CHAPTER XVI
FRANCES READS MY BOOK.
A great extravagance of mine lies in the fact that I pay my board here,for the sake of Mrs. Milliken, and take a good many of my meals outside,for mine. Strange as it may seem to the inveterately domestic, I enjoy alittle table of my own, with a paper or a book beside me and the utterabsence of the "please pass the butter" or "I'll trouble you for thehash" of the boarding-house.
Hence, I rose from my chair for another refection outside and debated asto whether I might venture out without my overcoat, when Frieda came outof Frances's room and penetrated mine.
"She is all right now," I was informed. "Her headache has quite lefther, and Madame Smith has been in to inform her that the shop is to beopened to-morrow. So I have told Frances she had better continue to liedown and have a good rest. I may come in again, later this afternoon,for a cup of tea."
"You are a million times welcome to it," I said, "but you will have tomake it yourself. I have to go over to my sister's where there isanother blessed birthday. I shall have to go out now and pick out ateddy bear or a Noah's ark. I am afraid they will keep me until late.Give Frances my love and insist on her going out to-morrow evening withus, to Camus."
"Very well, I certainly will," answered Frieda, bending over with muchcreaking of corset bones. "What are these books on the floor? You oughtto be ashamed of yourself for ill-treating valuable, clean volumes."
"They may be clean, but I doubt their value," I said. "They're onlycopies of the 'Land o' Love.'"
"What a pretty cover design, but the girl's nose is out of drawing. Sitright down and sign one of them for me and I want to take another toFrances. It will help her to pass away the time."
I obeyed, decorating a blank page with my illegible hieroglyphics, andrepeated the process on a second copy for Frances, after which Ideparted.
Goodness knows that I love the whole tribe of my sister's young ones,and my sister herself, and hold her husband in deep regard. He is ahard-working and inoffensive fellow, who means well and goes to churchof a Sunday. He proudly introduces me as "my brother-in-law the author,"and believes all he sees in his morning paper. Despite all this, I abhorthe journey to their bungalow although, once I have reached it, Iunquestionably enjoy the atmosphere of serene home life. The infantsclimb on my knees and wipe their little shoes on my trousers, blesstheir hearts! To little David, named after me, I was bringing a bat andbaseball mitt, with some tin soldiers. He is now six years old andpermitted to blow his own nose under his mother's supervision. The pridehe takes in this accomplishment is rather touching.
A large box of candies would permit the others to share in my largess,and I arrived at the top of the Palisades laden like a commuter. Afterthe many embraces, my expert advice was sought in regard to the proposedlocation of an abominable bronze stag, purchased cheap at an auction,and the thirst I was supposed to be dying from was slaked with homemaderoot beer. Thereafter, I was taken for a walk and made to inspect a newhouse under construction, that was being erected by an individual who isgodfather to little Philippa. Upon our return, the scratchy phonographwas called upon to contribute to the general entertainment, my sisterconstantly running in and out of the parlor to the kitchen, where aperspiring straw-headed Swede toiled at the forthcoming dinner.
From this I arose at last, quite happy and slightly dyspeptic. In honorof the day the children were allowed an extra half-hour of grace beforebeing driven off to bed. After peace reigned upstairs, I was consultedat length in regard to my views concerning the future prospects of thesewing-machine trade, in which John is interested, while my sisterrequested my opinion as to an Easter hat. I finally left, aftercontributing the wherewithal for a family visit to the circus, and Johnwas so good as to accompany me all the way to the trolley tracks.
They are lovable, dear people, prudent in their expenditure in orderthat their offspring may be well brought up, and happy in their modestand useful lives. If I were only a successful writer, a maker of bestsellers, I should rejoice in the ability to help them carry out theirplans and achieve their reasonable ambitions. As it is, I can onlyassist Santa Claus in his yearly mission and try, at various time, tobring extra little rays of sunshine to them.
As the trolley and ferryboat brought me home, I had the feeling that thenight was far advanced and that I had been on a long journey whichrendered the prospect of bed and slumber a highly desirable one. Butonce in the embrace of the big city, I realized that it was but theshank of the evening and that the hurried life of the town, maker ofsuccesses and destroyer of many hopes, was throbbing fast. My watchshowed but ten o'clock when I reached my caravanserai, but I climbed upthe last steps, carefully, anxious to avoid making any disturbance thatmight awaken Frances and her little one.
To my surprise I found that her door was still open. She was holding mybook, closed, upon her lap, and as she lifted her head I saw herwonderful eyes gazing at me, swimmingly, and she rose with handoutstretched.
"Come in for a moment, David. Yes, leave the door open. Baby Paul issleeping soundly and will not awaken. Take a chair and let me talk toyou about that book. But--but before I speak of it, I want to have along, long look at you. Yes, it is the same dear old David--you haven'tchanged a bit. And yet, Dave, you are a great big man. I never knew howbig, until I read this volume. I have been at it ever since you left!"
"My dear child, it is all fiction and, I am afraid, not very good.Jamieson doesn't think very much of it."
"It makes no difference what he thinks. I know that I haven't been ableto keep my eyes away from it since Frieda brought it in. Oh! David,where did you ever find such things to say; how did you ever discoverand reveal such depths of feeling, such wonderful truth in the beats ofstruggling hearts. You should be so proud of yourself, so glad that thisbook of yours will bring comfort and hope to many. It has made me feellike a new woman, one who has received a message of cheer and gladness.Thank you, David, for those words written on the fly-leaf, and thank youstill more for the strength and the courage those pages have broughtme!"
I looked at her, rather stupidly, until I reflected that she had readthe volume through the distorting glasses of her friendliness to me, ofthe interest she takes in my work.
"My dear," I told her, "I am happy indeed that you have been able togather a little wheat from the chaff of the 'Land o' Love.' You havehypnotized yourself a little into thinking that whatever comes from yourfriend Dave must be very good. For your sake, as well as mine, andespecially for the good of Baby Paul, I wish indeed that your impressionmay be shared by others."
"I know it will be! It can't help appealing to ever so many. It isperfectly wonderful. I like your other books, ever so much, but this oneis different."
"That's the trouble," I informed her.
She shook her head, as if in despair at my pessimism.
"Don't be foolish, Dave. You have done a fine piece of work. Oh! You cansmile, if you want to. I know I am nothing but a girl--I mean awoman--but since early girlhood I have lived in an atmosphere of art,which is nothing but truth expressed in all its beauty. I think I havealways understood the big things in painting and in music,instinctively, and in this book I find a melody that uplifts me, a riotof splendid color which appeals to me, because it is all true."
"Gracious! My dear Frances!" I said, laughing. "I fear that, if you areever tempted to read it again, you will meet with a great loss ofillusion."
But she laughed also, her low sweet voice coming clear and happy.
"I--I had been feeling so badly, David, and the moment I set foot inyour dear 'Land o' Love' I was glad again to be alive. My baby lookedmore beautiful than ever to me, and the years that are to come, morehopeful. Dear friend, I am so glad and proud that a man like you hascome into my life!"
For a second only I looked at her, and then my eyes fell. I was gladindeed of her words, but I felt that her regard and affection would beall I should ever obtain from her. The love of so glorious a creaturewas never meant for a little scribble
r, but how splendid a thing it wasfor a man to have been able to gain her esteem, to have succeeded inhaving her call him, trustfully, by his first name and permit him tosit beside her in the little room where she spends so many hours andcroons to her baby!
"Dr. Porter says that my throat is doing ever so well," she told me,after a moment of silence. "He sees no objection to my beginning to singa few scales. I must keep very carefully to the middle of my register,so that I may put no undue strain on my voice. Oh! David! I have alwaysdoubted that it would ever come back. Isn't it queer? Since I finishedthe book, I feel uplifted, hopeful. Indeed, I am beginning to believethat some day I shall sing again, just as I did when----"
A little cloud passed over her face, that darkened it for a moment. Shewas evidently thinking of the beautiful days that could never come back.But after a time it disappeared and she sat in her chair, with handsfolded in her lap upon which the book still rested, looking at me in hersweet friendly way. Then, suddenly, the little cloud came again and sheleaned forward, swiftly.
"Did--did you see Mr. McGrath?" she asked.
"He sent for me last night," I acknowledged.
"And--and of course he told you----"
"Everything, I suppose."
She kept her eyes lowered, persistently, looking gravely and sadly atthe worn carpet.
"At--at first I couldn't understand," she began. "Frieda told me daysand days ago that he was engaged--she had seen it in a paper. Of course,he never spoke to me about it. When--when he began to say those things,I thought he was out of his senses and--and I was afraid. He was paleand trembling all over, and then I realized that he was asking me tomarry him. Oh! David! For a moment a dreadful temptation came to me. Mybaby was in my arms--and this meant that I should always have bread forhim--that he could be taken care of--that it wouldn't matter, then, if Iever could sing again. I--I could buy health and happiness for him, andstrength. Oh! It came to me just like a flash, and then it went awayagain, thank God! I couldn't listen to him. It meant that I should haveto give up the memories that are still living and abandon the struggle,yes, the blessed struggle for my livelihood and Baby's, to go to him asa loveless wife. No, it was impossible, David! And he was so unhappy, sofrightfully unhappy when I told him I could never marry him, and--andthen I ran away. And he had always been so kind to me, Dave, and soconsiderate--not like you, of course, because nobody could be like you,but he was always so nice and pleasant, and I never had the slightestidea that--that he had--that he was in love with me. And--and is ittrue, David, that he is engaged to another woman?"
"I am afraid so, Frances, and I think she is a very fine and good woman,and--and I am sorry for her. He can never have really loved her, ofcourse, but you know that Gordon was always a schemer, that he hadmapped out all his life like a man planning the building of a house. Andthen, all of a sudden, he found out that nature was too strong for him,that hearts and minds can't be shut within metes and bounds, and thatthe real love in him was paramount. Oh! The pity of it all!"
I could see that she was also strongly affected and that it had been ashock to her, a shrewd and painful blow, to hear my friend begging for alove she could not give. He had been one of a few people lately comeinto her life who had helped to mitigate its bitterness. Her soul, fullof gratitude, had revolted at having been compelled to inflict pain onhim, and yet she had been forced to do so and it had left her weak andtrembling, with temples on fire and throbbing. Then, she had wanted toshut herself away from all, to try and close her eyes in the hope thatthe ever-present vision of this thing might vanish in the darkness ofher room.
"I don't know why it was, Dave, but it seemed to break my heart. I wasnever so unhappy, I think, excepting on the day when--when I saw thatterrible announcement. Why! David! How could there have been any loveleft in my heart to give away? How could I have listened to such things?Is there ever a night when I don't kneel down and pray for the poor soulof the man who lies somewhere on those dreadful fields, buried amid hiscomrades, with, perhaps, never a tiny cross over him nor a flower tobear to him a little of the love I gave him? How often I have wishedthat Baby were older, so that he could also join his little hands andrepeat the words after me. I--I wouldn't tell you all this, David, if Ididn't know how well you understand a woman's heart; if I didn't realizehow splendid and disinterested your friendship is."
She stopped. Her eyes were turned towards the little bed where Paul wassleeping, while one of her hands had sought her forehead again, as ifthe pain had returned. And, as I looked at her, I became uneasy with asense that she esteemed me too highly and gave me credit I didn't andcouldn't deserve, for, in the heart of me, I knew I loved her with suchintensity of feeling that it hurt me with the bitterest of pangs.
Ay! She had said it. There could be no other love for her! The old onewas still strong in her soul, for the man she would never see again butwhose image was graven so deep in her memory that he was still with her,a vision upstanding though silent, listening to the prayers she said forhim and, perhaps, in her sleep, no longer a mute wraith of the beloved,but one who whispered again softly some of the words of long ago. Iwould fain, also, have prayed for courage never to bare my heart to her,for strength enabling me to remain the disinterested friend she deemedme, to whom she could at least give affection and trust.
"It is late, David," she finally said. "Good night. I think I will readthat last chapter of the 'Land o' Love,' again, before I go to sleep.It will show me a world full of fine big things and bring theblessedness of new hope."
"I hope it will, my dear Frances," I answered, and returned to my roomwhere I touched a match to the gas and filled my big calabash. As Ilooked about me, I felt that my little kingdom was a rather bare andshabby one. Hitherto it had been perfectly sufficient for my needs, norhad I ever seen in it anything to find fault with. In fact I had many atime thought myself fortunate in having so secure a retreat, which onlythe feet of faithful friends could be attracted to. They would come toit only for the sake of their old David. They were content to sit on theedge of the bed, if the chairs gave out. But now I realized that forsome time strange dreams had been coming to me, of a possibility that inits occupant a marvelous and glorious creature might one day findsomething kindred, a heart to which her own would respond. I had begunto lift my eyes up to her and now I saw how pitiful the room and thelodger must seem to her. I felt that all that I should ever get out oflife would be fiction, invention, the playing of tunes on hearts of myown creation that would never beat for me saving in printed pages. Nevercould they become my very own; always, they would go out to others, tolaugh or weep or yawn over. They would represent but pieces of silverwith which I might perhaps bring a bit of happiness to a few, afterpaying for my shelter and food, and the clothes which Gordon asserts arenever really made for me.
Poor old Gordon! Frieda predicted that he would be hoist by his ownpetard, some day, and it has come to pass. He is now far out of sight ofland, and his head is still awhirl with the amazing wrecking of hisschemes. It would have been a bigger thing for him to do, and a braver,to have gone to that splendid girl Sophia Van Rossum and confessed hehad sinned against her, and begged her pardon, humbly. I suppose he haswritten to her and explained that he has lost the right even to touchthe hem of her garment. It is good that he had the saving grace not tokeep up his pretence of love for her, but his sudden and amazingdeparture shows how keenly he has felt the blow. His ambitions haveflown, his plans gone a-gley, and the one thing that could remain wasthe eager searching for an immediate change, for a reckless occupationin whose pursuit he might gamble with his life and, perhaps, throw itaway. I saw his purpose, clearly. In the ambulance corps there would beno long months of drilling, no marching up and down fields and roadsclear of any enemy. He could at once go to work and play his part in thegreat game. May he return safely, and may the hand of time deal gentlywith him! Were I fitted for it, I should gladly take his place. The ideaof also running away, before temptation becomes unendurable, isbeginning to appeal to me wi
th no little strength.
But what could I do at that front where they want men of youthful vigorand bravery, in whom the generous sap of life at its finest runsswiftly? I think I will have to remain here and continue to turn out mylittle stories. I will keep on giving them a happy ending, that myreaders may finish them contentedly. But always I shall remain consciousof the tale of my own life, in which there will never be an entranceinto that happiness I so freely bestow on the poor little children of myimagination.
Yet, who knows? It may be that, for many years yet, I may from time totime see Frances, even if her art should take her at times far from me.She may teach Baby Paul to look upon me as some sort of uncle, who bearshim great affection and even love. The boy may, in the future, come tome and tell me of his pleasures and his pains, and listen to the adviceold fellows so freely and uselessly give. And I will talk to him of hismother, of the brave good woman who toiled for him, who shed the benisonof her tenderness on him, and yet had some left that she could bestow onthe obscure scribbler. Never will I tell him that the writer of storiesloved her, for that is something that must remain locked up in myheart.