A Top-Floor Idyl Part 21

"Then, tell me the names of your books, won't you?"

Somewhat diffidently I acquainted her with a few of the t.i.tles, whereupon she joyfully declared that she remembered one of them perfectly.

"The heroine was called Rose," she said, triumphantly.

"It seems to me that it was Kate," I replied, modestly.

"Yes, Kate, of course, and do you really think she was happy ever after with that extraordinary man Jonas?"

"I think I recollect marrying her off to one Fitzjames, but that is only a minor detail. A novelist, my dear young lady, may a.s.sert with some show of confidence that the weddings he brings about are warranted not to crock, but you must remember he deals with fiction. The future lies in the hollow of no man's hand and, since I write chiefly of modern days, I save myself the saddening task of following my heroines to the grave. To me they are all alive, yet, happy as the day is long, revelling in sunshine and basking in undying love."

She folded her little hands on her lap, opened her big blue eyes very widely and sighed gently.

"How awfully delightful!" she said, "and I think you're ever so clever.

But--but I think you'll have to pardon me."

I rose, as she gained her feet and smiled at me again. Then she rushed off to another corner of the room and placed her hand on the coatsleeve of a six-footer who looked at her, joyfully. Her little turned-up face, in a fraction of a second, must have spoken several volumes. Then, slowly and very casually, they drifted off towards the big conservatory to the left.

Twenty minutes later, floating with the crowd, I chanced to be behind them. It is possible that they had found the retreat too populous.

"I am sure that you must have flirted disgracefully before I came," the man accused her, tenderly.

"Not a bit! I just sat down with the dearest old fogy who is supposed to write novels, so that you shouldn't be jealous, if you saw me," she replied, contentedly.

I moved away, rather swiftly. I should evidently have been delighted at the opportunity of rendering such signal service to so charming a little person. I had served as an aegid for her, as a buckler to protect her innocence and display it to the world in general and to six feet of stalwart manhood in particular. Yet, I confess that this little bud had driven a tiny thorn in me.

"Well," I reflected, "it is perhaps good to be an old fogy with scanty hair and the beginning of crow's feet. At any rate it helps make Frieda fond of me and has given me the trustful friendship of Frances. Baby Paul, I think, also appreciates his venerable friend."

Just then, Gordon came to me.

"By Jove, Dave! You're rather a fine figure of a man, when you're properly groomed," he told me.

"That's nonsense," I told him, severely. "I have just had a wireless informing me that I am a back number. Why are you no longer receiving at the side of your intended bride? She looks exceedingly handsome and graceful."

"The engagement has really not been announced yet," he answered. "It is not official. The Van Rossums are going to Florida, because the old gentleman has lost some tarpon he wants to find again. After that they are going to California where he is to look up something about an oil well. I may possibly run over there to see them. The--It won't happen for ever so long, perhaps not till fall. Wish I could go out with you and beat you at billiards, but I'm to stay till the bitter end. Isn't she looking splendidly?"

My eyes turned to where Miss Van Rossum was still receiving guests. She was certainly a fine creature, full of the joy of living. If some of her tastes in the way of pursuits were somewhat masculine, it detracted nothing from her elegance and charm. These might, in later years, become rather exuberant, I reflected, looking at the amplitude of form displayed by her parents, but, after all, none of us are beyond the grasp of Father Time.

"Just as splendidly as she does in your exquisite painting," I replied, nodding towards the portrait, wonderfully framed, that stood on an easel in the best light that could have been found for it.

A moment later he was torn away from me. From time to time he returned to the side of the young lady, who was always much occupied in conversation and pleasant laughter with many friends.

If Gordon thinks that the engagement is as yet something of a secret, he is badly in error. Hints, glances, little movements of heads in his direction, constantly apprised me that the information was scattered far and wide. Two dowagers close to me indulged in a stage whisper that revealed to me the fact that they wondered whether the projected marriage would not be something of a _mesalliance_ on the part of dear Sophia.

"After all, you know, he's nothing but a painter, and no one heard of him until three or four years ago!"

"But they say he charges enormously," said the other.

This, evidently, was quite a redeeming feature in my friend's favor, but I am afraid it was the only one, from their point of view.

I soon decided that I had done my full duty and sought the stairway again. Here, I once more ran into Gordon.

"I know just what the hippo in the zoo feels like," he confided to me, "and he has the advantage of a thicker skin. But I'm putting it all down to advertising expense. Good-by, Dave, old boy, give my kindest regards to--to Frieda."

I was glad when I reached the sidewalk again. I am no cynical detractor of the advantages of wealth, breeding, education and all the things that go towards refining away some of the dross which clings to the original man. Were it not for the hope of lucre, how many would be the works of art, how great would be the achievements of the world! Still, I felt that a man can have a little too much of the scent of roses, a surfeit of gilded lilies and gems in profusion. The good, old, hard sidewalk seemed to give me just as pleasant a welcome as that extended by softest rugs, while the keen and bracing air filled my lungs more agreeably than the warmed and perfumed atmosphere I had just left. I climbed on top of one of the auto-busses, holding on to my hat, and was taken all the way down to Washington Square, where some of the ancient aristocracy of Gotham lives cheek by jowl with the proletariat burrowing a little further south.

I walked away, slowly, seeking to remember in that crowded a.s.sembly uptown some face I could favorably compare with that of Frances. No, it had been a road from Dan to Beersheba, barren of such beauty as blossoms on the fourth floor back, of what Gordon calls my menagerie. One of my venturesome fancies painted for me the Murillo-woman gliding through those rooms. She would have been like a great evening star among twinkling asteroids. My imagination vaguely clothed her with a raiment of beauty, but the smile of her needed no changing.

I reached the house just as the young ladies who sell candy were returning. My silk hat, I think, impressed them, as well as my yellow gloves and the ancient gold-mounted Malacca I inherited from my father.

"My! Ain't you handsome to-day, Mr. Cole!" exclaimed one of them.

"You been to a weddin', Mr. Cole?" asked another.

"I have been to pay my respects to two people who are drifting that way, if signs don't fail," I answered. "I should be happy indeed to look just as handsome whenever any of you favors me with an invitation to her marriage."

At this they giggled, appearing rather pleased, and I made my way upstairs, glad indeed to climb them. How fortunate it is that I selected the higher levels, considering that they would give me greater privacy and less interference with typewriting at night! My lucky star, when I so decided, was plainly in its apogee.

I have been told that I am rather quiet and silent of movement. I certainly did not seek to conceal my coming, but when I reached the top floor I saw that my neighbor's door was open and a voice that was most familiar and yet utterly new to me was crooning something. I listened.

It was a bit of a dear old Breton song with a little meaningless _ritournelle_:

_Gaiement je chante et chanterai; Ti-ho-ho, Car mon bonheur je garderai. Ti-ho-ho-ho._

For a moment my heart stood still and I awaited, breathless. But there was no more, they were the last two words of the song. She had been singing to her little one, very low and sweetly, and the huskiness seemed to have disappeared. I thought upon these words "Gaily I sing and I will sing, for my happiness I will keep." Was the great wish of her heart coming to her now? Would Baby Paul be able to listen to the voice that had entranced his father and crow with delight at the loving notes that had stolen the man's heart?

A tiny pain shot through me. The bird was finding its song; would it now also use its wings? Is Frances destined to become a great singer again?

Will her life, after a time, be led away from humbler surroundings, from her modest friends, and is her personality to become in my memory but one of those dear and charming recollections every man stores away in his heart, as some hide away faded flowers, a scented note, or perchance the glove that has touched a beloved hand?

I coughed, prudently, to announce my coming. She was in the big chair with Baby Paul on her lap and put her finger to her lips, thus announcing that her offspring had fallen asleep. I entered on tiptoe and drew a chair towards her, with due precaution, a.s.suming the air of a Grand Inquisitor.

"Frances," I accused her, severely, but in a low voice, "you have been guilty of singing. This you have most certainly done without the faculty's permission. Dr. Porter would scold you most sternly, if he heard of it, and I feel that it is my duty to take so disagreeable a job from his shoulders. You are a bad, bold, rebellious creature and I don't know what I shall do to you!"

"I--I think I shall be able to sing again," she whispered, her eyes shining brightly. "Dear--dear David, I--I am so happy!"

Across the body of Baby Paul she extended her arm and hand. I took her fingers in mine.

"You deserve to have them well rapped with a ruler," I told her, "but, as no such instrument of torture is at hand, I shall punish you otherwise."

So I was bold enough to touch them to my lips for a second and abandoned them, suddenly possessed by a huge fear that I had taken an inexcusable liberty, but she looked at the baby, smiling.

"Indeed, Frances, I share your happiness and trust that your antic.i.p.ations are to be realized in fullest measure. A mean, little, selfish feeling came to me, a moment ago, that the fulfilment of your hopes might take you away from us. I confess that I am shamed and contrite at the thought, but I have become very fond of--of Baby Paul.

Now, however, I rejoice with you. But, my dear child, for Heaven's sake remember what our good little doctor told you! I beg you not to spoil his magnificent work!"

"Oh! David! I'll be ever so careful, I promise, and, whatever happens, you will always be the same dear old David to us. I a.s.sure you I won't try again, for ever so long. I think I just began without knowing what I was doing. The first thing I knew I was just humming that bit of song to Paul, and then the words came quite clear, so easily that I hardly realized I was singing. But I won't try again, until Dr. Porter allows me to. And then, it will be very little at a time, ever so little."

"And then, you will have to go to the very best man in New York, and take more lessons and practise a lot, because your throat has been idle so long that it has forgotten all it ever knew, and--and----"

"And it would cost a dreadful lot of money, and I have none, and it is all a great big lovely dream, but I must awaken from it and go back to Mr. McGrath's for a few days more, and then to Felicie's shop, because it opens again next week and she declares she can't get along without me. I am afraid, my poor David, that I shall have to be quite content with singing to Baby Paul, as best I can, and, perhaps, to Frieda and you."