CHAPTER VIII
WE TAKE AN EXCURSION
The day was a hot one. In Gordon's studio a slight breeze had blown inand mingled with the scent of the flowers with which his table wasadorned, and the behavior of my collar had been of the best. The ladies,secure in the absence of starched things such as we men throttleourselves with, had been pictures of comfortable coolness. But in thestreet I plunged in an atmosphere of sodden heat and refused to obey theinstinct that usually leads me to walk whenever I am not pressed fortime. This happens often, for the productive hours of a writer are few,leaving many to be employed in alleged thoughts. Of these the mostharrowing lie in the fact that a laborer can dig for eight hours a day,whereas helplessness comes to me after writing a few pages.
I took the car, turning in my mind the observations I had made in thestudio. Several times I had heard Miss Van Rossum call my friend by hisfirst name, and the mother had manifested no surprise. They are probablyold acquaintances. I think he once told me that he had first met them inParis. For aught I know, however, he may have dandled her on his kneeswhen she was a child. The process now would be lacking in comfort, forshe outweighs him by a good thirty pounds. Her forearms seem larger andjust as hard as those of Frieda's pugilistic model. And then, Gordon isa misogynist and considers the feminine form divine from a chilly,artistic standpoint. From this I judged that Miss Van Rossum is a younglady who calls every man she meets two or three times by his first name.Gordon certainly doesn't mind it, but then, he got five thousand for theportrait, a sum that excuses some lack of formality.
The young woman's looks are undeniable. She's an utterly handsomecreature and, as far as I have been able to see, accepts the fact as shedoes the family fortune. It is something due to a Van Rossum, and she istoo ladylike to boast of such advantages. This serves to make her verysimple and natural. Like many of the mortals built on a generous scaleshe is good tempered. I wondered that she had asked so few questions inregard to the model of the picture she had seen. Practically, she hadcome, looked and turned away to the contemplation of scrambled eggs withtruffles, followed by squabs. True, she had inquired whether the babybelonged to the model. To Pygmalion his sculptured beauty came to life,but from the young lady's standpoint I think that the purchased beautythat is to be changed into limned or chiselled grace must be alreadyconsidered to have turned to paint or stone. If I had declared that amodel was probably a thing of pulsing blood and quivering nerves, it islikely that she would have opened her fine blue eyes in surprise. Butthen, most of us, subconsciously, are apt to feel that those we deembeneath us in position or talent or virtue can really possess but theoutward semblance of humanity.
The foregoing platitudes came to me, I think, because I actuallyresented the scanty attention they had paid to Frances. They had lookedat the "Mother and Child," and approved. The signature made it avaluable work of art and, as such, had awakened a polite interest. Butthen, after all, it was worth but a few thousand dollars, and a VanRossum couldn't very well go into ecstasies over an article of suchmoderate worth.
Poor Frances! She has come down to the rank of the women who standbehind counters till ready to drop; of those who toil in spite of achingheads and weary limbs. It is appalling to think of men by the millionconsidered as food for cannon, but it seems just as cruel on the part offate to designate women in equal numbers as carriers of burdens,destined for most of their lives to bear pain and weariness and theconstant effort to smile in spite of these.
And then, Frances is further punished on account of that little child.It hangs about her neck, a heavy treasure. She has fulfilled the mostglorious purpose of womanhood, and, for the time being, her reward liesin the fact that she can scarce find an occupation that will keep bodyand soul together. There is no room for sprouting manhood in workrooms,in offices, in any of the places wherein only the ripe are of avail tobe squeezed into the vintage of the prosperity destined to a few. Hergift of voice and her inheritance of beauty have served but to bringbitterness. Had she possessed a shrill voice and ordinary looks, therewould have been no going abroad, no love for a kindred artistic soul, notiny infant to weep over. By this time she might have been a niceschoolmarm, conscious of superiority over the small flock in her careand tranquil in the expectation of a modest salary. Also, there mighthave been dreams of a plush-covered parlor in a little home, some day,when honest John or Joe should at last decide to let her teach littlepupils of her own providing. I suppose that such dreams must come toall. Even the little cripple in the library, the other day, who waslooking at the fine girl who never noticed him, indulges in them, andwho shall say that they do not brighten some of his hours even if, atother times, they deepen his darkness.
Gordon seems to me like the only exception I know to the rule I havejust formulated. He has the brain of an artist, but the soul of anactuary, and, sometimes, I wish I were not so fond of him. The way hespeaks of Frances actually revolts me. For another week or two he may,perhaps, make use of her, forsooth! But he must not indulge suchweakness too long, for fear he may be considered as a man of one model.He has plucked the flower of her beauty and spread it on canvas,destined to bring forth admiration and dollars. But now, like squeezedout paint tubes and worn out brushes she may be discarded. He hasobliged me, and made a good speculation. Next week he will be playinggolf and cultivating damsels and dowagers who may desire immortality inpaint. On the putting-green he may obtain commissions, and in the tenniscourt inveigle some white-flanneled banker into leaving his facialcharacteristics to posterity. I could have forgiven him, if he had showna little real enthusiasm in his model and deplored his inability toemploy her further. After all, she has inspired him to greataccomplishment and he is a cold-blooded opportunist, in spite of ourmutual fondness. The last word I heard from him as he saw me to the doorwas a whispered one, as he jerked his head towards the studio, where wehad left the ladies.
"I'm going to do the old girl this fall," he said.
The man has put all of his art and wonderful taste into his picture ofFrances. Just as hard he will toil over the fat face of the good lady hethus disrespectfully alluded to. It may, perhaps, pay him better. Theman's temperature, if my young friend Porter took it, would probablyturn out to be that of a fish.
My thoughts made me forget the heat, but I arrived home in a dilapidatedstate of moisture and with a face thoroughly crimsoned. As soon as Ireached my room I changed my stiff shirt and collar for a softer andlighter garment of alleged silk, purchased at a bargain sale. When Icame out, Frances's door was opened and I looked in. She was sitting inthe armchair, with the baby in her lap, and the smile she greeted mewith could do little to conceal the fact that she had been a prey tounhappy thoughts.
"Isn't it hot?" I observed, with scant originality.
"It is dreadful," she answered, "and--and I wonder if Baby suffers fromit. Do you think he is looking pale?"
At once, I inwardly decided that he was. The idea would probably nothave entered my head without her suggestion, but an uneasy feeling cameover me, born probably of reading something in the paper about infantmortality. I took a blessed refuge in prevarication.
"He is looking splendidly," I told her. "But they take sick babies andgive them long jaunts out on the bay, with nurses and doctors. If thatsort of thing can cure an ailing infant, it must make a healthy one feellike a fighting-cock. Get ready, and we'll take the boat to Coney Islandand spend a couple of hours at sea. It will put better color in thelittle man's cheeks and do no harm to your own. I'm craving for thetrip, come along and hurry up!"
She began the usual objections, to which I refused any attentions. Isuspect I have a little of the bully in my nature. At any rate wesallied forth, soon afterwards, and went to the Battery, where wepercolated through the crowd into a couple of folding seats on the upperdeck.
"Oh! It is such a blessed relief," she said, after the boat had startedand made a breeze for us, since, on the water, none but the tiniestflaws rippled the surface. I called her attention to the remarkable
sight of Manhattan fading away behind us in a haze that softened thelines, till they appeared to be washed in with palest lavenders andpinks.
"The insolence of wealth and the garishness of its marts aredisappearing," I told her. "Our moist summer air, so worthless tobreathe and cruel to ailing babes, is gilding a pill otherwise oftenhard to swallow. All about us are people, most of whom live away fromthe splendors we behold. Some of them, like ourselves, burrow insemi-forgotten streets and some dwell on the boundary where humanityrather festers than thrives. They are giving themselves up to theenjoyment of a coolness which, an hour ago, appeared like anunrealizable dream. Let us do likewise."
Frances smiled at me, indulgently. Like all really good women, she hasan inexhaustible patience with the vagaries and empty remarks of a mereman. Women are more concerned with the practicalities of life. About usthe fairer sex was apparently in the majority and the discussionscarried on around us concerned garments, the price of victuals and theevil ways of certain husbands. Young ladies, provided with male escorts,sprinkled poetry, or at least doggerel, over the conversation of morestaid matrons. Their remarks and exclamations seldom soared to loftyheights, but in them there was always the undertone of present pleasureand anticipated joys. One thin little thing, who had mentioned aribbon-counter, looked up with something akin to awe at a broad-facedand pimply youth, who spoke hungrily of a potential feast of Frankfurtersausages. I have no doubt that to her he represented some sort of PrinceCharming. Close to her a buxom maiden addressed a timid-looking giant,all arms and legs, and described the bliss of shooting the chutes. Itwas evident that he aspired to the dignity and emoluments of a gaysuitor, but was woefully new or incompetent at the game. She was helpinghim to the best of her ability, with a perseverance and courageentitling her to my respect. In her companion she must have discernedthe makings of a possible husband or, at least, the opportunity topractise a talent of fascination she thinks ought not to lie fallow.
"And how is Baby Paul enjoying himself?" I asked my companion.
"For the time being, he is asleep," she answered, "and so, I suppose, ishaving an excellent time. He's an exceedingly intelligent child and ofthe happiest disposition. I'm sure he is aware that he has a mother tolove him, and that's enough to keep him contented."
"Of course," I assented. "That somewhere there is a good woman to lovehim is all that a baby or a grown man needs to know in order to enjoyperfect bliss. Those who are fortunate enough to reach such aconsummation are the elect of the world."
She looked at me with a smile, and I saw a question hanging on her lips.It was probably one I had heard very often. Frieda and some others, whenhard put to it for a subject of conversation, are apt to ask me why Idon't get married. I tell them that the only proof of the pudding is theeating and that, strangely enough, all the good wives I know are alreadywedded. Moreover, I know that very few women would deign to look withfavor upon me. I have always deemed myself a predestined bachelor, alover of other people's children and a most timid venturer amongspinsters.
Frances, however, permitted the question to go unasked, which showedmuch cleverness on her part. She recognized the obviousness of thesituation. As we went on, she gazed with admiration upon the yachts,many of which were lying becalmed, but picturesque. The big tramps atanchor awakened in her the wonder we all feel at the idea of sailing forfaraway shores where grow strange men and exotic fruits. Then, when thesteamer had turned around the great point of the island and her eyescaught the big open sea, I saw them filling, gradually. She was thinkingof the gallant lad who had fallen for his first and greatest mother.Recollections came to her of sailing away with him, with hopes andambitions rosier than the illumined shores before us, that were kissedby the sun under a thin covering veil of mist. She remembered the daysof her toil, rewarded at last by the ripening of her divine gift, andthe days of love crowned by the little treasure on her lap. But now, allthat had been very beautiful in her life was gone, saving the tiny oneto whom she could not even sing a lullaby and whose very livelihood wasprecarious.
I knew that when she was in this mood it was better to say nothing oreven appear to take no notice. Suddenly, a child running along the deckfell down, a dear little girl I ran to and lifted in my arms.Confidingly, she wept upon my collar which, fortunately, was a soft one.A broad shouldered youth made his way towards me.
"Hand her over, Mister," he said, pleasantly, "she's one o' mine."
He took the child from me, tenderly, and I looked at him, somewhatpuzzled, but instant recognition came to him.
"Say," he declared, breezily, "you's the guy I seen th' other day when Iwuz havin' me picture took."
He extended a grateful hand, which I shook cordially, for he was no lessa personage than Kid Sullivan, who would have been champion, but for hisdefeat. On my last call upon Frieda at her studio I had seen him in thelighter garb of Orion, with a gold fillet about his brow, surmounted bya gilt star. I bade him come with me, but a couple of steps away, towhere Frances sat, and I had left a small provision of chocolate drops.
"This," I said, "is my friend Mr. Sullivan. The child belongs to him,and I have come to see whether I cannot find consolation for her in thebox of candy."
Frances bowed pleasantly to him, and he removed his cap, civilly.
"Glad to meet ye, ma'am," he said. "Thought I'd take the wife and kidsover to the Island. The painter-lady found me a job last week. It's onlya coal wagon, but it's one o' them five-ton ones with three horses.They're them big French dappled gray ones."
I looked at Frances, fearing that this mention of his steeds might bringback to her the big Percherons of Paris, the omnibuses climbing theMontmartre hill or rattling through the Place St. Michel, that is thethrobbing heart of the Latin Quarter. But she is a woman, as I may havementioned a hundred times before this. Her interest went out to thechild, and she bent over to one side and took a little hand within hers.
"I hope you were not hurt," she said, tenderly.
At the recollection of the injury the little mouth puckered up for aninstant. Diplomatically, I advanced a chocolate and the crisis wasaverted.
"She's a darling, Mr. Sullivan," ventured Frances.
"Yes'm, that's what me and Loo thinks," he assented. "But you'd oughtersee Buster. Wait a minute!"
About ten seconds later he returned with a slightly bashful and verygirlish little wife, who struggled under the weight of a ponderousinfant.
"Mr. Cole, Loo," the Kid introduced me, "and--and I guess Mrs. Cole."
"No," I objected, firmly. "There is no Mrs. Cole. I beg to make youacquainted with Mrs. Dupont. Please take my chair, Mrs. Sullivan, youwill find it very comfortable. My young friend, may I offer you acigar?"
"I'm agreeable, sir," said the young man, graciously. "I've give up thering now, so I don't train no more."
The two of us leaned against the rail, while the women entered upon apleasant conversation. At first, Frances was merely courteous and kindlyto the girl with the two babies, but in a few minutes she wasinterested. From a fund of vast personal experience little Mrs.Sullivan, who looked rather younger than most of the taller girls onesees coming out of the public schools, bestowed invaluable informationin regard to teething. Later, she touched upon her experience in amillinery shop.
"I seen you was a lady, soon as I peeped at yer hat," she declared, in ahigh-pitched, yet agreeable, voice. "There's no use talking, it ain'tthe feathers, not even them egrets and paradises, as make a real hat.It's the head it goes on to."
As she made this remark, I stared at the youthful mother. She wasunconscious of being a deep and learned philosopher. She had stated adeduction most true, an impression decidedly profound. The hat was theblack one bought in Division Street, where the saleswomen come out onthe sidewalk and grab possible customers by the arm, so Frieda told me.
Frances smiled at her. In her poor, husky voice she used terms ofendearment to Mrs. Sullivan's baby. It was eleven months and two weeksold, we were informed, and, therefore, a hoary-headed veter
an ascompared to Baby Paul. Had they been of the same age, there might havebeen comparisons, and possibly some trace of envy, but in the presentcase there could be nothing but mutual admiration.
"Is you folks going ashore?" asked the Kid.
"We were thinking of remaining on the boat," I told him.
"Say, what's the matter with goin' on the pier and sittin' down for awhile? 'Tain't as cool as the boat, but it's better'n town, and thelater ye gets back, the cooler it'll be."
Mrs. Sullivan confirmed her husband's statements. I looked enquiringlyat Frances, who listened willingly to the words of experience. In a fewminutes we landed and found a comfortable seat.
Suddenly, as we were chatting pleasantly, there passed before us Mr.O'Flaherty, of the second floor back. He wore a cap surmounted bygoggles and an ample gray duster, and with him walked several otherlarge and florid-looking gentlemen. His eyes fell on Frances and thenupon me. I thanked goodness that her head was turned so that she couldnot possibly have seen the odious wink and the leer he bestowed upon me.
"Say," whispered Mr. Sullivan, in my ear. "D'ye see that big guy look atye? Made ye mad, didn't he? For two cents I'd have handed him one."
"My good friend," I whispered back, "none of us are beyond reach of thecoarse natured."
"That's so," he answered, "but a wallop in the jaw's good for 'em."
An hour later we took the boat back. The little girl slept all the wayhome, in her father's arms. Frances gazed dreamily on the water. LittleMrs. Sullivan sat on a chair very close to her husband, with the babysecure on her lap. Her head soon rested on the young prizefighter'sshoulder, and she dozed off. I am sure he endured exquisite discomfortwith pins and needles rather than disturb her.
And I, like a fool, worried on account of a man perpetually scented withgasoline and spotted with transmission grease who had taken the infernalliberty of winking at me because of my being with poor Frances, takingthe air on a proletarian pier.
"The world," Gordon had told me, one day, "utterly refuses to permit aman and woman to be merely good friends. Since the days of Noah's Ark,it has been recognized as an impossibility, and, therefore, society hasever frowned down upon any attempt in so foolish a direction."
I replied hotly that the world was evil-minded, at times, and heretorted that the world was all right, but some men were jackasses. Heremarked that Carlyle had been too lenient when he declared that hiscountrymen were mostly fools. But then, Carlyle was insular, after all,and unduly favored the inhabitants of his isle, as any British subjectwould. Nearly all men all over the world were fools, Gordon asserted.Coyotes and foxes had an instinctive dread of traps, but men walked intothem so innocently that merely to behold them was enough to drive a manto drink.
After all, I don't care what O'Flaherty and such cattle think! As longas I can save Frances, or any other good woman, from shedding one moretear than has been ordained for her, I shall do so. I refuse to beenvious of the intelligence of foxes and coyotes, and I will alwaysresent uncouthness and mean thoughts.
She looked rather tired when we came down the steps of the elevatedroad. I begged her to let me take Baby Paul in my arms, and she finallyconsented, after first declining. It did not awaken him, and we reachedthe house in becoming tranquillity. Some of our fellow lodgers were onthe steps and greeted us civilly. They were the three young men and thetwo girls. Thank goodness they appeared to be too unversed in thewickedness of this world to entertain such ideas as must have passedthrough the bullet-head of O'Flaherty!
* * * * *
On the next day, I went up to Gordon's studio, and I confess it was withthe purpose of looking again at that picture. He was superintending thepacking of his suit cases and a trunk. I told him something of myexperience, my indignation throbbing in my throat.
"You're a donkey, Dave," he consoled me. "What right or title have youto the belief that the millennium has come? I suppose the poor girl isentitled to some commiseration, for her troubles are in the nature of aseries of accidents and misfortunes which no one could foresee. Yours,on the other hand, are simply due to congenital feebleness of some partsof your gray matter. By-by, old fellow, my taxi's waiting for me!"