporting editor +out of him." + +"Nix. Not with that forehead. He's a high-brow. +We'll make him dramatic critic. In the meantime, I'll be +little fairy godmother, an' if you'll get on your bonnet +I'll stake you and the young 'un to strawberry shortcake +an' chocolate ice cream." + +So it happened that a wondering Frau Knapf and a +sympathetic Frau Nirlanger were called in for +consultation an hour later. Bennie was ensconced in my +room, very wide-eyed and wondering, but quite content. +With the entrance of Frau Nirlanger the consultation was +somewhat disturbed. She made a quick rush at him and +gathered him in her hungry arms. + +"Du baby du!" she cried. "Du Kleiner! And she was +down on her knees, and somehow her figure had melted into +delicious mother-curves, with Bennie's head just fitting +into that most gracious one between her shoulder and +breast. She cooed to him in a babble of French and +German and English, calling him her lee-tel Oscar. +Bennie seemed miraculously to understand. Perhaps he was +becoming accustomed to having strange ladies snatch him +to their breasts. + +"So," said Frau Nirlanger, looking up at us. "Is he +not sweet? He shall be my lee-tel boy, nicht? For one +small year he shall be my own boy. Ach, I am but lonely +all the long day here in this strange land. You will let +me care for him, nicht? And Konrad, he will be very angry, +but that shall make no bit of difference. Eh, Oscar?" + +And so the thing was settled, and an hour later three +anxious-browed women were debating the weighty question +of eggs or bread-and-milk for Bennie's supper. Frau +Nirlanger was for soft-boiled eggs as being none too +heavy after orphan asylum fare; I was for bread-and-milk, +that being the prescribed supper dish for all the orphans +and waifs that I had ever read about, from "The Wide, +Wide World" to "Helen's Babies," and back again. Frau +Knapf was for both eggs and bread-and-milk with a dash of +meat and potatoes thrown in for good measure, and a slice +or so of Kuchen on the side. We compromised on one egg, +one glass of milk, and a slice of lavishly buttered +bread, and jelly. It was a clean, sweet, sleepy-eyed +Bennie that we tucked between the sheets. We three women +stood looking down at him as he lay there in the quaint +old blue-painted bed that had once held the plump little +Knapfs. + +"You think anyway he had enough supper? mused the +anxious-browed Frau Knapf. + +"To school he will have to go, yes?" murmured Frau +Nirlanger, regretfully. + +I tucked in the covers at one side of the bed, not +that they needed tucking, but because it was such a +comfortable, satisfying thing to do. + +"Just at this minute," I said, as I tucked, "I'd +rather be a newspaper reporter than anything else in the +world. As a profession 'tis so broadenin', an' at the +same time, so chancey." + + + + + +CHAPTER XIII + + +THE TEST + + +Some day the marriageable age for women will be +advanced from twenty to thirty, and the old maid line +will be changed from thirty to forty. When that time +comes there will be surprisingly few divorces. The +husband of whom we dream at twenty is not at all the type +of man who attracts us at thirty. The man I married at +twenty was a brilliant, morbid, handsome, abnormal +creature with magnificent eyes and very white teeth and +no particular appetite at mealtime. The man whom I could +care for at thirty would be the normal, safe and +substantial sort who would come in at six o'clock, kiss +me once, sniff the air twice and say: "Mm! What's that +smells so good, old girl? I'm as hungry as a bear. Trot +it out. Where are the kids?" + +These are dangerous things to think upon. So +dangerous and disturbing to the peace of mind that I have +decided not to see Ernst von Gerhard for a week or two. +I find that seeing him is apt to make me forget Peter Orme; +to forget that my duty begins with a capital D; to forget +that I am dangerously near the thirty year old mark; to +forget Norah, and Max, and the Spalpeens, and the world, +and everything but the happiness of being near him, watching +his eyes say one thing while his lips say another. + +At such times I am apt to work myself up into rather +a savage frame of mind, and to shut myself in my room +evenings, paying no heed to Frau Nirlanger's timid +knocking, or Bennie's good-night message. I uncover my +typewriter and set to work at the thing which may or may +not be a book, and am extremely wretched and gloomy and +pessimistic, after this fashion: + +"He probably wouldn't care anything about you if you +were free. It is just a case of the fruit that is out of +reach being the most desirable. Men don't marry frumpy, +snuffy old things of thirty, or thereabouts. Men aren't +marrying now-a-days, anyway. Certainly not for love. +They marry for position, or power, or money, when they do +marry. Think of all the glorious creatures he meets +every day--women whose hair, and finger-nails and teeth +and skin are a religion; women whose clothes are a fine +art; women who are free to care only for themselves; +to rest, to enjoy, to hear delightful music, and +read charming books, and eat delicious food. He doesn't +really care about you, with your rumpled blouses, and +your shabby gloves and shoes, and your somewhat doubtful +linen collars. The last time you saw him you were just +coming home from the office after a dickens of a day, and +there was a smudge on the end of your nose, and he told +you of it, laughing. But you didn't laugh. You rubbed +it off, furiously, and you wanted to cry. Cry! You, +Dawn O'Hara! Begorra! 'Tis losin' your sense av humor +you're after doin'! Get to work." + +After which I would fall upon the book in a furious, +futile fashion, writing many incoherent, irrelevant +paragraphs which I knew would be cast aside as worthless +on the sane and reasoning to-morrow. + +Oh, it had been easy enough to talk of love in a +lofty, superior impersonal way that New Year's day. Just +the luxury of speaking of it at all, after those weeks of +repression, sufficed. But it is not so easy to be +impersonal and lofty when the touch of a coat sleeve +against your arm sends little prickling, tingling shivers +racing madly through thousands of too taut nerves. It is +not so easy to force the mind and tongue into safe, sane +channels when they are forever threatening to rush together +in an overwhelming torrent that will carry misery and +destruction in its wake. Invariably we talk with feverish +earnestness about the book; about my work at the office; +about Ernst's profession, with its wonderful growth; about +Norah, and Max and the Spalpeens, and the home; about the +latest news; about the weather; about Peter Orme--and then +silence. + +At our last meeting things took a new and startling +turn. So startling, so full of temptation and +happiness-that-must-not-be, that I resolved to forbid +myself the pain and joy of being, near him until I could +be quite sure that my grip on Dawn O'Hara was firm, +unshakable and lasting. + +Von Gerhard sports a motor-car, a rakish little +craft, built long and low, with racing lines, and a green +complexion, and a nose that cuts through the air like the +prow of a swift boat through water. Von Gerhard had +promised me a spin in it on the first mild day. Sunday +turned out to be unexpectedly lamblike, as only a March +day can be, with real sunshine that warmed the end of +one's nose instead of laughing as it tweaked it, as the +lying February sunshine had done. + +"But warmly you must dress yourself," Von Gerhard +warned me, "with no gauzy blouses or sleeveless gowns. +The air cuts like a knife, but it feels good against the +face. And a little road-house I know, where one is +served great steaming plates of hot oyster stew. How +will that be for a lark, yes?" + +And so I had swathed myself in wrappings until I +could scarcely clamber into the panting little car, and +we had darted off along the smooth lake drives, while the +wind whipped the scarlet into our cheeks, even while it +brought the tears to our eyes. There was no chance for +conversation, even if Von Gerhard had been in talkative +mood, which he was not. He seemed more taciturn than +usual, seated there at the wheel, looking straight ahead +at the ribbon of road, his eyes narrowed down to mere +keen blue slits. I realized, without alarm, that he was +driving furiously and lawlessly, and I did not care. Von +Gerhard was that sort of man. One could sit quite calmly +beside him while he pulled at the reins of a pair of +runaway horses, knowing that he would conquer them in the +end. + +Just when my face began to feel as stiff and glazed +as a mummy's, we swung off the roadway and up to the +entrance of the road-house that was to revive us with things +hot and soupy. + +"Another minute," I said, through stiff lips, as I +extricated myself from my swathings, "and I should have +been what Mr. Mantalini described as a demnition body. +For pity's sake, tell 'em the soup can't be too hot nor +too steaming for your lady friend. I've had enough fresh +air to last me the remainder of my life. May I timidly +venture to suggest that a cheese sandwich follow the +oyster stew? I am famished, and this place looks as +though it might make a speciality of cheese sandwiches." + +"By all means a cheese sandwich. Und was noch? That +fresh air it has given you an appetite, nicht wahr?" But +there was no sign of a smile on his face, nor was the +kindly twinkle of amusement to be seen in his eyes--that +twinkle that I had learned to look for. + +"Smile for the lady," I mockingly begged when we had +been served. "You've been owlish all the afternoon. +Here, try a cheese sandwich. Now, why do you suppose +that this mustard tastes so much better than the kind one +gets at home?" + +Von Gerhard had been smoking a cigarette, the first +that I had ever seen in his fingers. Now he tossed it +into the fireplace that yawned black and empty at one side +of the room. He swept aside the plates and glasses that +stood before him, leaned his arms on the table and +deliberately stared at me. + +"I sail for Europe in June, to be gone a year-- +probably more," he said. + +"Sail!" I echoed, idiotically; and began blindly to +dab clots of mustard on that ridiculous sandwich. + +"I go to study and work with Gluck. It is the +opportunity of a lifetime. Gluck is to the world of +medicine what Edison is to the world of electricity. He +is a wizard, a man inspired. You should see him--a +little, bent, grizzled, shabby old man who looks at you, +and sees you not. It is a wonderful opportunity, a--" + +The mustard and the sandwich and the table and Von +Gerhard's face were very indistinct and uncertain to my +eyes, but I managed to say: "So glad--congratulate you-- +very happy--no doubt fortunate--" + +Two strong hands grasped my wrists. "Drop that absurd +mustard spoon and sandwich. Na, I did not mean to +frighten you, Dawn. How your hands tremble. So, look at +me. You would like Vienna, Kindchen. You would like the +gayety, and the brightness of it, and the music, and the +pretty women, and the incomparable gowns. Your sense of +humor would discern the hollowness beneath all the pomp +and ceremony and rigid lines of caste, and military glory; +and your writer's instinct would revel in the splendor, and +color and romance and intrigue." + +I shrugged my shoulders in assumed indifference. +"Can't you convey all this to me without grasping my +wrists like a villain in a melodrama? Besides, it isn't +very generous or thoughtful of you to tell me all this, +knowing that it is not for me. Vienna for you, and +Milwaukee and cheese sandwiches for me. Please pass the +mustard." + +But the hold on my wrists grew firmer. Von Gerhard's +eyes were steady as they gazed into mine. "Dawn, Vienna, +and the whole world is waiting for you, if you will but +take it. Vienna--and happiness--with me--" + +I wrenched my wrists free with a dreadful effort and +rose, sick, bewildered, stunned. My world--my refuge of +truth, and honor, and safety and sanity that had lain in +Ernst von Gerhard's great, steady hands, was slipping +away from me. I think the horror that I felt within must +have leaped to my eyes, for in an instant Von Gerhard was +beside me, steadying me with his clear blue eyes. He did +not touch the tips of my fingers as he stood there very +near me. From the look of pain on his face I knew that I +had misunderstood, somehow. + +"Kleine, I see that you know me not," he said, in +German, and the saying it was as tender as is a mother +when she reproves a child that she loves. "This fight +against the world, those years of unhappiness and misery, +they have made you suspicious and lacking in trust, is it +not so? You do not yet know the perfect love that casts +out all doubt. Dawn, I ask you in the name of all that +is reasoning, and for the sake of your happiness and +mine, to divorce this man Peter Orme--this man who for +almost ten years has not been your husband--who never can +be your husband. I ask you to do something which will +bring suffering to no one, and which will mean happiness +to many. Let me make you happy--you were born to be +happy--you who can laugh like a girl in spite of your +woman's sorrows--" + +But I sank into a chair and hid my face in my hands +so that I might be spared the beauty and the tenderness +of his eyes. I tried to think of all the sane and +commonplace things in life. Somewhere in my inner +consciousness a cool little voice was saying, over and +over again: + +"Now, Dawn, careful! You've come to the crossroads at +last. Right or left? Choose! Now, Dawn, careful!" and +the rest of it all over again. + +When I lifted my face from my hands at last it was to +meet the tenderness of Von Gerhard's gaze with scarcely +a tremor. + +"You ought to know," I said, very slowly and evenly, +"that a divorce, under these circumstances, is almost +impossible, even if I wished to do what you suggest. +There are certain state laws--" + +An exclamation of impatience broke from him. "Laws! +In some states, yes. In others, no. It is a mere +technicality--a trifle! There is about it a bit of that +which you call red tape. It amounts to nothing--to +that!" He snapped his fingers. "A few months' residence +in another state, perhaps. These American laws, they are +made to break." + +"Yes; you are quite right," I said, and I knew in my +heart that the cool, insistent little voice within had +not spoken in vain. "But there are other laws--laws of +honor and decency, and right living and conscience--that +cannot be broken with such ease. I cannot marry you. I +have a husband." + +"You can call that unfortunate wretch your +husband! He does not know that he has a wife. He will +not know that he has lost a wife. Come, Dawn--small +one--be not so foolish. You do not know how happy I will +make you. You have never seen me except when I was +tortured with doubts and fears. You do not know what our +life will be together. There shall be everything to make +you forget--everything that thought and love and money +can give you. The man there in the barred room--" + +At that I took his dear hands in mine and held them +close as I miserably tried to make him hear what that +small, still voice had told me. + +"There! That is it! If he were free, if he were +able to stand before men that his actions might be judged +fairly and justly, I should not hesitate for one single, +precious moment. If he could fight for his rights, or +relinquish them, as he saw fit, then this thing would not +be so monstrous. But, Ernst, can't you see? He is +there, alone, in that dreadful place, quite helpless, +quite incapable, quite at our mercy. I should as soon +think of hurting a little child, or snatching the pennies +from a blind man's cup. The thing is inhuman! It is +monstrous! No state laws, no red tape can dissolve such +a union." + +"You still care for him!" + +"Ernst!" + +His face was very white with the pallor of repressed +emotion, and his eyes were like the blue flame that one +sees flashing above a bed of white-hot coals. + +"You do care for him still. But yes! You can stand +there, quite cool--but quite--and tell me that you would +not hurt him, not for your happiness, not for mine. But +me you can hurt again and again, without one twinge of +regret." + +There was silence for a moment in the little bare +dining-room--a miserable silence on my part, a bitter one +for Ernst. Then Von Gerhard seated himself again at the +table opposite and smiled one of the rare smiles that +illumined his face with such sweetness. + +"Come, Dawn, almost we are quarreling--we who were to +have been so matter-of-fact and sensible. Let us make an +end of this question. You will think of what I have +said, will you not? Perhaps I was too abrupt, too +brutal. Ach, Dawn, you know not how I--Very well, I will +not." + +With both hands I was clinging to my courage and +praying for strength to endure this until I should be +alone in my room again. + +"As for that poor creature who is bereft of reason, +he shall lack no care, no attention. The burden you have +borne so long I shall take now upon my shoulders." + +He seemed so confident, so sure. I could bear it no +longer. "Ernst, if you have any pity, any love for me, +stop! I tell you I can never do this. Why do you make +it so terribly hard for me! So pitilessly hard! You +always have been so strong, so sure, such a staff of +courage." + +"I say again, and again, and again, you do not care." + +It was then that I took my last vestige of strength +and courage together and going over to him, put my two +hands on his great shoulders, looking up into his drawn +face as I spoke. + +"Ernst, look at me! You never can know how much I +care. I care so much that I could not bear to have the +shadow of wrong fall upon our happiness. There can be no +lasting happiness upon a foundation of shameful deceit. +I should hate myself, and you would grow to hate me. It +always is so. Dear one, I care so much that I have the +strength to do as I would do if I had to face my mother, +and Norah tonight. I don't ask you to understand. Men +are not made to understand these things; not +even a man such as you, who are so beautifully +understanding. I only ask that you believe in me--and +think of me sometimes--I shall feel it, and be helped. +Will you take me home now, Dr. von Gerhard?" + +The ride home was made in silence. The wind was +colder, sharper. I was chilled, miserable, sick. Von +Gerhard's face was quite expressionless as he guided the +little car over the smooth road. When we had stopped +before my door, still without a word, I thought that he +was going to leave me with that barrier of silence +unbroken. But as I stepped stiffly to the curbing his +hands closed about mine with the old steady grip. I +looked up quickly, to find a smile in the corners of the +tired eyes. + +"You--you will let me see you--sometimes?" + +But wisdom came to my aid. "Not now. It is better +that we go our separate ways for a few weeks, until our +work has served to adjust the balance that has been +disturbed. At the end of that time I shall write you, +and from that time until you sail in June we shall be +just good comrades again. And once in Vienna--who +knows?--you may meet the plump blond Fraulein, of +excellent family--" + +"And no particular imagination--" + +And then we both laughed, a bit hysterically, because +laughter is, after all, akin to tears. And the little +green car shot off with a whir as I turned to enter my +new world of loneliness. + + + + + +CHAPTER XIV + + +BENNIE AND THE CHARMING OLD MAID + +There followed a blessed week of work--a "human warious" +week, with something piquant lurking at every turn. A +week so busy, so kaleidoscopic in its quick succession of +events that my own troubles and grievances were pushed +into a neglected corner of my mind and made to languish +there, unfed by tears or sighs. + +News comes in cycles. There are weeks when a city +editor tears his hair in vain as he bellows for a +first-page story. There follow days so bristling with +real, live copy that perfectly good stuff which, in the +ordinary course of events might be used to grace the +front sheet, is sandwiched away between the marine +intelligence and the Elgin butter reports. + +Such a week was this. I interviewed everything from +a red-handed murderer to an incubator baby. The town +seemed to be running over with celebrities. Norberg, the +city editor, adores celebrities. He never allows one to +escape uninterviewed. On Friday there fell to my lot a +world-famous prima donna, an infamous prize-fighter, and +a charming old maid. Norberg cared not whether the +celebrity in question was noted for a magnificent high C, +or a left half-scissors hook, so long as the interview +was dished up hot and juicy, with plenty of quotation +marks, a liberal sprinkling of adjectives and adverbs, +and a cut of the victim gracing the top of the column. + +It was long past the lunch hour when the prima donna +and the prize-fighter, properly embellished, were snapped +on the copy hook. The prima donna had chattered in +French; the prize-fighter had jabbered in slang; but the +charming old maid, who spoke Milwaukee English, was to +make better copy than a whole chorus of prima donnas, or +a ring full of fighters. Copy! It was such wonderful +stuff that I couldn't use it. + +It was with the charming old maid in mind that +Norberg summoned me. + +"Another special story for you," he cheerfully +announced. + +No answering cheer appeared upon my lunchless +features. "A prize-fighter at ten-thirty, and a prima +donna at twelve. What's the next choice morsel? An +aeronaut with another successful airship? or a cash girl +who has inherited a million?" + +Norberg's plump cheeks dimpled. "Neither. This time +it is a nice German old maid." + +"Eloped with the coachman, no doubt?" + +"I said a nice old maid. And she hasn't done +anything yet. You are to find out how she'll feel when +she does it." + +"Charmingly lucid," commented I, made savage by the +pangs of hunger. + +Norberg proceeded to outline the story with +characteristic vigor, a cigarette waggling from the +corner of his mouth. + +"Name and address on this slip. Take a Greenfield +car. Nice old maid has lived in nice old cottage all her +life. Grandfather built it himself about a hundred +years ago. Whole family was born in it, and married in +it, and died in it, see? It's crammed full of +spinning-wheels and mahogany and stuff that'll make your +eyes stick out. See? Well, there's no one left now but +the nice old maid, all alone. She had a sister who ran +away with a scamp some years ago. Nice old maid has +never heard of her since, but she leaves the gate ajar or +the latch-string open, or a lamp in the window, or +something, so that if ever she wanders back to the old +home she'll know she's welcome, see?" + +"Sounds like a moving picture play," I remarked. + +"Wait a minute. Here's the point. The city wants to +build a branch library or something on her property, and +the nice old party is so pinched for money that she'll +have to take their offer. So the time has come when +she'll have to leave that old cottage, with its romance, +and its memories, and its lamp in the window, and go to +live in a cheap little flat, see? Where the old +four-poster will choke up the bedroom--" + +"And the parlor will be done in red and green," I put +in, eagerly, "and where there will be an ingrowing +sideboard in the dining-room that won't fit in with the +quaint old dinner-set at all, and a kitchenette just off +that, in which the great iron pots and kettles that used +to hold the family dinners will be monstrously out of +place--" + +"You're on," said Norberg. + +Half an hour later I stood before the cottage, set +primly in the center of a great lot that extended for +half a square on all sides. A winter-sodden, bare enough +sight it was in the gray of that March day. But it was +not long before Alma Pflugel, standing in the midst of it, +the March winds flapping her neat skirts about her ankles, +filled it with a blaze of color. As she talked, a row of +stately hollyhocks, pink, and scarlet, and saffron, +reared their heads against the cottage sides. The chill +March air became sweet with the scent of heliotrope, and +Sweet William, and pansies, and bridal wreath. The naked +twigs of the rose bushes flowered into wondrous bloom so +that they bent to the ground with their weight of crimson +and yellow glory. The bare brick paths were overrun with +the green of growing things. Gray mounds of dirt grew +vivid with the fire of poppies. Even the rain-soaked +wood of the pea-frames miraculously was hidden in a hedge +of green, over which ran riot the butterfly beauty of the +lavender, and pink, and cerise blossoms. Oh, she did +marvelous things that dull March day, did plain German +Alma Pflugel! And still more marvelous were the things +that were to come. + +But of these things we knew nothing as the door was +opened and Alma Pflugel and I gazed curiously at one +another. Surprise was writ large on her honest face as +I disclosed my errand. It was plain that the ways of +newspaper reporters were foreign to the life of this +plain German woman, but she bade me enter with a sweet +graciousness of manner. + +Wondering, but silent, she led the way down the dim +narrow hallway to the sitting-room beyond. And there I +saw that Norberg had known whereof he spoke. + +A stout, red-faced stove glowed cheerfully in one +corner of the room. Back of the stove a sleepy cat +opened one indolent eye, yawned shamelessly, and rose to +investigate, as is the way of cats. The windows were +aglow with the sturdy potted plants that flower-loving +German women coax into bloom. The low-ceilinged room +twinkled and shone as the polished surfaces of tables and +chairs reflected the rosy glow from the plethoric stove. +I sank into the depths of a huge rocker that must have +been built for Grosspapa Pflugel's generous curves. Alma +Pflugel, in a chair opposite, politely waited for this +new process of interviewing to begin, but relaxed in the +embrace of that great armchair I suddenly realized that +I was very tired and hungry, and talk-weary, and that +here; was a great peace. The prima donna, with her +French, and her paint, and her pearls, and the +prizefighter with his slang, and his cauliflower ear, and +his diamonds, seemed creatures of another planet. My +eyes closed. A delicious sensation of warmth and drowsy +contentment stole over me. + +"Do listen to the purring of that cat!" I murmured. +"Oh, newspapers have no place in this. This is peace and +rest." + +Alma Pflugel leaned forward in her chair. "You--you +like it?" + +"Like it! This is home. I feel as though my mother +were here in this room, seated in one of those deep +chairs, with a bit of sewing in her hand; so near that I +could touch her cheek with my fingers." + +Alma Pflugel rose from her chair and came over to +me. She timidly placed her hand on my arm. "Ah, I am so +glad you are like that. You do not laugh at the low +ceilings, and the sunken floors, and the old-fashioned +rooms. You do not raise your eyes in horror and say: +`No conveniences! And why don't you try striped wall +paper? It would make those dreadful ceilings seem +higher.' How nice you are to understand like that!" + +My hand crept over to cover her own that lay on my +arm. "Indeed, indeed I do understand," I whispered. +Which, as the veriest cub reporter can testify, is no way +to begin an interview. + +A hundred happy memories filled the little +low room as Alma Pflugel showed me her treasures. The +cat purred in great content, and the stove cast a rosy +glow over the scene as the simple woman told the story of +each precious relic, from the battered candle-dipper on +the shelf, to the great mahogany folding table, and +sewing stand, and carved bed. Then there was the old +horn lantern that Jacob Pflugel had used a century +before, and in one corner of the sitting-room stood +Grossmutter Pflugel's spinning-wheel. Behind cupboard +doors were ranged the carefully preserved blue-and-white +china dishes, and on the shelf below stood the clumsy +earthen set that Grosspapa Pflugel himself had modeled +for his young bride in those days of long ago. In the +linen chest there still lay, in neat, fragrant folds, +piles of the linen that had been spun on that +time-yellowed spinning-wheel. And because of the tragedy +in the honest face bent over these dear treasures, and +because she tried so bravely to hide her tears, I knew in +my heart that this could never be a newspaper story. + +"So," said Alma Pflugel at last, and rose and walked +slowly to the window and stood looking out at the +wind-swept garden. That window, with its many tiny panes, +once had looked out across a wilderness, with an Indian +camp not far away. Grossmutter Pflugel had sat at that +window many a bitter winter night, with her baby in her +arms, watching and waiting for the young husband who was +urging his ox-team across the ice of Lake Michigan in the +teeth of a raging blizzard. + +The little, low-ceilinged room was very still. I +looked at Alma Pflugel standing there at the window in +her neat blue gown, and something about the face and +figure--or was it the pose of the sorrowful head?--seemed +strangely familiar. Somewhere in my mind the resemblance +haunted me. Resemblance to--what? Whom? + +"Would you like to see my garden?" asked Alma +Pflugel, turning from the window. For a moment I stared +in wonderment. But the honest, kindly face was +unsmiling. "These things that I have shown you, I can +take with me when I--go. But there," and she pointed +out over the bare, wind-swept lot, "there is something +that I cannot take. My flowers! You see that mound over +there, covered so snug and warm with burlap and sacking? +There my tulips and hyacinths sleep. In a few weeks, +when the covering is whisked off--ah, you shall see! +Then one can be quite sure that the spring is here. Who +can look at a great bed of red and pink and lavender and +yellow tulips and hyacinths, and doubt it? Come." + +With a quick gesture she threw a shawl over her head, +and beckoned me. Together we stepped out into the chill +of the raw March afternoon. She stood a moment, silent, +gazing over the sodden earth. Then she flitted swiftly +down the narrow path, and halted before a queer little +structure of brick, covered with the skeleton of a +creeping vine. Stooping, Alma Pflugel pulled open the +rusty iron door and smiled up at me. + +"This was my grandmother's oven. All her bread she +baked in this little brick stove. Black bread it was, +with a great thick crust, and a bitter taste. But it was +sweet, too. I have never tasted any so good. I like to +think of Grossmutter, when she was a bride, baking her +first batch of bread in this oven that Grossvater built +for her. And because the old oven was so very difficult +to manage, and because she was such a young thing--only +sixteen!--I like to think that her first loaves were +perhaps not so successful, and that Grosspapa joked about +them, and that the little bride wept, so that the young +husband had to kiss away the tears." + +She shut the rusty, sagging door very slowly and +gently. "No doubt the workmen who will come to +prepare the ground for the new library will laugh and +joke among themselves when they see the oven, and they +will kick it with their heels, and wonder what the old +brick mound could have been." + +There was a little twisted smile on her face as she +rose--a smile that brought a hot mist of tears to my +eyes. There was tragedy itself in that spare, homely +figure standing there in the garden, the wind twining her +skirts about her. + +"You should but see the children peering over the +fence to see my flowers in the summer," she said. The +blue eyes wore a wistful, far-away look. "All the +children know my garden. It blooms from April to +October. There I have my sweet peas; and here my roses-- +thousands of them! Some are as red as a drop of blood, +and some as white as a bridal wreath. When they are +blossoming it makes the heart ache, it is so beautiful." + +She had quite forgotten me now. For her the garden +was all abloom once more. It was as though the Spirit of +the Flowers had touched the naked twigs with fairy +fingers, waking them into glowing life for her who never +again was to shower her love and care upon them. + +"These are my poppies. Did you ever come out in the +morning to find a hundred poppy faces smiling at you, and +swaying and glistening and rippling in the breeze? There +they are, scarlet and pink, side by side as only God can +place them. And near the poppies I planted my pansies, +because each is a lesson to the other. I call my pansies +little children with happy faces. See how this great +purple one winks his yellow eye, and laughs!" + +Her gray shawl had slipped back from her face and lay +about her shoulders, and the wind had tossed her hair +into a soft fluff about her head. + +"We used to come out here in the early morning, my +little Schwester and I, to see which rose had unfolded +its petals overnight, or whether this great peony that +had held its white head so high only yesterday, was +humbled to the ground in a heap of ragged leaves. Oh, in +the morning she loved it best. And so every summer I +have made the garden bloom again, so that when she comes +back she will see flowers greet her. + +"All the way up the path to the door she will walk in +an aisle of fragrance, and when she turns the handle of +the old door she will find it unlocked, summer and winter, +day and night, so that she has only to turn the knob and +enter." + +She stopped, abruptly. The light died out of her +face. She glanced at me, half defiantly, half timidly, +as one who is not quite sure of what she has said. At +that I went over to her, and took her work-worn hands in +mine, and smiled down into the faded blue eyes grown dim +with tears and watching. + +"Perhaps--who knows?--the little sister may come yet. +I feel it. She will walk up the little path, and try the +handle of the door, and it will turn beneath her fingers, +and she will enter." + +With my arm about her we walked down the path toward +the old-fashioned arbor, bare now except for the tendrils +that twined about the lattice. The arbor was fitted with +a wooden floor, and there were rustic chairs, and a +table. I could picture the sisters sitting there with +their sewing during the long, peaceful summer afternoons. +Alma Pflugel would be wearing one of her neat gingham +gowns, very starched and stiff, with perhaps a snowy +apron edged with a border of heavy crochet done by the +wrinkled fingers of Grossmutter Pflugel. On the rustic +table there would be a bowl of flowers, and a pot of +delicious Kaffee, and a plate of German Kaffeekuchen, +and through the leafy doorway the scent of the +wonderful garden would come stealing. + +I thought of the cheap little flat, with the ugly +sideboard, and the bit of weedy yard in the rear, and the +alley beyond that, and the red and green wall paper in +the parlor. The next moment, to my horror, Alma Pflugel +had dropped to her knees before the table in the damp +little arbor, her face in her hands, her spare shoulders +shaking. + +"Ich kann's nicht thun!" she moaned. "Ich kann +nicht! Ach, kleine Schwester, wo bist du denn! Nachts +und Morgens bete ich, aber doch kommst du nicht." + +A great dry sob shook her. Her hand went to her +breast, to her throat, to her lips, with an odd, stifled +gesture. + +"Do that again!" I cried, and shook Alma Pflugel +sharply by the shoulder. "Do that again!" + +Her startled blue eyes looked into mine. What do you +mean?" she asked. + +"That--that gesture. I've seen it--somewhere--that +trick of pressing the hand to the breast, to the throat, +to the lips--Oh!" + +Suddenly I knew. I lifted the drooping head and +rumpled its neat braids, and laughed down into the +startled face. + +"She's here!" I shouted, and started a dance of +triumph on the shaky floor of the old arbor. "I know +her. From the moment I saw you the resemblance haunted +me." And then as Alma Pflugel continued to stare, while +the stunned bewilderment grew in her eyes, "Why, I have +one-fourth interest in your own nephew this very minute. +And his name is Bennie! " + +Whereupon Alma Pflugel fainted quietly away in the +chilly little grape arbor, with her head on my shoulder. + +I called myself savage names as I chafed her hands +and did all the foolish, futile things that distracted +humans think of at such times, wondering, meanwhile, if +I had been quite mad to discern a resemblance between +this simple, clear-eyed gentle German woman, and the +battered, ragged, swaying figure that had stood at the +judge's bench. + +Suddenly Alma Pflugel opened her eyes. Recognition +dawned in them slowly. Then, with a jerk, she sat +upright, her trembling hands clinging to me. + +"Where is she? Take me to her. Ach, you are sure-- +sure?" + +"Lordy, I hope so! Come, you must let me help you +into the house. And where is the nearest telephone? +Never mind; I'll find one." + +When I had succeeded in finding the nearest drug +store I spent a wild ten minutes telephoning the +surprised little probation officer, then Frau Nirlanger, +and finally Blackie, for no particular reason. I +shrieked my story over the wire in disconnected, +incoherent sentences. Then I rushed back to the little +cottage where Alma Pflugel and I waited with what +patience we could summon. + +Blackie was the first to arrive. He required few +explanations. That is one of the nicest things about +Blackie. He understands by leaps and bounds, while +others crawl to comprehension. But when Frau Nirlanger +came, with Bennie in tow, there were tears, and +exclamations, followed by a little stricken silence on +the part of Frau Nirlanger when she saw Bennie snatched +to the breast of this weeping woman. So it was that in +the midst of the confusion we did not hear the approach +of the probation officer and her charge. They came up +the path to the door, and there the little sister turned +the knob, and it yielded under her fingers, and the old +door swung open; and so she entered the house quite as +Alma Pflugel had planned she should, except that the +roses were not blooming along the edge of the sunken +brick walk. + +She entered the room in silence, and no one could +have recognized in this pretty, fragile creature the +pitiful wreck of the juvenile court. And when Alma +Pflugel saw the face of the little sister--the poor, +marred, stricken face--her own face became terrible in +its agony. She put Bennie down very gently, rose, and +took the shaking little figure in her strong arms, and +held it as though never to let it go again. There were +little broken words of love and pity. She called her +"Lammchen" and "little one," and so Frau Nirlanger and +Blackie and I stole away, after a whispered consultation +with the little probation officer. + +Blackie had come in his red runabout, and now he +tucked us into it, feigning a deep disgust. + +"I'd like to know where I enter into this little +drayma," he growled. "Ain't I got nothin' t' do but run +around town unitin' long lost sisters an' orphans!" + +"Now, Blackie, you know you would never have forgiven +me if I had left you out of this. Besides, you must +hustle around and see that they need not move out of that +dear little cottage. Now don't say a word! You'll never +have a greater chance to act the fairy godmother." + +Frau Nirlanger's hand sought mine and I squeezed it +in silent sympathy. Poor little Frau Nirlanger, the +happiness of another had brought her only sorrow. And +she had kissed Bennie good-by with the knowledge that the +little blue-painted bed, with its faded red roses, would +again stand empty in the gloom of the Knapf attic. + +Norberg glanced up quickly as I entered the city +room. "Get something good on that south side story?" he +asked. + +"Why, no," I answered. "You were mistaken about +that. The--the nice old maid is not going to move, after +all." + + + + + +CHAPTER XV + +FAREWELL TO KNAPFS + +Consternation has corrugated the brows of the aborigines. +Consternation twice confounded had added a wrinkle or two +to my collection. We are homeless. That is, we are +Knapfless--we, to whom the Knapfs spelled home. + +Herr Knapf, mustache aquiver, and Frau Knapf, cheek +bones glistening, broke the news to us one evening just +a week after the exciting day which so changed Bennie's +life. "Es thut uns sehr, sehr leid," Herr Knapf had +begun. And before he had finished, protesting German +groans mingled with voluble German explanations. The +aborigines were stricken down. They clapped pudgy fists +to knobby foreheads; they smote their breasts, and made +wild gestures with their arms. If my protests were less +frenzied than theirs, it was only because my knowledge of +German stops at words of six syllables. + +Out of the chaos of ejaculations and interrogation +the reason for our expulsion at last was made +clear. The little German hotel had not been +remunerative. Our host and hostess were too hospitable +and too polite to state the true reason for this state of +affairs. Perhaps rents were too high. Perhaps, thought +I, Frau Knapf had been too liberal with the butter in the +stewed chicken. Perhaps there had been too many golden +Pfannkuchen with real eggs and milk stirred into them, +and with toothsome little islands of ruddy currant jelly +on top. Perhaps there had been too much honest, +nourishing food, and not enough boarding-house victuals. +At any rate, the enterprise would have to be abandoned. + +It was then that the bare, bright little dining room, +with its queer prints of chin-chucking lieutenants, and +its queerer faces, and its German cookery became very +dear to me. I had grown to like Frau Knapf, of the +shining cheek bones, and Herr Knapf, of the heavy +geniality. A close bond of friendship had sprung up +between Frau Nirlanger and me. I would miss her friendly +visits, and her pretty ways, and her sparkling +conversation. She and I had held many kimonoed pow-wows, +and sometimes--not often--she had given me wonderful +glimpses of that which she had left--of +Vienna, the opera, the court, the life which had been +hers. She talked marvelously well, for she had all the +charm and vivacity of the true Viennese. Even the +aborigines, bristling pompadours, thick spectacles, +terrifying manner, and all, became as dear as old +friends, now that I knew I must lose them. + +The great, high-ceilinged room upstairs had taken on +the look of home. The Blue-beard closet no longer +appalled me. The very purpleness of the purple roses in +the rug had grown beautiful in my eyes because they were +part of that little domain which spelled peace and +comfort and kindness. How could I live without the stout +yellow brocade armchair! Its plethoric curves were balm +for my tired bones. Its great lap admitted of sitting +with knees crossed, Turk-fashion. Its cushioned back +stopped just at the point where the head found needed +support. Its pudgy arms offered rest for tired elbows; +its yielding bosom was made for tired backs. Given the +padded comfort of that stout old chair--a friendly, +time-tried book between my fingers--a dish of ruddy +apples twinkling in the fire-light; my mundane soul +snuggled in content. And then, too, the +book-in-the-making had grown in that room. It had +developed from a weak, wobbling uncertainty into a +lusty full-blooded thing that grew and grew +until it promised soon to become mansize. + +Now all this was to be changed. And I knew that I +would miss the easy German atmosphere of the place; the +kindness they had shown me; the chattering, admiring +Minna; the taffy-colored dachshund; the aborigines with +their ill-smelling pipes and flappy slippers; the +Wienerschnitzel; the crushed-looking wives and the +masterful German husbands; the very darns in the +table-cloths and the very nicks in the china. + +We had a last family gathering in token of our +appreciation of Herr and Frau Knapf. And because I had +not seen him for almost three weeks; and because the time +for his going was drawing so sickeningly near; and +because I was quite sure that I had myself in hand; and +because he knew the Knapfs, and was fond of them; and +because-well, I invited Von Gerhard. He came, and I +found myself dangerously glad to see him, so that I made +my greeting as airy and frivolous as possible. Perhaps +I overdid the airy business, for Von Gerhard looked at me +for a long, silent minute, until the nonsense I had been +chattering died on my lips, and I found myself staring up +at him like a child that is apprehensive of being scolded +for some naughtiness. + +"Not so much chatter, small one," he said, +unsmilingly. "This pretense, it is not necessary between +you and me. So. You are ein bischen blasz, nicht? A +little pale? You have not been ill, Dawn?" + +"Ill? Never felt more chipper in my life," I made +flippant answer, "and I adore these people who are +forever telling one how unusually thin, or pale, or +scrawny one is looking." + +"Na, they are not to be satisfied, these women! If +I were to tell you how lovely you look to me to-night you +would draw yourself up with chill dignity and remind me +that I am not privileged to say these things to you. So +I discreetly mention that you are looking, interestingly +pale, taking care to keep all tenderness out of my tones, +and still you are not pleased." He shrugged despairing +shoulders. + +"Can't you strike a happy medium between rudeness +and tenderness? After all, I haven't had a glimpse of +your blond beauty for three weeks. And while I don't ask +you to whisper sweet nothings, still, after twenty-one +days--" + +"You have been lonely? If only I thought that those +weeks have been as wearisome to you--" + +"Not lonely exactly," I hurriedly interrupted, "but +sort of wishing that some one would pat me on the head +and tell me that I was a good doggie. You know what I +mean. It is so easy to become accustomed to +thoughtfulness and devotion, and so dreadfully hard to be +happy without it, once one has had it. This has been a +sort of training for what I may expect when Vienna has +swallowed you up." + +"You are still obstinate? These three weeks have not +changed you? Ach, Dawn! Kindchen!--" + +But I knew that these were thin spots marked +"Danger!" in our conversational pond. So, "Come," said +I. "I have two new aborigines for you to meet. They are +the very shiniest and wildest of all our shiny-faced and +wild aborigines. And you should see their trousers and +neckties! If you dare to come back from Vienna wearing +trousers like these!--" + +"And is the party in honor of these new aborigines?" +laughed Von Gerhard. "You did not explain in your note. +Merely you asked me to come, knowing that I cared not +if it were a lawn fete or a ball, so long as I might +again be with you." + +We were on our way to the dining room, where the +festivities were to be held. I stopped and turned a look +of surprise upon him. + +"Don't you know that the Knapfs are leaving? Did I +neglect to mention that this is a farewell party for Herr +and Frau Knapf? We are losing our home, and we have just +one week in which to find another." + +"But where will you go? And why did you not tell me +this before?" + +"I haven't an idea where I shall lay my poor old +head. In the lap of the gods, probably, for I don't know +how I shall find the time to interview landladies and +pack my belongings in seven short days. The book will +have to suffer for it. Just when it was getting along so +beautifully, too." + +There was a dangerous tenderness in Von Gerhard's +eyes as he said: "Again you are a wanderer, eh--small +one? That you, with your love of beautiful things, and +your fastidiousness, should have to live in this way--in +these boarding-houses, alone, with not even the comforts +that should be yours. Ach, Kindchen, you were not made +for that. You were intended for the home, with a husband, +and kinder, and all that is truly worth while." + +I swallowed a lump in my throat as I shrugged my +shoulders. "Pooh! Any woman can have a husband and +babies," I retorted, wickedly. "But mighty few women can +write a book. It's a special curse." + +"And you prefer this life--this existence, to the +things that I offer you! You would endure these +hardships rather than give up the nonsensical views which +you entertain toward your--" + +"Please. We were not to talk of that. I am enduring +no hardships. Since I have lived in this pretty town I +have become a worshiper of the goddess Gemutlichkeit. +Perhaps I shan't find another home as dear to my heart as +this has been, but at least I shan't have to sleep on a +park bench, and any one can tell you that park benches +have long been the favored resting place of genius. +There is Frau Nirlanger beckoning us. Now do stop +scowling, and smile for the lady. I know you will get on +beautifully with the aborigines." + +He did get on with them so beautifully that in less +than half an hour they were swapping stories of Germany, +of Austria, of the universities, of student life. Frau +Knapf served a late supper, at which some one led in +singing Auld Lang Syne, although the sounds emanating +from the aborigines' end of the table sounded +suspiciously like Die Wacht am Rhein. +Following that the aborigines rose en masse and roared +out their German university songs, banging their glasses +on the table when they came to the chorus until we all +caught the spirit of it and banged our glasses like +rathskeller veterans. Then the red-faced and amorous +Fritz, he of the absent Lena, announced his intention of +entertaining the company. Made bold by an injudicious +mixture of Herr Knapf's excellent beer, and a wonderful +punch which Von Gerhard had concocted, Fritz mounted his +chair, placed his plump hand over the spot where he +supposed his heart to be, fastened his watery blue eyes +upon my surprised and blushing countenance, and sang +"Weh! Dass Wir Scheiden Mussen!" in an astonishingly +beautiful barytone. I dared not look at Von Gerhard, for +I knew that he was purple with suppressed mirth, so I +stared stonily at the sardine sandwich and dill pickle on +my plate, and felt myself growing hot and hysterical, and +cold and tearful by turns. + +At the end of the last verse I rose hastily +and brought from their hiding-place the gifts which we of +Knapfs' had purchased as remembrances for Herr and Frau +Knapf. I had been delegated to make the presentation +speech, so I grasped in one hand the too elaborate pipe +that was to make Herr Knapf unhappy, and the too +fashionable silk umbrella that was to appall Frau Knapf, +and ascended the little platform at the end of the dining +room, and began to speak in what I fondly thought to be +fluent and highsounding German. Immediately the +aborigines went off into paroxysms of laughter. They +threw back their heads and roared, and slapped their +thighs, and spluttered. It appeared that they thought I +was making a humorous speech. At that discovery I cast +dignity aside and continued my speech in the language of +a German vaudeville comedian, with a dash of Weber and +Field here and there. With the presentation of the silk +umbrella Frau Knapf burst into tears, groped about +helplessly for her apron, realized that it was missing +from its accustomed place, and wiped her tears upon her +cherished blue silk sleeve in the utter abandon of her +sorrow. We drank to the future health and prosperity of +our tearful host and hostess, and some one suggested drei +mal drei, to which we responded in a manner to make the +chin-chucking lieutenant tremble in his frame on the wall. + +When it was all over Frau Nirlanger beckoned me, and +she, Dr. von Gerhard and I stole out into the hall and +stood at the foot of the stairway, discussing our plans +for the future, and trying to smile as we talked of this +plan and that. Frau Nirlanger, in the pretty white gown, +was looking haggard and distrait. The oogly husband was +still in the dining room, finishing the beer and punch, +of which he had already taken too much. + +"A tiny apartment we have taken," said Frau +Nirlanger, softly. "It is better so. Then I shall have +a little housework, a little cooking, a little marketing +to keep me busy and perhaps happy." Her hand closed over +mine. "But that shall us not separate," she pleaded. +"Without you to make me sometimes laugh what should I +then do? You will bring her often to our little +apartment, not?" she went on, turning appealingly to Von +Gerhard. + +"As often as Mrs. Orme will allow me," he answered. + +"Ach, yes. So lonely I shall be. You do not know +what she has been to me, this Dawn. She is brave for +two. Always laughing she is, and merry, nicht wahr? +Meine kleine Soldatin, I call her. + +"Soldatin, eh?" mused Von Gerhard. "Our little +soldier. She is well named. And her battles she fights +alone. But quite alone." His eyes, as they looked down +on me from his great height had that in them which sent +the blood rushing and tingling to my finger-tips. I +brought my hand to my head in stiff military salute. + +"Inspection satisfactory, sir?" + +He laughed a rueful little laugh. "Eminently. Aber +ganz befriedigend." + +He was very tall, and straight and good to look at as +he stood there in the hall with the light from the +newel-post illuminating his features and emphasizing his +blondness. Frau Nirlanger's face wore a drawn little +look of pain as she gazed at him, and from him to the +figure of her husband who had just emerged from the +dining room, and was making unsteady progress toward us. +Herr Nirlanger's face was flushed and his damp, dark hair +was awry so that one lock straggled limply down over his +forehead. As he approached he surveyed us with a surly +frown that changed slowly into a leering grin. He +lurched over and placed a hand familiarly on my shoulder. + +"We mus' part," he announced, dramatically. "O, weh! +The bes' of frien's m'z part. Well, g'by, li'l +interfering Teufel. F'give you, though, b'cause you're +such a pretty li'l Teufel." He raised one hand as though +to pat my check and because of the horror which I saw on +the face of the woman beside me I tried to smile, and did +not shrink from him. But with a quick movement Von +Gerhard clutched the swaying figure and turned it so that +it faced the stairs. + +"Come Nirlanger! Time for hard-working men like you +and me to be in bed. Mrs. Orme must not nod over her +desk to-morrow, either. So good-night. Schlafen Sie +wohl." + +Konrad Nirlanger turned a scowling face over his +shoulder. Then he forgot what he was scowling for, and +smiled a leering smile. + +"Pretty good frien's, you an' the li'l Teufel, yes? +Guess we'll have to watch you, huh, Anna? We'll watch +'em, won't we?" + +He began to climb the stairs laboriously, with Frau +Nirlanger's light figure flitting just ahead of him. At +the bend in the stairway she turned and looked down on us +a moment, her eyes very bright and big. She pressed her +fingers to her lips and wafted a little kiss toward us +with a gesture indescribably graceful and pathetic. +She viewed her husband's laborious progress, not +daring to offer help. Then the turn in the stair hid her +from sight. + +In the dim quiet of the little hallway Von Gerhard +held out his hands--those deft, manual hands--those +steady, sure, surgeonly hands--hands to cling to, to +steady oneself by, and because I needed them most just +then, and because I longed with my whole soul to place +both my weary hands in those strong capable ones and to +bring those dear, cool, sane fingers up to my burning +cheeks, I put one foot on the first stair and held out +two chilly fingertips. "Good-night, Herr Doktor," I +said, "and thank you, not only for myself, but for her. +I have felt what she feels to-night. It is not a +pleasant thing to be ashamed of one's husband." + +Von Gerhard's two hands closed over that one of mine. +"Dawn, you will let me help you to find comfortable +quarters? You cannot tramp about from place to place all +the week. Let us get a list of addresses, and then, with +the machine, we can drive from one to the other in an +hour. It will at least save you time and strength." + +"Go boarding-house hunting in a stunning green +automobile!" I exclaimed. From my vantage point on the +steps I could look down on him, and there came over me a +great longing to run my fingers gently through that +crisp blond hair, and to +bring his head down close against my breast for one +exquisite moment. So--"Landladies and oitermobiles!" I +laughed. "Never! Don't you know that if they got one +glimpse, through the front parlor windows, of me stepping +grand-like out of your, green motor car, they would +promptly over-charge me for any room in the house? I +shall go room-hunting in my oldest hat, with one finger +sticking out of my glove." + +Von Gerhard shrugged despairing shoulders. + +"Na, of what use is it to plead with you. Sometimes +I wonder if, after all, you are not merely amusing +yourself. Getting copy, perhaps, for the book, or a new +experience to add to your already varied store." + +Abruptly I turned to hide my pain, and began to +ascend the stairs. With a bound Von Gerhard was beside +me, his face drawn and contrite. + +"Forgive me, Dawn! I know that you are wisest. It +is only that I become a little mad, I think, when I see +you battling alone like this, among strangers, and know +that I have not the right to help you. I knew not what +I was saying. Come, raise your eyes and smile, like the +little Soldatin that you are. So. Now I am forgiven, +yes?" + +I smiled cheerily enough into his blue eyes. "Quite +forgiven. And now you must run along. This is +scandalously late. The aborigines will be along saying +`Morgen!' instead of `Nabben'!' if we stay here much +longer. Good-night." + +"You will give me your new address as soon as you +have found a satisfactory home?" + +"Never fear! I probably shall be pestering you with +telephone calls, urging you to have pity upon me in my +loneliness. Now goodnight again. I'm as full of +farewells as a Bernhardt." And to end it I ran up the +stairs. At the bend, just where Frau Nirlanger had +turned, I too stopped and looked over my shoulder. Von +Gerhard was standing as I had left him, looking up at me. +And like Frau Nirlanger, I wafted a little kiss in his +direction, before I allowed the bend in the stairs to cut +off my view. But Von Gerhard did not signify by look or +word that he had seen it, as he stood looking up at me, +one strong white hand resting on the broad baluster. + + + + + + + +CHAPTER XVI + + +JUNE MOONLIGHT, AND A NEW BOARDINGHOUSE + +There was a week in which to scurry about for a new home. +The days scampered by, tripping over one another in their +haste. My sleeping hours were haunted by nightmares of +landladies and impossible boarding-house bedrooms. +Columns of "To Let, Furnished or Unfurnished" ads filed, +advanced, and retreated before my dizzy eyes. My time +after office hours was spent in climbing dim stairways, +interviewing unenthusiastic females in kimonos, and +peering into ugly bedrooms papered with sprawly and +impossible patterns and filled with the odors of +dead-and-gone dinners. I found one room less impossible +than the rest, only to be told that the preference was to +be given to a man who had "looked" the day before. + +"I d'ruther take gents only," explained the ample +person who carried the keys to the mansion. "Gents goes +early in the morning and comes in late at night, and +that's all you ever see of 'em, half the time. I've +tried ladies, an' they get me wild, always yellin' for +hot water to wash their hair, or pastin' handkerchiefs +up on the mirr'r or wantin' to butt into the kitchen to +press this or that. I'll let you know if the gent don't +take it, but I got an idea he will." + +He did. At any rate, no voice summoned me to that +haven for gents only. There were other landladies-- +landladies fat and German; landladies lean and Irish; +landladies loquacious (regardless of nationality); +landladies reserved; landladies husbandless, wedded, +widowed, divorced, and willing; landladies slatternly; +landladies prim; and all hinting of past estates wherein +there had been much grandeur. + +At last, when despair gripped me, and I had horrid +visions of my trunk, hat-box and typewriter reposing on +the sidewalk while I, homeless, sat perched in the midst +of them, I chanced upon a room which commanded a glorious +view of the lake. True, it was too expensive for my slim +purse; true, the owner of it was sour of feature; true, +the room itself was cavernous and unfriendly and +cold-looking, but the view of the great, blue lake +triumphed over all these, although a cautious inner voice +warned me that that lake view would cover a multitude of +sins. I remembered, later, how she of the sour visage +had dilated upon the subject of the sunrise over the water. +I told her at the time that while I was passionately fond +of sunrises myself, still I should like them just as well +did they not occur so early in the morning. Whereupon +she of the vinegar countenance had sniffed. I loathe +landladies who sniff. + +My trunk and trusty typewriter were sent on to my new +home at noon, unchaperoned, for I had no time to spare at +that hour of the day. Later I followed them, laden with +umbrella, boxes, brown-paper parcels, and other +unfashionable moving-day paraphernalia. I bumped and +banged my way up the two flights of stairs that led to my +lake view and my bed, and my heart went down as my feet +went up. By the time the cavernous bedroom was gained +I felt decidedly quivery-mouthed, so that I dumped my +belongings on the floor in a heap and went to the window +to gaze on the lake until my spirits should rise. But it +was a gray day, and the lake looked large, and wet and +unsociable. You couldn't get chummy with it. I turned +to my great barn of a room. You couldn't get chummy with +that, either. I began to unpack, with furious energy. +In vain I turned every gas jet blazing high. They only +cast dim shadows in the murky vastness of that awful +chamber. A whole Fourth of July fireworks display, Roman +candles, sky-rockets, pin-wheels, set pieces and all, +could not have made that room take on a festive air. + +As I unpacked I thought of my cosy room at Knapfs', +and as I thought I took my head out of my trunk and sank +down on the floor with a satin blouse in one hand, and a +walking boot in the other, and wanted to bellow with +loneliness. There came to me dear visions of the +friendly old yellow brocade chair, and the lamplight, and +the fireplace, and Frau Nirlanger, and the Pfannkuchen. +I thought of the aborigines. In my homesick mind their +bumpy faces became things of transcendent beauty. I +could have put my head on their combined shoulders and +wept down their blue satin neckties. In my memory of +Frau Knapf it seemed to me that I could discern a dim, +misty halo hovering above her tightly wadded hair. My +soul went out to her as I recalled the shining +cheek-bones, and the apron, and the chickens stewed in +butter. I would have given a year out of my life to have +heard that good-natured, "Nabben'." One aborigine had +been wont to emphasize his after-dinner arguments with a +toothpick brandished fiercely between thumb and finger. +The brandisher had always annoyed me. Now I thought of +him with tenderness in my heart and reproached myself for +my fastidiousness. I should have wept if I had not had +a walking boot in one hand, and a satin blouse in the +other. A walking boot is but a cold comfort. And my +thriftiness denied my tears the soiling of the blouse. +So I sat up on my knees and finished the unpacking. + +Just before dinner time I donned a becoming gown to +chirk up my courage, groped my way down the long, dim +stairs, and telephoned to Von Gerhard. It seemed to me +that just to hear his voice would instill in me new +courage and hope. I gave the number, and waited. + +"Dr. von Gerhard?" repeated a woman's voice at the +other end of the wire. "He is very busy. Will you leave +your name?" + +"No," I snapped. "I'll hold the wire. Tell him that +Mrs. Orme is waiting to speak to him." + +"I'll see." The voice was grudging. + +Another wait; then--"Dawn!" came his voice in glad +surprise. + +"Hello!" I cried, hysterically. "Hello! Oh, talk! +Say something nice, for pity's sake! I'm sorry that I've +taken you away from whatever you were doing, but I +couldn't help it. Just talk please! I'm dying of +loneliness." + +"Child, are you ill?" Von Gerhard's voice was so +satisfyingly solicitous. "Is anything wrong? Your voice +is trembling. I can hear it quite plainly. What has +happened? Has Norah written--" + +"Norah? No. There was nothing in her letter to +upset me. It is only the strangeness of this place. I +shall be all right in a day or so." + +"The new home--it is satisfactory? You have found +what you wanted? Your room is comfortable?" + +"It's--it's a large room," I faltered. "And there's +a--a large view of the lake, too." + +There was a smothered sound at the other end of the +wire. Then--"I want you to meet me down-town at seven +o'clock. We will have dinner together," Von Gerhard +said, "I cannot have you moping up there all alone all +evening." + +"I can't come." + +"Why? " + +"Because I want to so very much. And anyway, I'm +much more cheerful now. I am going in to dinner. And +after dinner I shall get acquainted with my room. +There are six corners and all the space under the bed +that I haven't explored yet." + +"Dawn!" + +"Yes?" + +"If you were free to-night, would you marry me? If +you knew that the next month would find you mistress of +yourself would you--" + +"Ernst!" + +"Yes?" + +"If the gates of Heaven were opened wide to you, and +they had `Welcome!' done in diamonds over the door, and +all the loveliest angel ladies grouped about the doorway +to receive you, and just beyond you could see awaiting +you all that was beautiful, and most exquisite, and most +desirable, would you enter?" + +And then I hung up the receiver and went in to +dinner. I went in to dinner, but not to dine. Oh, +shades of those who have suffered in boarding-houses-- +that dining room! It must have been patterned after the +dining room at Dotheboys' hall. It was bare, and +cheerless, and fearfully undressed looking. The diners +were seated at two long, unsociable, boarding-housey +tables that ran the length of the room, and all the women +folks came down to dine with white wool shawls wrapped +snugly about their susceptible black silk shoulders. The +general effect was that of an Old People's Home. I found +seat after seat at table was filled, and myself the +youngest thing present. I felt so criminally young that +I wondered they did not strap me in a high chair and ram +bread and milk down my throat. Now and then the door +would open to admit another snuffly, ancient, and +be-shawled member of the company. I learned that Mrs. +Schwartz, on my right, did not care mooch for shteak for +breakfast, aber a leedle l'mb ch'p she likes. Also that +the elderly party on my left and the elderly party on my +right resented being separated by my person. +Conversation between E. P. on right, and E. P. on left +scintillated across my soup, thus: + +"How you feel this evening Mis' Maurer, h'm?" + +"Don't ask me." + +"No wonder you got rheumatism. My room was like a +ice-house all day. Yours too?" + +"I don't complain any more. Much good it does. +Barley soup again? In my own home I never ate it, and +here I pay my good money and get four time a week barley +soup. Are those fresh cucumbers? M-m-m-m. They +haven't stood long enough. Look at Mis' Miller. She +feels good this evening. She should feel good. +Twenty-five cents she won at bridge. I never seen how +that woman is got luck." + +I choked, gasped, and fled. + +Back in my own mausoleum once more I put things in +order, dragged my typewriter stand into the least murky +corner under the bravest gas jet and rescued my tottering +reason by turning out a long letter to Norah. That +finished, my spirits rose. I dived into the bottom of my +trunk for the loose sheets of the book-in-the-making, +glanced over the last three or four, discovered that they +did not sound so maudlin as I had feared, and straightway +forgot my gloomy surroundings in the fascination of +weaving the tale. + +In the midst of my fine frenzy there came a knock at +the door. In the hall stood the anemic little serving +maid who had attended me at dinner. She was almost +eclipsed by a huge green pasteboard box. + +"You're Mis' Orme, ain't you? This here's for you." + +The little white-cheeked maid hovered at the +threshold while I lifted the box cover and revealed the +perfection of the American beauty buds that lay there, +all dewy and fragrant. The eyes of the little maid +were wide with wonder as she gazed, and because I had +known flower-hunger I separated two stately blossoms +from the glowing cluster and held them out to her. + +"For me!" she gasped, and brought her lips down to +them, gently. Then--"There's a high green jar downstairs +you can have to stick your flowers in. You ain't got +nothin' big enough in here, except your water pitcher. +An' putting these grand flowers in a water pitcher--why, +it'd be like wearing a silk dress over a flannel +petticoat, wouldn't it?" + +When the anemic little boarding-house slavey with the +beauty-loving soul had fetched the green jar, I placed +the shining stems in it with gentle fingers. At the +bottom of the box I found a card that read: "For it is +impossible to live in a room with red roses and still be +traurig" + +How well he knew! And how truly impossible to be sad +when red roses are glowing for one, and filling the air +with their fragrance! + +The interruption was fatal to book-writing. My +thoughts were a chaos of red roses, and anemic little +maids with glowing eyes, and thoughtful young doctors +with a marvelous understanding of feminine moods. So I +turned out all the lights, undressed by moonlight, and, +throwing a kimono about me, carried my jar of roses to +the window and sat down beside them so that their +exquisite scent caressed me. + +The moonlight had put a spell of white magic upon the +lake. It was a light-flooded world that lay below my +window. Summer, finger on lip, had stolen in upon the +heels of spring. Dim, shadowy figures dotted the benches +of the park across the way. Just beyond lay the silver +lake, a dazzling bar of moonlight on its breast. Motors +rushed along the roadway with a roar and a whir and were +gone, leaving a trail of laughter behind them. From the +open window of the room below came the slip-slap of cards +on the polished table surface, and the low buzz of +occasional conversation as the players held postmortems. +Under the street light the popcorn vender's cart made a +blot on the mystic beauty of the scene below. But the +perfume of my red roses came to me, and their velvet +caressed my check, and beyond the noise and lights of the +street lay that glorious lake with the bar of moonlight +on its soft breast. I gazed and forgave the sour-faced +landlady her dining room; forgave the elderly parties +their shawls and barley soup; forgot for a moment +my weary thoughts of Peter Orme; forgot everything except +that it was June, and moonlight and good to be alive. + +All the changes and events of that strange, eventful +year came crowding to my mind as I crouched there at the +window. Four new friends, tried and true! I conned +them over joyously in my heart. What a strange contrast +they made! Blackie, of the elastic morals, and the still +more elastic heart; Frau Nirlanger, of the smiling lips +and the lilting voice and the tragic eyes--she who had +stooped from a great height to pluck the flower of love +blooming below, only to find a worthless weed sullying +her hand; Alma Pflugel, with the unquenchable light of +gratefulness in her honest face; Von Gerhard, ready to +act as buffer between myself and the world, tender as a +woman, gravely thoughtful, with the light of devotion +glowing in his steady eyes. + +"Here's richness," said I, like the fat boy in +Pickwick Papers. And I thanked God for the new energy +which had sent me to this lovely city by the lake. I +thanked Him that I had not been content to remain a +burden to Max and Norah, growing sour and crabbed with +the years. Those years of work and buffeting had made of +me a broader, finer, truer type of womanhood--had caused +me to forget my own little tragedy in contemplating the +great human comedy. And so I made a little prayer there +in the moon-flooded room. + +"O dear Lord," I prayed, and I did not mean that it +should sound irreverent. "O dear Lord, don't bother +about my ambitions! Just let me remain strong and well +enough to do the work that is my portion from day to day. +Keep me faithful to my standards of right and wrong. Let +this new and wonderful love which has come into my life +be a staff of strength and comfort instead of a burden of +weariness. Let me not grow careless and slangy as the +years go by. Let me keep my hair and complexion and +teeth, and deliver me from wearing soiled blouses and +doing my hair in a knob. Amen." + +I felt quite cheerful after that--so cheerful that +the strange bumps in the new bed did not bother me as +unfamiliar beds usually did. The roses I put to sleep in +their jar of green, keeping one to hold against my cheek +as I slipped into dreamland. I thought drowsily, just +before sleep claimed me: + +"To-morrow, after office hours, I'll tuck up my +skirt, and wrap my head in a towel and have a +housecleaning bee. I'll move the bed where the +wash-stand is now, and I'll make the chiffonnier swap +places with the couch. One feels on friendlier +terms with furniture that one has shoved about a little. +How brilliant the moonlight is! The room is flooded with +it. Those roses--sweet!--sweet!--" + +When I awoke it was morning. During the days that +followed I looked back gratefully upon that night, with +its moonlight, and its roses, and its great peace. + + + + + + +CHAPTER XVII + + +THE SHADOW OF TERROR + +Two days before the date set for Von Gerhard's departure +the book was finished, typed, re-read, packed, and sent +away. Half an hour after it was gone all its most +glaring faults seemed to marshall themselves before my +mind's eye. Whole paragraphs, that had read quite +reasonably before, now loomed ludicrous in perspective. +I longed to snatch it back; to tidy it here, to take it +in there, to smooth certain rough places neglected in my +haste. For almost a year I had lived with this thing, so +close that its faults and its virtues had become +indistinguishable to me. Day and night, for many months, +it had been in my mind. Of late some instinct had +prompted me to finish it. I had worked at it far into +the night, until I marveled that the ancient occupants of +the surrounding rooms did not enter a combined protest +against the clack-clacking of my typewriter keys. And +now that it was gone I wondered, dully, if I could feel +Von Gerhard's departure more keenly. + +No one knew of the existence of the book except +Norah, Von Gerhard, Blackie and me. Blackie had a way of +inquiring after its progress in hushed tones of mock awe. +Also he delighted in getting down on hands and knees and +guiding a yard-stick carefully about my desk with a view +to having a fence built around it, bearing an inscription +which would inform admiring tourists that here was the +desk at which the brilliant author had been wont to sit +when grinding out heart-throb stories for the humble +Post. He took an impish delight in my struggles with +my hero and heroine, and his inquiries after the health +of both were of such a nature as to make any earnest +writer person rise in wrath and slay him. I had seen +little of Blackie of late. My spare hours had been +devoted to the work in hand. On the day after the book +was sent away I was conscious of a little shock as I +strolled into Blackie's sanctum and took my accustomed +seat beside his big desk. There was an oddly pinched +look about Blackie's nostrils and lips, I thought. And +the deep-set black eyes appeared deeper and blacker than +ever in his thin little face. + +A week of unseasonable weather had come upon the +city. June was going out in a wave of torrid heat such +as August might have boasted. The day had seemed endless and +intolerably close. I was feeling very limp and languid. +Perhaps, thought I, it was the heat which had wilted +Blackie's debonair spirits. + +"It has been a long time since we've had a talk-talk, +Blackie. I've missed you. Also you look just a wee bit +green around the edges. I'm thinking a vacation wouldn't +hurt you." + +Blackie's lean brown forefinger caressed the bowl of +his favorite pipe. His eyes, that had been gazing out +across the roofs beyond his window, came back to me, and +there was in them a curious and quizzical expression as +of one who is inwardly amused. + +"I've been thinkin' about a vacation. None of your +measly little two weeks' affairs, with one week on +salary, and th' other without. I ain't goin' t' take my +vacation for a while--not till fall, p'raps, or maybe +winter. But w'en I do take it, sa-a-ay, girl, it's goin' +t' be a real one." + +"But why wait so long?" I asked. "You need it now. +Who ever heard of putting off a vacation until winter!" + +"Well, I dunno," mused Blackie. "I just made my +arrangements for that time, and I hate t' muss 'em up. +You'll say, w'en the time comes, that my plans are +reasonable." + +There was a sharp ring from the telephone at +Blackie's elbow. He answered it, then thrust the +receiver into my hand. "For you," he said. + +It was Von Gerhard's voice that came to me. "I have +something to tell you," he said. "Something most +important. If I call for you at six we can drive out to +the bay for supper, yes? I must talk to you." + +"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. "They 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 road-side. + +"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 to-night. 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? + +I looked up for a moment. "He could make you think +that it was a concert grand, couldn't he? He hasn't +forgotten even that?" + +"Forgotten? Girl, I don't know what his +accomplishments was when you knew him, but if he was any +more fascinatin' than he is now, then I'm glad I didn't +know him. He could charm the pay envelope away from a +reporter that was Saturday broke. Somethin' seemed t' +urge me t' go up t' him an' say: `Have a game of +billiards?' + +"`Don't care if I do,' says he, and swung his long +legs off the piano stool and we made for the billiard +room, with the whole gang after us. Sa-a-ay, girl, I'm +a modest violet, I am, but I don't mind mentionin' that +the general opinion up at the club is that I'm a little +wizard with the cue. Well, w'en he got through with me +I looked like little sister when big brother is tryin' t' +teach her how to hold the cue in her fingers. He just +sent them balls wherever he thought they'd look pretty. +I bet if he'd held up his thumb and finger an' said, +`jump through this!' them balls would of jumped." + +Von Gerhard took a couple of quick steps in Blackie's +direction. His eyes were blue steel. + +"Is this then necessary?" he asked. "All this leads +to what? Has not Mrs. Orme suffered enough, that she +should undergo this idle chatter? It is sufficient that +she knows this--this man is here. It is a time for +action, not for words." + +"Action's comin' later, Doc," drawled Blackie, +looking impish. "Monologuin' ain't my specialty. I +gener'ly let the other gink talk. You never can learn +nothin' by talkin'. But I got somethin' t' say t' Dawn +here. Now, in case you're bored the least bit, w'y don't +hesitate one minnit t'--" + +"Na, you are quite right, and I was hasty," said Von +Gerhard, and his eyes, with the kindly gleam in them, +smiled down upon the little man. "It is only that both +you and I are over-anxious to be of assistance to this +unhappy lady. Well, we shall see. You talked with this +man at the Press Club?" + +"He talked. I listened." + +"That would be Peter's way," I said, bitterly. How +he used to love to hold forth, and how I grew to long +for blessed silence--for fewer words, and +more of that reserve which means strength!" + +"All this time," continued Blackie, "I didn't know +his name. When we'd finished our game of billiards he +hung up his cue, and then he turned around like +lightning, and faced the boys that were standing around +with their hands in their pockets. He had a odd little +smile on his face--a smile with no fun it, if you know +what I mean. Guess you do, maybe, if you've seen it. + +"`Boys,' says he, smilin' that twisted kind of smile, +`boys, I'm lookin' for a job. I'm not much of a talker, +an' I'm only a amateur at music, and my game of billiards +is ragged. But there's one thing I can do, fellows, from +abc up to xyz, and that's write. I can write, boys, in +a way to make your pet little political scribe sound like +a high school paper. I don't promise to stick. As soon +as I get on my feet again I'm going back to New York. +But not just yet. Meanwhile, I'm going to the highest +bidder.' + +"Well, you know since Merkle left us we haven't had +a day when we wasn't scooped on some political guff. `I +guess we can use you--some place,' I says, tryin' not t' +look too anxious. If your ideas on salary can take a +slump be tween New York and Milwaukee. Our salaries +around here is more what is elegantly known as a stipend. +What's your name, Bo?' + +"`Name?' says he, smiling again, `Maybe it'll be +familiar t' you. That is, it will if my wife is usin' +it. Orme's my name--Peter Orme. Know a lady of that +name? Good.' + +"I hadn't said I did, but those eyes of his had seen +the look on my face. + +"`Friends in New York told me she was here,' he says. +`Where is she now? Got her address?' he says. + +"`She expectin' you?' I asked. + +"`N-not exactly,' he says, with that crooked grin. + +"`Thought not,' I answered, before I knew what I was +sayin'. `She's up north with her folks on a vacation.' + +"`The devil she is!' he says. `Well, in that case +can you let me have ten until Monday?'" + +Blackie came over to me as I sat cowering in my +chair. He patted my shoulder with one lean brown hand. +"Now kid, you dig, see? Beat it. Go home for a week. +I'll fix it up with Norberg. No tellin' what a guy like +that's goin' t' do. Send your brother-in-law down +here if you want to make it a family affair, and between +us, we'll see this thing through." + +I looked up at Von Gerhard. He was nodding approval. +It all seemed so easy, so temptingly easy. To run away! +Not to face him until I was safe in the shelter of +Norah's arms! I stood up, resolve lending me new +strength and courage. + +"I am going. I know it isn't brave, but I can't be +brave any longer. I'm too tired--too old--" + +I grasped the hand of each of those men who had stood +by me so staunchly in the year that was past. The words +of thanks that I had on my lips ended in dry, helpless +sobs. And because Blackie and Von Gerhard looked so +pathetically concerned and so unhappy in my unhappiness +my sobs changed to hysterical laughter, in which the two +men joined, after one moment's bewildered staring. + +So it was that we did not hear the front door slam, +or the sound of footsteps in the hall. Our overstrained +nerves found relief in laughter, so that Peter Orme, a +lean, ominous figure in the doorway looked in upon a +merry scene. + +I was the first to see him. And at the sight of the +emaciated figure, with its hollow cheeks and its sunken +eyes all terror and hatred left me, and I felt only a +great pity for this wreck of manhood. Slowly I went up +to him there in the doorway. + +"Well, Peter?" I said. + +"Well, Dawn old girl," said he "you're looking +wonderfully fit. Grass widowhood seems to agree with +you, eh?" + +And I knew then that my dread dream had come true. + +Peter advanced into the room with his old easy grace +of manner. His eyes glowed as he looked at Blackie. +Then he laughed, showing his even, white teeth. "Why, +you little liar!" he said, in his crisp, clear English. +"I've a notion to thwack you. What d' you mean by +telling me my wife's gone? You're not sweet on her +yourself, eh?" + +Von Gerhard stifled an exclamation, and Orme turned +quickly in his direction. "Who are you?" he asked. +"Still another admirer? Jolly time you were having when +I interrupted." He stared at Von Gerhard deliberately +and coolly. A little frown of dislike came into his +face. "You're a doctor, aren't you? I knew it. I can +tell by the hands, and the eyes, and the skin, and the +smell. Lived with 'em for ten years, damn them! Dawn, +tell these fellows they're excused, will you? And by the +way, you don't seem very happy to see me?" + +I went up to him then, and laid my hand on his arm. +"Peter, you don't understand. These two gentlemen have +been all that is kind to me. I am happy to know that you +are well again. Surely you do not expect me to be joyful +at seeing you. All that pretense was left out of our +lives long before your--illness. It hasn't been all +roses for me since then, Peter. I've worked until I +wanted to die with weariness. You know what this +newspaper game is for a woman. It doesn't grow easier as +she grows older and tireder." + +"Oh, cut out the melodrama, Dawn," sneered Peter. +"Have either of you fellows the makin's about you? +Thanks. I'm famished for a smoke." + +The worrying words of ten years ago rose +automatically to my lips. "Aren't you smoking too much, +Peter?" The tone was that of a harassed wife. + +Peter stared. Then he laughed his short, mirthless +little laugh. "By Jove! Dawn, I believe you're as much +my wife now as you were ten years ago. I always said, +you know, that you would have become a first-class nagger +if you hadn't had such a keen sense of humor. That saved +you." He turned his mocking eyes to Von Gerhard. +"Doesn't it beat the devil, how these good women stick to +a man, once they're married! There's a certain dog-like +devotion about it that's touching." + +There was a dreadful little silence. For the first +time in my knowledge of him I saw a hot, painful red +dyeing Blackie's sallow face. His eyes had a menace in +their depths. Then, very quietly, Von Gerhard stepped +forward and stopped directly before me. + +"Dawn," he said, very softly and gently, "I retract +my statement of an hour ago. If you will give me another +chance to do as you asked me, I shall thank God for it +all my life. There is no degradation in that. To live +with this man--that is degradation. And I say you shall +not suffer it." + +I looked up into his face, and it had never seemed so +dear to me. "The time for that is past," I said, my tone +as calm and even as his own. "A man like you cannot +burden himself with a derelict like me--mast gone, sails +gone, water-logged, drifting. Five years from now you'll +thank me for what I am saying now. My place is with this +other wreck--tossed about by wind and weather until we +both go down together." There came a sharp, insistent +ring at the door-bell. No answering sound came from the +regions above stairs. The ringing sounded again, louder +than before. + +"I'll be the Buttons," said Blackie, and disappeared +into the hallway. + +"Oh, yes, I've heard about you," came to our ears a +moment later, in a high, clear voice--a dear, beloved +voice that sent me flying to the door in an agony of +hope. + +"Norah!" I cried, "Norah! Norah! Norah!" And as +her blessed arms closed about me the tears that had been +denied me before came in a torrent of joy. + +"There, there!" murmured she, patting my shoulder +with those comforting mother-pats. "What's all this +about? And why didn't somebody meet me? I telegraphed. +You didn't get it? Well, I forgive you. Howdy-do, +Peter? I suppose you are Peter. I hope you haven't been +acting devilish again. That seems to be your specialty. +Now don't smile that Mephistophelian smile at me. It +doesn't frighten me. Von Gerhard, take him down to his +hotel. I'm dying for my kimono and bed. And this child +is trembling like a race-horse. Now run along, all of +you. Things that look greenery-yallery at night always +turn pink in the morning. Great Heavens! There's somebody +calling down from the second-floor landing. It sounds +like a landlady. Run, Dawn, and tell her your perfectly +respectable sister has come. Peter! Von Gerhard! +Mr. Blackie! Shoo!" + + + + + +CHAPTER XIX + + +A TURN OF THE WHEEL + + +"You who were ever alert to befriend a man +You who were ever the first to defend a man, +You who had always the money to lend a man +Down on his luck and hard up for a V, +Sure you'll be playing a harp in beatitude +(And a quare sight you will be in that attitude) +Some day, where gratitude seems but a platitude, +You'll find your latitude." + +From my desk I could see Peter standing in the doorway of +the news editor's room. I shut my eyes for a moment. +Then I opened them again, quickly. No, it was not a +dream. He was there, a slender, graceful, hateful +figure, with the inevitable cigarette in his unsteady +fingers--the expensive-looking, gold-tipped cigarette of +the old days. Peter was Peter. Ten years had made +little difference. There were queer little hollow places +in his cheeks, and under the jaw-bone, and at the base of +the head, and a flabby, parchment-like appearance about +the skin. That was all that made him different from the +Peter of the old days. + +The thing had adjusted itself, as Norah had said it +would. The situation that had filled me with loathing +and terror the night of Peter's return had been +transformed into quite a matter-of-fact and commonplace +affair under Norah's deft management. And now I was back +in harness again, and Peter was turning out brilliant +political stuff at spasmodic intervals. He was not +capable of any sustained effort. He never would be +again; that was plain. He was growing restless and +dissatisfied. He spoke of New York as though it were +Valhalla. He said that he hadn't seen a pretty girl +since he left Forty-second street. He laughed at +Milwaukee's quaint German atmosphere. He sneered at our +journalistic methods, and called the newspapers "country +sheets," and was forever talking of the World, and the +Herald, and the Sun, until the men at the Press Club +fought shy of him. Norah had found quiet and comfortable +quarters for Peter in a boarding-house near the lake, and +just a square or two distant from my own boarding-house. +He hated it cordially, as only the luxury-loving can hate +a boarding-house, and threatened to leave daily. + +"Let's go back to the big town, Dawn, old girl," he +would say. "We're buried alive in this overgrown Dutch +village. I came here in the first place on your account. +Now it's up to you to get me out of it. Think of what New +York means! Think of what I've been! And I can write as +well as ever." + +But I always shook my head. "We would not last a +month in New York, Peter. New York has hurried on and +left us behind. We're just two pieces of discard. We'll +have to be content where we are." + +"Content! In this silly hole! You must be mad!" +Then, with one of his unaccountable changes of tone and +topic, "Dawn, let me have some money. I'm strapped. If +I had the time I'd get out some magazine stuff. Anything +to get a little extra coin. Tell me, how does that +little sport you call Blackie happen to have so much +ready cash? I've never yet struck him for a loan that he +hasn't obliged me. I think he's sweet on you, perhaps, +and thinks he's doing you a sort of second-hand favor." + +At times such as these all the old spirit that I had +thought dead within me would rise up in revolt against +this creature who was taking, from me my pride, my sense +of honor, my friends. I never saw Von Gerhard now. +Peter had refused outright to go to him for treatment, +saying that he wasn't going to be poisoned by any cursed +doctor, particularly not by one who had wanted to run away +with his wife before his very eyes. + +Sometimes I wondered how long this could go on. I +thought of the old days with the Nirlangers; of Alma +Pflugel's rose-encircled cottage; of Bennie; of the +Knapfs; of the good-natured, uncouth aborigines, and +their many kindnesses. I saw these dear people rarely +now. Frau Nirlanger's resignation to her unhappiness +only made me rebel more keenly against my own. + +If only Peter could become well and strong again, I +told myself, bitterly. If it were not for those blue +shadows under his eyes, and the shrunken muscles, and the +withered skin, I could leave him to live his life as he +saw fit. But he was as dependent as a child, and as +capricious. What was the end to be? I asked myself. +Where was it all leading me? + +And then, in a fearful and wonderful manner, my +question was answered. + +There came to my desk one day an envelope bearing the +letter-head of the publishing house to which I had sent +my story. I balanced it for a moment in my fingers, +woman-fashion, wondering, hoping, surmising. + +"Of course they can't want it," I told myself, in +preparation for any disappointment that was in store for +me. "They're sending it back. This is the letter that +will tell me so." + +And then I opened it. The words jumped out at me +from the typewritten page. I crushed the paper in my +hands, and rushed into Blackie's little office as I had +been used to doing in the old days. He was at his desk, +pipe in mouth. I shook his shoulder and flourished the +letter wildly, and did a crazy little dance about his +chair. + +"They want it! They like it! Not only that, they +want another, as soon as I can get it out. Think of it!" + +Blackie removed his pipe from between his teeth and +wiped his lips with the back of his hand. "I'm +thinkin'," he said. "Anything t' oblige you. When +you're through shovin' that paper into my face would you +mind explainin' who wants what?" + +"Oh, you're so stupid! So slow! Can't you see that +I've written a real live book, and had it accepted, and +that I am going to write another if I have to run away +from a whole regiment of husbands to do it properly? +Blackie, can't you see what it means! Oh, Blackie, I +know I'm maudlin in my joy, but forgive me. It's been so +long since I've had the taste of it." + +"Well, take a good chew while you got th'chance an' +don't count too high on this first book +business. I knew a guy who wrote a book once, an' he +planned to take a trip to Europe on it, and build a house +when he got home, and maybe a yacht or so, if he wasn't +too rushed. Sa-a-ay, girl, w'en he got through gettin' +those royalties for that book they'd dwindled down to +fresh wall paper for the dinin'-room, and a new gas stove +for his wife, an' not enough left over to take a trolley +trip to Oshkosh on. Don't count too high." + +"I'm not counting at all, Blackie, and you can't +discourage me." + +"Don't want to. But I'd hate to see you come down +with a thud." Suddenly he sat up and a grin overspread +his thin face. "Tell you what we'll do, girlie. We'll +celebrate. Maybe it'll be the last time. Let's pretend +this is six months ago, and everything's serene. You get +your bonnet. I'll get the machine. It's too hot to +work, anyway. We'll take a spin out to somewhere that's +cool, and we'll order cold things to eat, and cold things +to drink, and you can talk about yourself till you're +tired. You'll have to take it out on somebody, an' it +might as well be me." + +Five minutes later, with my hat in my hand, I turned +to find Peter at my elbow. + +"Want to talk to you," he said, frowning. + +"Sorry, Peter, but I can't stop. Won't it do later?" + +"No. Got an assignment? I'll go with you." + +"N-not exactly, Peter. The truth is, Blackie has +taken pity on me and has promised to take me out for a +spin, just to cool off. It has been so insufferably +hot." + +Peter turned away. "Count me in on that," he said, +over his shoulder. + +"But I can't, Peter," I cried. "It isn't my party. +And anyway--" + +Peter turned around, and there was an ugly glow in +his eyes and an ugly look on his face, and a little red +ridge that I had not noticed before seemed to burn itself +across his forehead. "And anyway, you don't want me, eh? +Well, I'm going. I'm not going to have my wife chasing +all over the country with strange men. Remember, you're +not the giddy grass widdy you used to be. You can take +me, or stay at home, understand?" + +His voice was high-pitched and quavering. Something +in his manner struck a vague terror to my heart. "Why, +Peter, if you care that much I shall be glad to have you +go. So will Blackie, I am sure. Come, we'll go down +now. He'll be waiting for us." + +Blackie's keen, clever mind grasped the situation as +soon as he saw us together. His dark face was illumined +by one of his rare smiles. "Coming with us, Orme? Do +you good. Pile into the tonneau, you two, and hang on to +your hair. I'm going to smash the law." + +Peter sauntered up to the steering-wheel. "Let me +drive," he said. "I'm not bad at it." + +"Nix with the artless amateur," returned Blackie. +"This ain't no demonstration car. I drive my own little +wagon when I go riding, and I intend to until I take my +last ride, feet first." + +Peter muttered something surly and climbed into the +front seat next to Blackie, leaving me to occupy the +tonneau in solitary state. + +Peter began to ask questions--dozens of them, which +Blackie answered, patiently and fully. I could not hear +all that they said, but I saw that Peter was urging +Blackie to greater speed, and that Blackie was explaining +that he must first leave the crowded streets behind. +Suddenly Peter made a gesture in the direction of the +wheel, and said something in a high, sharp voice. +Blackie's answer was quick and decidedly in the negative. +The next instant Peter Orme rose in his place and leaning +forward and upward, grasped the wheel that was +in Blackie's hands. The car swerved sickeningly. I +noticed, dully, that Blackie did not go white as +novelists say men do in moments of horror. A dull red +flush crept to the very base of his neck. With a twist +of his frail body he tried to throw off Peter's hands. +I remember leaning over the back of the seat and trying +to pull Peter back as I realized that it was a madman +with whom we were dealing. Nothing seemed real. It was +ridiculously like the things one sees in the moving +picture theaters. I felt no fear. + +"Sit down, Orme!" Blackie yelled. "You'll ditch us! +Dawn! God!--" + +We shot down a little hill. Two wheels were lifted +from the ground. The machine was poised in the air for +a second before it crashed into the ditch and turned over +completely, throwing me clear, but burying Blackie and +Peter under its weight of steel and wood and whirring +wheels. + +I remember rising from the ground, and sinking back +again and rising once more to run forward to where the +car lay in the ditch, and tugging at that great frame of +steel with crazy, futile fingers. Then I ran screaming +down the road toward a man who was tranquilly working in +a field nearby. + + + + + + +CHAPTER XX + + +BLACKIE'S VACATION COMES + +The shabby blue office coat hangs on the hook in the +little sporting room where Blackie placed it. No one +dreams of moving it. There it dangles, out at elbows, +disreputable, its pockets burned from many a hot pipe +thrust carelessly into them, its cuffs frayed, its lapels +bearing the marks of cigarette, paste-pot and pen. + +It is that faded old garment, more than anything +else, which makes us fail to realize that its owner will +never again slip into its comfortable folds. We cannot +believe that a lifeless rag like that can triumph over +the man of flesh and blood and nerves and sympathies. +With what contempt do we look upon those garments during +our lifetime! And how they live on, defying time, long, +long after we have been gathered to our last rest. + +In some miraculous manner Blackie had lived on for +two days after that ghastly ride. Peter had been killed +instantly, the doctors said. They gave no hope for +Blackie. My escape with but a few ridiculous bruises +and scratches was due, they said, to the fact that I had +sat in the tonneau. I heard them all, in a stupor of +horror and grief, and wondered what +plan Fate had in store for me, that I alone should have +been spared. Norah and Max came, and took things in +charge, and I saw Von Gerhard, but all three appeared dim +and shadowy, like figures in a mist. When I closed my +eyes I could see Peter's tense figure bending over +Blackie at the wheel, and heard his labored breathing as +he struggled in his mad fury, and felt again the helpless +horror that had come to me as we swerved off the road and +into the ditch below, with Blackie, rigid and desperate, +still clinging to the wheel. I lived it all over and +over in my mind. In the midst of the blackness I heard +a sentence that cleared the fog from my mind, and caused +me to raise myself from my pillows. + +Some one--Norah, I think--had said that Blackie was +conscious, and that he was asking for some of the men at +the office, and for me. For me! I rose and dressed, in +spite of Norah's protests. I was quite well, I told +them. I must see him. I shook them off with trembling +fingers and when they saw that I was quite determined +they gave in, and Von Gerhard telephoned to the hospital +to learn the hour at which I might meet +the others who were to see Blackie for a brief moment. + +I met them in the stiff little waiting room of he +hospital--Norberg, Deming, Schmidt, Holt--men who had +known him from the time when they had yelled, "Heh, boy!" +at him when they wanted their pencils sharpened. +Awkwardly we followed the fleet-footed nurse who glided +ahead of us down the wide hospital corridors, past +doorways through which we caught glimpses of white beds +that were no whiter than the faces that lay on the +pillows. We came at last into a very still and bright +little room where Blackie lay. + +Had years passed over his head since I saw him last? +The face that tried to smile at us from the pillow was +strangely wizened and old. It was as though a withering +blight had touched it. Only the eyes were the same. +They glowed in the sunken face, beneath the shock of +black hair, with a startling luster and brilliancy. + +I do not know what pain he suffered. I do not know +what magic medicine gave him the strength to smile at us, +dying as he was even then. + +"Well, what do you know about little Paul Dombey?" he +piped in a high, thin voice. The shock of relief was too +much. We giggled hysterically, then stopped short and +looked at each other, like scared and naughty children. + +"Sa-a-ay, boys and girls, cut out the heavy thinking +parts. Don't make me do all the social stunts. What's +the news? What kind of a rotten cotton sportin' sheet is +that dub Callahan gettin' out? Who won to-day--Cubs or +Pirates? Norberg, you goat, who pinned that purple tie +on you?" + +He was so like the Blackie we had always known that +we were at our ease immediately. The sun shone in at the +window, and some one laughed a little laugh somewhere +down the corridor, and Deming, who is Irish, plunged into +a droll description of a brand-new office boy who had +arrived that day. + +"S'elp me, Black, the kid wears spectacles and a +Norfolk suit, and low-cut shoes with bows on 'em. On the +square he does. Looks like one of those Boston infants +you see in the comic papers. I don't believe he's real. +We're saving him until you get back, if the kids in the +alley don't chew him up before that time." + +An almost imperceptible shade passed over Blackie's +face. He closed his eyes for a moment. Without their +light his countenance was ashen, and awful. + +A nurse in stripes and cap appeared in the doorway. +She looked keenly at the little figure in the bed. Then +she turned to us. + +"You must go now," she said. "You were just to see +him for a minute or two, you know." + +Blackie summoned the wan ghost of a smile to his +lips. "Guess you guys ain't got th' stimulatin' effect +that a bunch of live wires ought to have. Say, Norberg, +tell that fathead, Callahan, if he don't keep the third +drawer t' the right in my desk locked, th' office kids'll +swipe all the roller rink passes surest thing you know." + +"I'll--tell him, Black," stammered Norberg, and +turned away. + +They said good-by, awkwardly enough. Not one of them +that did not owe him an unpayable debt of gratitude. Not +one that had not the memory of some secret kindness +stored away in his heart. It was Blackie who had +furnished the money that had sent Deming's sick wife +west. It had been Blackie who had rescued Schmidt time +and again when drink got a strangle-hold. Blackie had +always said: "Fire Schmidt! Not much! Why, Schmidt +writes better stuff drunk than all the rest of the +bunch sober." And Schmidt would be granted another +reprieve by the Powers that Were. + +Suddenly Blackie beckoned the nurse in the doorway. +She came swiftly and bent over him. + +"Gimme two minutes more, that's a good nursie. +There's something I want to say t' this dame. It's de +rigger t' hand out last messages, ain't it?" + +The nurse looked at me, doubtfully. "But you're not +to excite yourself." + +"Sa-a-ay, girl, this ain't goin' t' be no scene from +East Lynne. Be a good kid. The rest of the bunch can +go." + +And so, when the others had gone, I found myself +seated at the side of his bed, trying to smile down at +him. I knew that there must be nothing to excite him. +But the words on my lips would come. + +"Blackie," I said, and I struggled to keep my voice +calm and emotionless, "Blackie, forgive me. It is all my +fault--my wretched fault." + +"Now, cut that," interrupted Blackie. "I thought +that was your game. That's why I said I wanted t' talk +t' you. Now, listen. Remember my tellin' you, a few +weeks ago, 'bout that vacation I was plannin'? This is +it, only it's come sooner than I expected, that's all. +I seen two three doctor guys about it. Your friend Von +Gerhard was one of 'em. They didn't tell me t' take no +ocean trip this time. Between 'em, they decided my +vacation would come along about November, maybe. Well, +I beat 'em to it, that's all. Sa-a-ay, girl, I ain't +kickin'. You can't live on your nerves and expect t' +keep goin'. Sooner or later you'll be suein' those same +nerves for non-support. But, kid, ain't it a shame that +I got to go out in a auto smashup, in these days when +even a airship exit don't make a splash on the front +page!" + +The nervous brown hand was moving restlessly over the +covers. Finally it met my hand, and held it in a tense +little grip. + +"We've been good pals, you and me, ain't we, kid?" + +"Yes, Blackie." + +"Ain't regretted it none?" + +"Regretted it! I am a finer, truer, better woman for +having known you, Blackie." + +He gave a little contented sigh at that, and his eyes +closed. When he opened them the old, whimsical smile +wrinkled his face. + +"This is where I get off at. It ain't been no long +trip, but sa-a-ay, girl, I've enjoyed every mile of the +road. All kinds of scenery--all kinds of +lan'scape--plain--fancy--uphill--downhill--" + +I leaned forward, fearfully. + +"Not--yet," whispered Blackie. Say Dawn--in the +story books--they--always--are strong on the--good-by +kiss, what?" + +And as the nurse appeared in the doorway again, +disapproval on her face, I stooped and gently pressed my +lips to the pain-lined cheek. + + + + + + + +CHAPTER XXI + + +HAPPINESS + +We laid Peter to rest in that noisy, careless, busy city +that he had loved so well, and I think his cynical lips +would have curled in a bitterly amused smile, and his +somber eyes would have flamed into sudden wrath if he +could have seen how utterly and completely New York had +forgotten Peter Orme. He had been buried alive ten years +before--and Newspaper Row has no faith in resurrections. +Peter Orme was not even a memory. Ten years is an age in +a city where epochs are counted by hours. + +Now, after two weeks of Norah's loving care, I was +back in the pretty little city by the lake. I had come +to say farewell to all those who had filled my life so +completely in that year. My days of newspaper work were +over. The autumn and winter would be spent at Norah's, +occupied with hours of delightful, congenial work, for +the second book was to be written in the quiet peace of +my own little Michigan town. Von Gerhard was to take his +deferred trip to Vienna in the spring, and I knew that I +was to go with him. The thought filled my heart with a +great flood of happiness. + +Together Von Gerhard and I had visited Alma Pflugel's +cottage, and the garden was blooming in all its wonder of +color and scent as we opened the little gate and walked +up the worn path. We found them in the cool shade of the +arbor, the two women sewing, Bennie playing with the last +wonderful toy that Blackie had given him. They made a +serene and beautiful picture there against the green +canopy of the leaves. We spoke of Frau Nirlanger, and of +Blackie, and of the strange snarl of events which had at +last been unwound to knit a close friendship between us. +And when I had kissed them and walked for the last time +in many months up the flower-bordered path, the scarlet +and pink, and green and gold of that wonderful garden +swam in a mist before my eyes. + +Frau Nirlanger was next. When we spoke of Vienna she +caught her breath sharply. + +"Vienna!" she repeated, and the longing in her voice +was an actual pain. "Vienna! Gott! Shall I ever see +it again? Vienna! My boy is there. Perhaps--" + +"Perhaps," I said, gently. "Stranger things +have happened. Perhaps if I could see them, and talk to +them--if I could tell them--they might be made to +understand. I haven't been a newspaper reporter all +these years without acquiring a golden gift of +persuasiveness. Perhaps--who knows?--we may meet again +in Vienna. Stranger things have happened." + +Frau Nirlanger shook her head with a little hopeless +sigh. "You do not know Vienna; you do not know the iron +strength of caste, and custom and stiff-necked pride. I +am dead in Vienna. And the dead should rest in peace." + +It was late in the afternoon when Von Gerhard and I +turned the corner which led to the building that held the +Post. I had saved that for the last. + +"I hope that heaven is not a place of golden streets, +and twanging harps and angel choruses," I said, softly. +"Little, nervous, slangy, restless Blackie, how bored and +ill at ease he would be in such a heaven! How lonely, +without his old black pipe, and his checked waistcoats, +and his diamonds, and his sporting extra. Oh, I hope +they have all those comforting, everyday things up there, +for Blackie's sake." + +"How you grew to understand him in that short year," +mused Von Gerhard. "I sometimes used to resent the bond +between you and this little Blackie whose name was always +on your tongue." + +"Ah, that was because you did not comprehend. It is +given to very few women to know the beauty of a man's +real friendship. That was the bond between Blackie and +me. To me he was a comrade, and to him I was a +good-fellow girl--one to whom he could talk without +excusing his pipe or cigarette. Love and love-making +were things to bring a kindly, amused chuckle from +Blackie." + +Von Gerhard was silent. Something in his silence +held a vague irritation for me. I extracted a penny from +my purse, and placed it in his hand. + +"I was thinking," he said, "that none are so blind as +those who will not see." + +"I don't understand," I said, puzzled. + +"That is well," answered Von Gerhard, as we entered +the building. "That is as it should be." And he would +say nothing more. + +The last edition of the paper had been run off for +the day. I had purposely waited until the footfalls of +the last departing reporter should have ceased to echo +down the long corridor. The city room was deserted +except for one figure bent over a pile of papers and +proofs. Norberg, the city editor, was the last to leave, +as always. His desk light glowed in the darkness of the +big room, and his typewriter alone awoke the echoes. + +As I stood in the doorway he peered up from beneath +his green eye-shade, and waved a cloud of smoke away with +the palm of his hand. + +"That you, Mrs. Orme?" he called out. "Lord, we've +missed you! That new woman can't write an obituary, and +her teary tales sound like they were carved with a cold +chisel. When are you coming back?" + +"I'm not coming back," I replied. "I've come to say +good-by to you and--Blackie." + +Norberg looked up quickly. "You feel that way, too? +Funny. So do the rest of us. Sometimes I think we are +all half sure that it is only another of his impish +tricks, and that some morning he will pop open the door +of the city room here and call out, `Hello, slaves! Been +keepin' m' memory green?'" + +I held out my hand to him, gratefully. He took it in +his great palm, and a smile dimpled his plump cheeks. +"Going to blossom into a regular little writer, h'm? +Well, they say it's a paying game when you get the hang +of it. And I guess you've got it. But if ever you feel +that you want a real thrill--a touch of the old +satisfying newspaper feeling--a sniff of wet ink--the +music of some editorial cussing--why come up here and I'll +give you the hottest assignment on my list, if I have to +take it away from Deming's very notebook." + +When I had thanked him I crossed the hall and tried +the door of the sporting editor's room. Von Gerhard was +waiting for me far down at the other end of the corridor. +The door opened and I softly entered and shut it again. +The little room was dim, but in the half-light I could +see that Callahan had changed something--had shoved a +desk nearer the window, or swung the typewriter over to +the other side. I resented it. I glanced up at the +corner where the shabby old office coat had been wont to +hang. There it dangled, untouched, just as he had left +it. Callahan had not dared to change that. I tip-toed +over to the corner and touched it gently with my fingers. +A light pall of dust had settled over the worn little +garment, but I knew each worn place, each ink-spot, each +scorch or burn from pipe or cigarette. I passed my hands +over it reverently and gently, and then, in the dimness +of that quiet little room I laid my cheek against the +rough cloth, so that the scent of the old black pipe came +back to me once more, and a new spot appeared on the coat +sleeve--a damp, salt spot. Blackie would have hated my +doing that. But he was not there to +see, and one spot more or less did not matter; it was +such a grimy, disreputable old coat. + +"Dawn!" called Von Gerhard softly, outside the door. +"Dawn! Coming, Kindchen?" + +I gave the little coat a parting pat. "Goodby," I +whispered, under my breath, and turned toward the door. + +"Coming!" I called, aloud. + + + + + +End of The Project Gutenberg Etext of Dawn O'Hara, The Girl Who Laughed + diff --git a/old/dwnhr10.zip b/old/dwnhr10.zip Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..b61d98e --- /dev/null +++ b/old/dwnhr10.zip |
