A Top-Floor Idyl

  CHAPTER VI

  A BIT OF SUNSHINE

  The ignorance of modern man is deplorable and stupendous. The excellentand far-famed Pico della Mirandola, for one whole week, victoriouslysustained a thesis upon "_De Omne Scibile_." Now we have to confess thathuman knowledge, even as it affects such a detail as women's raiment, isaltogether too complicated for a fellow to pretend he possesses it all.The display windows of department stores or a mere glance at anencyclopedia always fill me with humility.

  Frances sadly showed us some things she had pulled out of a trunk and,foolishly, I exclaimed upon their prettiness. She looked upon them, andthen at me, with a rather pitiful air.

  "I can't wear them now," she said, her lip quivering a little. "But thisblack one might do, if----"

  This halting was not in her speech and merely represents my ownlimitations. She explained some of the legerdemain required by thegarment, and Frieda told her of a woman, related to Eulalie, who wastalented in juggling with old dresses and renovating them. This onelooked exceedingly nice to me, just as it was, but I was pityinglyinformed that some things were to be added and others removed, before itcould possibly be worn. The sleeves, as far as I could understand, wereeither too long or short; the shoulders positively superannuated and theskirt, as was evident to the meanest intellect, much too narrow, or,possibly, too wide.

  Also, there was the absolute need of a new hat. They discussed thematter, and Frieda led her away to unexplored streets adjoining the EastRiver. With great caution I warned the young woman, secretly directingher attention to Frieda's impossible headgear, but I received aconfident and reassuring glance. After a time they returned with anample hat-box adorned with one of the prominent names of the Ghetto, andpulled the thing out, having come to my room to exhibit to me the resultof their excursion.

  "How much do you think we paid for it?" asked Frieda, with a gleam oftriumph.

  "I can speak more judiciously, if Mrs. Dupont will be so kind as to putit on," I told her.

  My request was immediately acceded to. I surveyed the hat from manyangles and guessed that it had cost eighteen dollars. I was proudlyinformed that the price had been three twenty-seven, reduced from eightseventy-nine, and that they had entered every shop in Division Streetbefore they had unearthed it.

  "It is very nice and quiet," Frieda informed me. "There wasn't muchchoice of color, since it had to be black. I think it suits herremarkably well."

  "It certainly does," I assented. "Oh, by the way, Frieda, you may beglad to hear that my publishers have accepted the 'Land o' Love' and areto bring it out very early next Spring. It is a very long time to wait.I am afraid that Jamieson, their Chief High Lord Executioner, is ratherdoubtful in regard to it. He's afraid it is somewhat of a riskydeparture from my usual manner and may disappoint my following, such asit is."

  "Poor old Dave," said Frieda encouragingly. "Don't worry, I'm sure itwill sell just like the others."

  "I hope so, and now what do you say to celebrating that new hat by goingover to Camus for dinner?"

  "Oh! I couldn't think of such a thing!" exclaimed Frances Dupont."In--in the first place it is much too soon--after--and then you know Ihaven't a thing to wear."

  "In the first place, not a soul will know you at Camus," said Friedafirmly, "and, in the second, you have a hat anyway, and I'm going to fixthat black dress a little. Just a dozen stitches and some pins. Comeinto your room with me."

  She dragged her out of the room, and I was left to wonder how thatcomplicating baby would be disposed of. I had begun to think the infantsometimes recognized me. When I touched one of his little hands with myfinger, he really appeared to respond with some manifestations ofpleasure; at least it never seemed to terrify or dismay him. His motherwas confident that he liked it.

  Perhaps an hour later they came out, and I looked at Frances in somesurprise. I gained the impression that she was taller and more slenderthan I had thought.

  "You give me that baby," commanded Frieda. "I want you to save yourstrength, my dear. I should make David carry it, but he would drop it orhold it upside down. Come along, my precious, we're going out to walk aby-by."

  Master Paul seemed to make no objection. I call it a dreadful shame thatFrieda never married and had a half a dozen of her own. She's the mostmotherly old maid in the world, and infants take to her with absoluteenthusiasm. I followed them, somewhat doubtfully, wondering what figureMaster Paul would cut at Camus. I knew that they allowed little dogs andthere was a big tortoise-shell cat that wandered under the chairs andsometimes scratched your knee for a bit of fish, but I had never seenany young babies in the widow's establishment. This one might be deemedrevolutionary or iconoclastic. Should we be met by uplifted anddeprecating palms and informed with profuse apologies that the rules ofthe house did not favor the admission of such youthful guests?

  In a few minutes my doubts were set at rest, for we walked off to thehive inhabited by the washerwoman. At the foot of the stairs Mrs.Dupont kissed her baby, as if she were seeing it for the last time. ThenFrieda hastened upstairs with it and came down, two minutes later,blowing like a porpoise.

  "He'll be perfectly safe," she declared. "Madame Boivin says he is anangel, and Eulalie was there. She said he would sleep straight on endfor two hours. I told her we should be back before--I mean in good time.Now come along!"

  I could see that the young mother only half approved of the schemeoriginated in Frieda's fertile brain. Two or three times she looked backas if minded to return at once and snatch up her baby, never to leave itagain.

  "My dear," said Frieda, "don't be getting nervous. Nothing can possiblyhappen, and you know how very careful Eulalie is. Little by little youmust get back into the world. How are you going to face it, if itfrightens you? Put on a brave, bold front. Here is a chance for you tohave a few moments of enjoyment. Seize upon it and don't let go. A darkcellar is no place to pick up courage in, and you must come out of thegloom, child, and live a little with the others so that you may be ableto live for Baby Paul. There's a good girl!"

  Frances opened a little black bag and pulled out a handkerchief withwhich she dabbed her eyes once or twice. Then she looked up again.

  "Oh! Frieda! I ought to be thanking God on my bended knees for sendingyou to me, and--and Mr. Cole too. Indeed I'll do my best to be brave.It's--it's difficult, sometimes, but I'm going to try, ever so hard."

  I am afraid that the little smile with which she ended these words wassomewhat forced, but I was glad to see it. It was a plucky effort. Shewas seeking to contend against a current carrying her out to sea andrealized that she must struggle to reach the shore in safety. I sawFrieda give her arm a good hug, and the three of us walked to SeventhAvenue, then north a couple of blocks, after which we turned to theright till we came to the electric lights of the Widow Camus'sflamboyant sign, that winked a welcome at us.

  I remember little about the dinner itself, but, after the rather insipidfare at Mrs. Milliken's, I know that Frances enjoyed it. The place didnot surprise her, nor the people. During her life in Paris, after hermarriage, she had probably been with her husband to some more or lessBohemian resorts, such as are beloved of artists. At first, she choked alittle over the radishes and olives, but took her _consomme_ withgreater assurance and was quite at her ease before the chicken andsalad. With her last leaf of lettuce, however, came over her a look ofanxiety, and I pulled out my watch.

  "Don't be afraid," I told her, "we have only been away from thewasherlady for fifty minutes. See yourself, there is no deception."

  "I am absolutely certain that he is sleeping yet," Frieda assured her,and turned to the perspiring waiter, ordering three Nesselrodes andcoffees.

  Now, when I treat myself to a _table d'hote_ dinner, I love to lingerover my repast, to study the people about me, or at least pretend to.Also, I sip my coffee very slowly and enjoy a Chartreuse, in tiny gulps.Frieda, if anything, is more dilatory than myself. But the dear old girlpositively hurried over the little block of ice-cream, and I suspect
that she scalded her mouth a trifle with her coffee. A few minutes laterwe were out in the street again, hurrying towards Madame Boivin's, andI wondered whether such unseemly haste could be compatible with properdigestion. We reached the tenement in a very short time.

  "Frances is going upstairs with me," announced Frieda. "You had betternot wait for us, for we might be detained a little. I'll bring her home,and we shall be perfectly safe. You go right back and smoke your oldpipe till we return."

  "Don't hurry," I told her. "I might as well wait here as anywhere else.It is an interesting street. If I get tired of waiting, I'll strollhome; take your time."

  So they went up the stairs, Frieda panting behind, and I leaned againsta decrepit iron railing. A few steps away some colored men wereassembled about a lamppost, their laughter coming explosively, inrepeated peals. Opposite me, within an exiguous front yard, a very fatman sat on a rickety chair, the back resting against the wall, and gaveme an uncomfortable sense of impending collapse of the spindly legs.Boys, playing ball in the middle of the street, stopped suddenly andassumed an air of profound detachment from things terrestrial as apoliceman went by, majestic and leisurely, swinging his club. Somewherewest of me an accordion was whining variations on Annie Laurie, but,suddenly, its grievous voice was drowned by a curtain lecture addressedto a deep bass by an exasperated soprano. To the whole world his sinswere proclaimed with a wealth of detail and an imagery of expressionthat excited my admiration. Then the clamor ceased abruptly and a man'shead appeared at the window. I speculated whether he was contemplatingself-destruction, but he vanished, to appear a moment later in thestreet, garmented in trousers, carpet-slippers and undershirt and armedwith 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 stonespicked up in Brazil or the Cape Colony. Some are hopelessly flawed,while others need but patient grinding to develop into diamonds of thefirst water.

  Nearly a half an hour had gone by, and I had seated myself upon therailing, in a position once dear to me when I shared a fence with SadieBriggs, aged fourteen, and thought that the ultimate had come to me inthe way of love and passion. Fortunate Sadie! She afterwards married ablacksmith and did her duty to the world by raising a large family,while I pounded typewriter keys and wrote of imaginary loves, inshirt-sleeves and slippers, lucky in the egotistic peace of the enviablemortal responsible for no human being's bread and butter 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 solong. Our little darling was sleeping ever so comfy, like a blessedangel, and we sat down, while Madame Boivin rested from her ironing, andwe just talked about starch and cockroaches and things, and then Paulawoke and we were afraid he might cry in the street and it was nearlytime anyway and--and he was ever so greedy. And now he's sleepingagain."

  I reflected that, gastronomically, Master Paul had probably enjoyedhimself better than ourselves. He had not been hurried. His little lipshad not been scalded, nor had he been compelled to hasten over a_ravigote_ that should have been eaten in seemly leisure and respect. Iwished he had been able to realize the compensations he was getting nowfor whatever might come later on. For him I trust there will be littleof sorrow, and yet there must be some, since pain and shadow areindispensable, in this world, to the appreciation of light and of ease.

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

  On the steps leading to the front door of Mrs. Milliken's refuge nearlyall the lodgers were assembled, taking the cool of the evening. The twogirls who sold candy clamored for a view of little Paul. The old ladylooked at us in stern disapproval and said the baby should have been inbed for hours. The landlady, mindful of her interests, maintained aneutral attitude. One of the young men assured Mrs. Dupont that her babywas a corker.

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

  This individual bowed to the ladies, keeping a large black cigar in thecorner 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 myhands behind my back in his presence. We declined an invitation to sharethe steps and went upstairs, where Mrs. Dupont, after putting the babydown on the lounge, came to me with both hands extended.

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

  So we parted, and I went to my room and put on my old slippers, feelingthat I had also enjoyed a pleasant couple of hours. Frances Dupont saysthat 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 pagesand 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, whichtheir faces always show? I always have to try and put myself in theplace of folks I write about. The other day I told this to McGrath, buthe answered that I had evidently done so in regard to the mule I havespoken of and had failed, later on, to throw off the disguise. Of courseI laughed. The real test of true friendship is the ability to call theother chap names, with a smile on one's lips and affection in one'sheart.

  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 shewill have a good sleep. Well, good-by, Dave. Ever so much obliged toyou."

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

  A few more days passed and the Monday came, and be it said to my shamethat I was sound asleep when Mrs. Dupont started away with little Paulto keep her engagement. When I awoke, I reproached myself for havingfailed to be on hand to speed her on her journey and wish her goodluck. She had gone out all alone with her child to confront the problemof keeping body and soul together, poor girl.

  Early in the afternoon I had to go over to Brooklyn and view the ErieBasin, because my story unfortunately required the blind man to fallinto it and be saved by the main girl, and I pride myself upon someaccuracy of description. The result, if I remember correctly, wascondensed into a score of lines which, if I got two cents a word forthem, would leave a slight profit after paying carfare and increasingthe small sum of my knowledge. Also, I had become acquainted with agentleman on a canal boat, who grew geraniums and bachelor's buttons ina box on deck. He showed me his pleasant cabin and introduced me to hiswife. The man was leading a peaceful life of leisurely travel, one thatoffered many possibilities. I imagined myself drifting along thetranquil borders of canals, edged with lush grasses 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 abouther 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 ofillness, the garment of pain. She had entirely recovered and, since Icould bring no solace of her troubles, I no longer had the right tointrude upon her, even by knocking at her door. Normal life had claimedher again, pitiless for her infirmities of voice and heart. She wasworking now to earn the bread that would permit her to live for herchild. Her existence was her own, and the freedom of her privacy. Allthat 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 tome 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 suchfertilizing dust would be replaced by a new interest given a life thatwas sometimes dull, by an occasionally tired brain made younger andmayhaps stronger through contact with a fresh young creature. All thisshe could proffer, but I had no right to beg for it. 'Twould have beenlike 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 mycalabash, setting myself very determinedly to the task of reading andpuffing away my unseemly curiosity and, I am afraid, failing dismally. Iwas wondering how Gordon had behaved towards her and whether she hadfound the task a hard and ungrateful one? Was she already thinkingwearily about having to return there on the morrow?

  Frieda, as a hundred times before, presently appeared to my rescue. Ihave not the slightest doubt that her curiosity was fully as keen asmine, 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 onthe landing, heard her quick knock at the door, and was left again tocogitate, while I put down my pipe and laid the book aside. Frieda canalways be relied on.

  Fifteen minutes later she penetrated my den.

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

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

  "You might have tried to find out."

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

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