A Top-Floor Idyl Part 9

It is an interesting street. If I get tired of waiting, I'll stroll home; take your time."

So they went up the stairs, Frieda panting behind, and I leaned against a decrepit iron railing. A few steps away some colored men were a.s.sembled about a lamppost, their laughter coming explosively, in repeated peals. Opposite me, within an exiguous front yard, a very fat man sat on a rickety chair, the back resting against the wall, and gave me an uncomfortable sense of impending collapse of the spindly legs.

Boys, playing ball in the middle of the street, stopped suddenly and a.s.sumed an air of profound detachment from things terrestrial as a policeman went by, majestic and leisurely, swinging his club. Somewhere west of me an accordion was whining variations on Annie Laurie, but, suddenly, its grievous voice was drowned by a curtain lecture addressed to a deep ba.s.s by an exasperated soprano. To the whole world his sins were proclaimed with a wealth of detail and an imagery of expression that excited my admiration. Then the clamor ceased abruptly and a man's head appeared at the window. I speculated whether he was contemplating self-destruction, but he vanished, to appear a moment later in the street, garmented in trousers, carpet-slippers and undershirt and armed with an empty beer-pail. With this he faded away in the corner saloon, to come forth again with his peace-offering.

With such observations I solaced myself and whiled away the time.

Humanity in the rough is to me fully as interesting as the dull stones picked up in Brazil or the Cape Colony. Some are hopelessly flawed, while others need but patient grinding to develop into diamonds of the first water.

Nearly a half an hour had gone by, and I had seated myself upon the railing, in a position once dear to me when I shared a fence with Sadie Briggs, aged fourteen, and thought that the ultimate had come to me in the way of love and pa.s.sion. Fortunate Sadie! She afterwards married a blacksmith and did her duty to the world by raising a large family, while I pounded typewriter keys and wrote of imaginary loves, in shirt-sleeves and slippers, lucky in the egotistic peace of the enviable mortal responsible for no human being's bread and b.u.t.ter but his own.

Then Frieda and Frances appeared. The latter held her baby in her arms, surely feeling that it had received enough vicarious attention.

"Why, Dave!" exclaimed the former. "I'm awfully sorry you waited so long. Our little darling was sleeping ever so comfy, like a blessed angel, and we sat down, while Madame Boivin rested from her ironing, and we just talked about starch and c.o.c.kroaches and things, and then Paul awoke and we were afraid he might cry in the street and it was nearly time anyway and--and he was ever so greedy. And now he's sleeping again."

I reflected that, gastronomically, Master Paul had probably enjoyed himself better than ourselves. He had not been hurried. His little lips had not been scalded, nor had he been compelled to hasten over a _ravigote_ that should have been eaten in seemly leisure and respect. I wished he had been able to realize the compensations he was getting now for whatever might come later on. For him I trust there will be little of sorrow, and yet there must be some, since pain and shadow are indispensable, in this world, to the appreciation of light and of ease.

I noticed how well the young mother walked with her burden. It appeared to lend her form added grace and to complete her beauty.

On the steps leading to the front door of Mrs. Milliken's refuge nearly all the lodgers were a.s.sembled, taking the cool of the evening. The two girls who sold candy clamored for a view of little Paul. The old lady looked at us in stern disapproval and said the baby should have been in bed for hours. The landlady, mindful of her interests, maintained a neutral att.i.tude. One of the young men a.s.sured Mrs. Dupont that her baby was a corker.

"This," said Mrs. Milliken, urbanely waving her hand towards a heavy and florid gentleman, who had kept in the background, "is Mr. O'Flaherty. He owns the garage on the next block and has the second floor back."

This individual bowed to the ladies, keeping a large black cigar in the corner of his mouth, and gave me a crushing grasp. I rejoiced for Mrs.

Milliken that she had the room rented, but promised myself to keep my hands behind my back in his presence. We declined an invitation to share the steps and went upstairs, where Mrs. Dupont, after putting the baby down on the lounge, came to me with both hands extended.

"Thank you," she said. "Thank you ever so much. Indeed I enjoyed every minute of it."

So we parted, and I went to my room and put on my old slippers, feeling that I had also enjoyed a pleasant couple of hours. Frances Dupont says that my typewriting does not trouble her at all, and I went to work, having thought of a story about a blind man. I wrote a couple of pages and then had to stop and close my eyes. How do blind men really feel, and through what gift from on high does that peculiar smile come, which their faces always show? I always have to try and put myself in the place of folks I write about. The other day I told this to McGrath, but he answered that I had evidently done so in regard to the mule I have spoken of and had failed, later on, to throw off the disguise. Of course I laughed. The real test of true friendship is the ability to call the other chap names, with a smile on one's lips and affection in one's heart.

Then Frieda came in for a moment, to say good night.

"It has done the poor child a lot of good," she said. "I am sure she will have a good sleep. Well, good-by, Dave. Ever so much obliged to you."

She went away, ponderously and yet swiftly. The night was becoming cooler and the door opposite was closed. I also shut mine and lit the calabash. It didn't seem so difficult, after all, to write about the blind man. When you think of it, it is possible that the difference between him and ourselves is merely one of degree.

A few more days pa.s.sed and the Monday came, and be it said to my shame that I was sound asleep when Mrs. Dupont started away with little Paul to keep her engagement. When I awoke, I reproached myself for having failed to be on hand to speed her on her journey and wish her good luck. She had gone out all alone with her child to confront the problem of keeping body and soul together, poor girl.

Early in the afternoon I had to go over to Brooklyn and view the Erie Basin, because my story unfortunately required the blind man to fall into it and be saved by the main girl, and I pride myself upon some accuracy of description. The result, if I remember correctly, was condensed into a score of lines which, if I got two cents a word for them, would leave a slight profit after paying carfare and increasing the small sum of my knowledge. Also, I had become acquainted with a gentleman on a ca.n.a.l boat, who grew geraniums and bachelor's b.u.t.tons in a box on deck. He showed me his pleasant cabin and introduced me to his wife. The man was leading a peaceful life of leisurely travel, one that offered many possibilities. I imagined myself drifting along the tranquil borders of ca.n.a.ls, edged with lush gra.s.ses and silvery willows.

It was ideal! What more could a man require for happiness?

When I returned, I was very anxious to interview Frances and ask about her experiences with her first day's posing, but her door was closed.

No longer was she a sick woman, one whose bed was the clothing of illness, the garment of pain. She had entirely recovered and, since I could bring no solace of her troubles, I no longer had the right to intrude upon her, even by knocking at her door. Normal life had claimed her again, pitiless for her infirmities of voice and heart. She was working now to earn the bread that would permit her to live for her child. Her existence was her own, and the freedom of her privacy. All that I could do now was to hope that, if she chanced to need any aid, she would recognize some little claim upon her friendship by coming to me again, as a bee may return for honey, leaving behind some of the pollen that means life prolonged and other flowers to come. To me such fertilizing dust would be replaced by a new interest given a life that was sometimes dull, by an occasionally tired brain made younger and mayhaps stronger through contact with a fresh young creature. All this she could proffer, but I had no right to beg for it. 'Twould have been like asking for a return of the few half-faded roses I had brought her, or payment for the running of a few errands.

So I closed my door also and took up the "Light That Failed" and my calabash, setting myself very determinedly to the task of reading and puffing away my unseemly curiosity and, I am afraid, failing dismally. I was wondering how Gordon had behaved towards her and whether she had found the task a hard and ungrateful one? Was she already thinking wearily about having to return there on the morrow?

Frieda, as a hundred times before, presently appeared to my rescue. I have not the slightest doubt that her curiosity was fully as keen as mine, and, of course, she could not have a man's reasons for discretion, knowing that her coming would be hailed with an exclamation of pleasure, or, perhaps, only a sigh of relief. I recognized her weighty steps on the landing, heard her quick knock at the door, and was left again to cogitate, while I put down my pipe and laid the book aside. Frieda can always be relied on.

Fifteen minutes later she penetrated my den.

"Oh! You're in!" she exclaimed. "I asked Frances, and she said you must be away since you would surely have knocked at the door. Of course she wouldn't take the chance of disturbing you, if you had returned."

"Well, I didn't want to intrude either," I answered; "she might have been changing--changing her boots for slippers or--or refreshing the baby."

"You might have tried to find out."

"Yes, that's obvious. I'm afraid I've been remiss in my duty," I replied, duly chastened.

Thus it was that the best of intentions had, as usual, gone to the place paved with such things. Yet I was rather pleased than otherwise. I learned that I was firmly enough established in the good graces of these dear women to be permitted to lay aside minor points of etiquette and act according to my first impulses. Since these must always be based on high regard and friendship, I can have little fear that they will ever be misunderstood.

CHAPTER VII

THE OTHER WOMAN

As we were speaking, Frances came to my room and I advanced a chair for her.

"Thanks," she said, "I am not at all tired, Mr. Cole."

"Yet I beg that you will sit down for a moment," I asked her. "I shall take the piano-stool and you ladies will give me the delightful feeling of receiving a pleasant visit. I shall do my best to entertain two callers charitable enough to penetrate a sere and yellow bachelor's quarters. I shall proceed to make some tea."

"Gracious, Dave!" exclaimed Frieda hungrily, "you live in the lap of luxury."

"At least your presence here gives me the illusion of it," I answered, pulling out my alcohol lamp and other utensils.

There is little excuse for poor tea, unless it be considered as a vulgar flavoring intended to lend a different taste to the water taken from the faucet. A pound of the best lasts me for the greater part of a year, for I take it seldom, and a dollar more than the price of green and fibrous rubbish permits me to offer my friends and delight myself with a cup such as brings joy and an eagerness for a second filling.

"Of course, I was a little afraid at first," confessed Frances, as I measured out a spoonful for each of us and one for the greedy pot. "Mr.

McGrath was exceedingly civil, however, and briefly explained that for the time being I must consider myself as one of his materials, like a tube of paint or his easel."

"That's just like Gordon," I interjected.

"Well, it seemed quite right," she went on. "He made me sit down a dozen times, in various ways, and then he'd look at me and move my chin a little, or change the position of my arm. It took him quite a long time and the more he shifted me around, the more he frowned, so that at last I asked him just what he wanted.

"'I want you to hold that baby and look at it as if it were the biggest thing on earth, and forget me, and forget that you're posing,' he said, and I asked him to let me try all by myself. So I moved around a bit and held my head differently, and he said that was just what he was looking for. He told me to keep still and went to work at once. In a half an hour he asked me if I didn't want to rest, and I told him I had pins and needles in my legs, and he said I must get up and walk a few times around the studio. A few minutes later I sat down again, and--and that's all, I think."

"What did he talk about?" asked Frieda.

"He didn't talk; just kept on glaring at me and then staring at his canvas and working away, ever so quickly. At the end of an hour he asked me how it was that the baby kept so quiet, and I told him it was asleep.

"'When he wakes up he'll howl, won't he?' he asked me.

"'I don't think so. Paul never howls,' I told him, and just then the poor wee thing woke up and began. It was perfectly dreadful! He never cried so loud before. Then Mr. McGrath told me to go into the next room and see if it was pins or hunger and to take my own time. So when I came back he was walking up and down in front of his canvas and paid no attention to me for the longest time. Then he said we might as well go on, and I suppose he worked for another hour. He stopped suddenly and told me I could take off the queer shawl he'd put about my shoulders and run away. He warned me to be on time to-morrow, because he didn't like to wait. After that he took his hat and went away and his j.a.panese man showed me out, when I was ready."

"I told you it wouldn't be so dreadfully hard," said Frieda, "and Gordon, in spite of his queer ways, is a very nice and decent fellow. He paints like an angel, he does, but he's as cold-blooded about his work as a p.a.w.nbroker."

"I'm glad," said Frances. "It makes it much easier."