A Top-Floor Idyl Part 33

"And, Dave, I just have to go! It would be too hard on some of the others, if I broke faith and didn't appear. I must leave to-night, and it just breaks my heart to be compelled to start when my Baby Paul isn't well. Dr. Porter has promised to call every day and see him during my absence. Dave dear, you are ever so fond of Baby too. Won't you come in every day, and you must telegraph, if you don't find him getting along as well as he should, or use the long distance telephone."

She was much agitated, and I saw how hard it was on her to leave the dear little man behind. But Frances is the sort of woman who keeps her promises. She has given her word and will go!

So we dined together, that evening, with Frieda, and we saw Frances away to the train and put her on board the sleeper and returned home, and Frieda spoke a great deal and told me about the sale of her latest picture and all that she expected from the one she was going to exhibit at the winter Salon. It was only after I had left her that I realized the dear soul had been trying to divert my thoughts.

In the morning came the telegram from the marine department of the cable company. The _Rochambeau_ would dock at eleven. I was at the waterside an hour earlier, devoured with impatience and anxiety, thinking of a thousand alarming possibilities. Finally, the big ship appeared, far down the stream, and slowly came up. I scanned the decks as soon as people could be distinguished, but could see no sign of my friend.

At last, the steamer was warped into the dock after three puffing tugs had pushed and shoved her for the longest time, and the pa.s.sengers began to come off, and still he did not show up and the gang plank was nearly bare of people. I seized upon a steward bearing ash.o.r.e a load of suitcases and bags and asked him whether there was not a Mr. McGrath on board.

"_Certainement, Monsieur_, there he is coming now," replied the man, hurrying away.

I might not have recognized him, so pale and thin did he look, but it was Gordon all right, at the head of the trussed gangway, and he waved a hand at me. A man preceded him, carrying some baggage.

"h.e.l.lo, Gordon!" I shouted joyfully, in spite of the shock his sharp, worn features had given me.

"h.e.l.lo, Dave!" he cried back.

A moment later he was down on the dock, stepping lightly, and I pushed my hand out towards him, eager for the strong grasp of former days.

"You'll have to take the left, old boy. The right one's behind, somewhere in Belgium. Wait a moment and I'll give you my keys, Dave. I have to keep everything in my lefthand pockets, so they're crowded. Yes, I have them. I suppose that my trunk is already ash.o.r.e. Do try and get a customs' officer for me and hurry the thing through."

He was talking as calmly and coolly as if he had been gone but a few days and had suffered only from a cut finger. We were fortunate in being able to get through the formalities very soon, and, shortly after, we drove away in a taxi.

"Well, Dave, how've you been and how's everybody?" he asked, after lighting a cigarette from mine.

"Every one is all right," I answered impatiently. "Oh! Gordon, old man!

How did it ever happen?"

"Just a piece of sh.e.l.l while I was picking some fellows up," he answered. "You have no idea of how surprising it is when you suddenly realize that something's missing. But what's a hand more or less after all that I've seen? How's Frieda?"

"Stouter than ever," I replied, "and her appet.i.te's improving. Porter recommended a diet, but she won't follow it. Says her fat doesn't interfere with her sitting at the easel."

"Good old Frieda! I've heard about your book, Dave, it made a big stir, didn't it? And so--so Madame Dupont has become a great singer again; heard all about it from a fellow on board and, of course, your letters spoke of it; but you're such a crazy old duffer I supposed you were getting carried away with your enthusiasm. Never could take things quietly, could you? Any other news?"

"Nothing very special," I told him. "The Van Rossums came to town early, this year. I--I've seen Miss Sophia."

"Have you? Give me another cigarette. Yes, light a match for me. I'm clumsy as the devil with that left hand!"

He sat back, puffing at the thing and looking out of the window.

"Peanuts," he said. "Haven't seen a peanut cart for over a year. Colored women, too. Plenty of fighting n.i.g.g.e.rs in France, but no darky ladies.

Look at the big cop! Policemen are the only leisure cla.s.s in this country, aren't they? Lord! What a big, ghastly brick monstrosity that is! We can lick the world when it comes to fetid commercial architecture, can't we? Are you going all the way up to the studio with me?"

"Of course I am," I a.s.serted indignantly. "What did you suppose I'd do?"

"Thought you might laugh at the uselessness of a studio in my present condition," he replied negligently. "I've told you I'm clumsy as the deuce with that left hand. Tried to draw a face with it the other day, in pencil. Looked like a small boy's effort on a fence. So, of course, I'm through with painting. I've been rather saving, you know. Invested my money quite safely and haven't spent much on this jaunt. Of course a few thousands went where I thought they'd do most good. A fellow who'd keep his hands in his pockets when help is so badly needed would be a queer animal. But I've enough to live on and smoke decent tobacco. I think I'll take a small bachelor apartment in New York, to come to when I get the horrors. I'll spend the rest of the time in the country, a good way off. I'll read books, yes, even yours, and, perhaps, learn to sit around with a crowd, near a grocery stove, and discuss potatoes and truck. Hang it all! There's always something a fellow can do!"

"My dear Gordon," I began, "I don't see----"

"Oh, shut up, Dave, I know all the things one can say to a cripple.

What's the use? Some fellows on board asked me to dine with them this evening at Delmonico's, and I d.a.m.ned them up and down. Sat for eight mortal days at the dining-table on the ship, with an infernal female on each side of me; they'd quarrel as to which of them would cut my meat for me. It's enough for a fellow to go dotty. Sometimes I wouldn't go and had things served in my cabin so the steward would do the cutting.

Understand, I'm not kicking. Hang it all, man, I'm not even sorry I went! The chaps I helped out were probably worth it. Great old experience trying to make fifty miles an hour with a fellow inside bleeding to death, I can tell you. I've seen enough of it to have learned that a man's life doesn't amount to much. Any old thing will do for me now."

I was appalled. All this had but one meaning. He was eating his heart out, try as he might to conceal it. To him, his art had been chiefly a means to an end; he had made it the servant of his desires. And now it was getting back at him, it was revenging itself, appearing infinitely desirable for its own sake. He would miss it as a man misses the dead woman, who has held his heart in the hollow of her hand; he was raging at the helplessness that had come upon him. And all this he translated into his usual cynicism. I would have given anything to have seen him break down and weep, so that I might have put my arm around his shoulders and sought to comfort him with love and affection.

We got out at the big building, and he nodded to the colored boy who stood at the door of the elevator, as if he had been gone but a day. On the landing he sought again to pull out his keys, but I touched the electric b.u.t.ton and the old woman's steps hurried to the door.

"How are you?" he said, and brushed past her, paying no heed to her salutations. "Glad everything's open. I was afraid it would be all closed up like a beastly morgue. h.e.l.lo!"

He stopped before the easel. Upon it I had placed a rough study he had made for Miss Van Rossum's picture. It was a thing of a few effective and masterly strokes.

"Good Lord, Dave, but I was a painter for fair, once upon a time! How did I ever do it?"

He sat there, very still, for a long time, while I watched him. I think he had forgotten all about me, for, after a time, he rose and pulled out of a closet some unframed canva.s.ses, which he scattered against the legs of furniture and contemplated.

"Think I'll make a bonfire of them," he suddenly said. "Won't be such an idiot as to keep on staring at those things and looking at my stump, I'll warrant," and he pushed the handless wrist towards me, tied up in a bit of black silk.

Then the telephone rang.

"Wonder who's the infernal idiot calling up now?" he said. "Go and answer, Dave. No, I'll go myself and tell him to go to the devil!"

Then came one of those fragmentary conversations. I could not help hearing it, of course. It surprised me that he spoke quietly, with a civility of tone and accent I had not expected.

"Yes, came back a few minutes ago----No, Dave ran up here with me, Dave Cole, you know----Oh! Nothing much----Well, I've lost my hand, the one I painted with----Yes, I shall be glad to have you do so----Right away?

Yes, if you want to, I mean if you will be so kind. Thank you ever so much!"

He hung up the receiver and turned to me, his eyes looking rather haggard.

"It's--it's Sophia Van Rossum. How did she know I was coming?"

"I let her know, of course," I answered rather shortly.

"You think I've treated her pretty badly, don't you?"

"Rottenly, Gordon!"

"I daresay I did. It was a sort of madness that came over me, but--but there's no excuse. She'll be here in a few minutes. I don't know what I can say to her. Stay here, Dave, and help me out. I used to tell you that she was just a society doll, and that sort of thing. Well, she's pretty strong on society, but she was brought up in it, belonged to it.

But she's a great deal more of a woman than I gave her credit for being; I've realized it a thousand times since I've been gone. I call it mighty decent of her to ring me up and offer to come around and see me, after the way I've behaved to her."

"So do I, Gordon," I approved. "She's got a great big heart, the sort it's a sorry thing for a man to play with."

He made no answer, looking out from his window into the Park and its yellowing foliage. Then he lifted his maimed arm and stared at it.

CHAPTER XXIII

THE REPAIR OF A BROKEN STRAND