One evening when Andy Donovan went to dinner at his Second Avenue
boarding-house, Mrs. Scott introduced him to a new boarder, a young
lady, Miss Conway. Miss Conway was small and unobtrusive. She wore a
plain, snuffy-brown dress, and bestowed her interest, which seemed
languid, upon her plate. She lifted her diffident eyelids and shot one
perspicuous, judicial glance at Mr. Donovan, politely murmured his
name, and returned to her mutton. Mr. Donovan bowed with the grace and
beaming smile that were rapidly winning for him social, business and
political advancement, and erased the snuffy-brown one from the tablets
of his consideration.
Two weeks later Andy was sitting on the front steps enjoying his cigar.
There was a soft rustle behind and above him, and Andy turned his
head—and had his head turned.
Just coming out the door was Miss Conway. She wore a night-black dress
of _crêpe de_—_crêpe de_—oh, this thin black goods. Her hat was black,
and from it drooped and fluttered an ebon veil, filmy as a spider’s
web. She stood on the top step and drew on black silk gloves. Not a
speck of white or a spot of color about her dress anywhere. Her rich
golden hair was drawn, with scarcely a ripple, into a shining, smooth
knot low on her neck. Her face was plain rather than pretty, but it was
now illuminated and made almost beautiful by her large gray eyes that
gazed above the houses across the street into the sky with an
expression of the most appealing sadness and melancholy.
Gather the idea, girls—all black, you know, with the preference for
_crêpe de_—oh, _crêpe de Chine_—that’s it. All black, and that sad,
faraway look, and the hair shining under the black veil (you have to be
a blonde, of course), and try to look as if, although your young life
had been blighted just as it was about to give a hop-skip-and-a-jump
over the threshold of life, a walk in the park might do you good, and
be sure to happen out the door at the right moment, and—oh, it’ll fetch
’em every time. But it’s fierce, now, how cynical I am, ain’t it?—to
talk about mourning costumes this way.
Mr. Donovan suddenly reinscribed Miss Conway upon the tablets of his
consideration. He threw away the remaining inch-and-a-quarter of his
cigar, that would have been good for eight minutes yet, and quickly
shifted his center of gravity to his low cut patent leathers.
“It’s a fine, clear evening, Miss Conway,” he said; and if the Weather
Bureau could have heard the confident emphasis of his tones it would
have hoisted the square white signal, and nailed it to the mast.
“To them that has the heart to enjoy it, it is, Mr. Donovan,” said Miss
Conway, with a sigh.
Mr. Donovan, in his heart, cursed fair weather. Heartless weather! It
should hail and blow and snow to be consonant with the mood of Miss
Conway.
“I hope none of your relatives—I hope you haven’t sustained a loss?”
ventured Mr. Donovan.
“Death has claimed,” said Miss Conway, hesitating—“not a relative, but
one who—but I will not intrude my grief upon you, Mr. Donovan.”
“Intrude?” protested Mr. Donovan. “Why, say, Miss Conway, I’d be
delighted, that is, I’d be sorry—I mean I’m sure nobody could
sympathize with you truer than I would.”
Miss Conway smiled a little smile. And oh, it was sadder than her
expression in repose.
“‘Laugh, and the world laughs with you; weep, and they give you the
laugh,’” she quoted. “I have learned that, Mr. Donovan. I have no
friends or acquaintances in this city. But you have been kind to me. I
appreciate it highly.”
He had passed her the pepper twice at the table.
“It’s tough to be alone in New York—that’s a cinch,” said Mr. Donovan.
“But, say—whenever this little old town does loosen up and get friendly
it goes the limit. Say you took a little stroll in the park, Miss
Conway—don’t you think it might chase away some of your mullygrubs? And
if you’d allow me—”
“Thanks, Mr. Donovan. I’d be pleased to accept of your escort if you
think the company of one whose heart is filled with gloom could be
anyways agreeable to you.”
Through the open gates of the iron-railed, old, downtown park, where
the elect once took the air, they strolled, and found a quiet bench.
There is this difference between the grief of youth and that of old
age: youth’s burden is lightened by as much of it as another shares;
old age may give and give, but the sorrow remains the same.
“He was my fiance,” confided Miss Conway, at the end of an hour. “We
were going to be married next spring. I don’t want you to think that I
am stringing you, Mr. Donovan, but he was a real Count. He had an
estate and a castle in Italy. Count Fernando Mazzini was his name. I
never saw the beat of him for elegance. Papa objected, of course, and
once we eloped, but papa overtook us, and took us back. I thought sure
papa and Fernando would fight a duel. Papa has a livery business—in
P’kipsee, you know.”
“Finally, papa came ’round, all right, and said we might be married
next spring. Fernando showed him proofs of his title and wealth, and
then went over to Italy to get the castle fixed up for us. Papa’s very
proud, and when Fernando wanted to give me several thousand dollars for
my trousseau he called him down something awful. He wouldn’t even let
me take a ring or any presents from him. And when Fernando sailed I
came to the city and got a position as cashier in a candy store.”
“Three days ago I got a letter from Italy, forwarded from P’kipsee,
saying that Fernando had been killed in a gondola accident.”
“That is why I am in mourning. My heart, Mr. Donovan, will remain
forever in his grave. I guess I am poor company, Mr. Donovan, but I
cannot take any interest in no one. I should not care to keep you from
gayety and your friends who can smile and entertain you. Perhaps you
would prefer to walk back to the house?”
Now, girls, if you want to observe a young man hustle out after a pick
and shovel, just tell him that your heart is in some other fellow’s
grave. Young men are grave-robbers by nature. Ask any widow. Something
must be done to restore that missing organ to weeping angels in _crêpe
de Chine_. Dead men certainly get the worst of it from all sides.
“I’m awfully sorry,” said Mr. Donovan, gently. “No, we won’t walk back
to the house just yet. And don’t say you haven’t no friends in this
city, Miss Conway. I’m awful sorry, and I want you to believe I’m your
friend, and that I’m awful sorry.”
“I’ve got his picture here in my locket,” said Miss Conway, after
wiping her eyes with her handkerchief. “I never showed it to anybody;
but I will to you, Mr. Donovan, because I believe you to be a true
friend.”
Mr. Donovan gazed long and with much interest at the photograph in the
locket that Miss Conway opened for him. The face of Count Mazzini was
one to command interest. It was a smooth, intelligent, bright, almost a
handsome face—the face of a strong, cheerful man who might well be a
leader among his fellows.
“I have a larger one, framed, in my room,” said Miss Conway. “When we
return I will show you that. They are all I have to remind me of
Fernando. But he ever will be present in my heart, that’s a sure
thing.”
A subtle task confronted Mr. Donovan,—that of supplanting the
unfortunate Count in the heart of Miss Conway. This his admiration for
her determined him to do. But the magnitude of the undertaking did not
seem to weigh upon his spirits. The sympathetic but cheerful friend was
the rôle he essayed; and he played it so successfully that the next
half-hour found them conversing pensively across two plates of
ice-cream, though yet there was no diminution of the sadness in Miss
Conway’s large gray eyes.
Before they parted in the hall that evening she ran upstairs and
brought down the framed photograph wrapped lovingly in a white silk
scarf. Mr. Donovan surveyed it with inscrutable eyes.
“He gave me this the night he left for Italy,” said Miss Conway. “I had
the one for the locket made from this.”
“A fine-looking man,” said Mr. Donovan, heartily. “How would it suit
you, Miss Conway, to give me the pleasure of your company to Coney next
Sunday afternoon?”
A month later they announced their engagement to Mrs. Scott and the
other boarders. Miss Conway continued to wear black.
A week after the announcement the two sat on the same bench in the
downtown park, while the fluttering leaves of the trees made a dim
kinetoscopic picture of them in the moonlight. But Donovan had worn a
look of abstracted gloom all day. He was so silent to-night that love’s
lips could not keep back any longer the questions that love’s heart
propounded.
“What’s the matter, Andy, you are so solemn and grouchy to-night?”
“Nothing, Maggie.”
“I know better. Can’t I tell? You never acted this way before. What is
it?”
“It’s nothing much, Maggie.”
“Yes it is; and I want to know. I’ll bet it’s some other girl you are
thinking about. All right. Why don’t you go get her if you want her?
Take your arm away, if you please.”
“I’ll tell you then,” said Andy, wisely, “but I guess you won’t
understand it exactly. You’ve heard of Mike Sullivan, haven’t you? ‘Big
Mike’ Sullivan, everybody calls him.”
“No, I haven’t,” said Maggie. “And I don’t want to, if he makes you act
like this. Who is he?”
“He’s the biggest man in New York,” said Andy, almost reverently. “He
can about do anything he wants to with Tammany or any other old thing
in the political line. He’s a mile high and as broad as East River. You
say anything against Big Mike, and you’ll have a million men on your
collarbone in about two seconds. Why, he made a visit over to the old
country awhile back, and the kings took to their holes like rabbits.
“Well, Big Mike’s a friend of mine. I ain’t more than deuce-high in the
district as far as influence goes, but Mike’s as good a friend to a
little man, or a poor man as he is to a big one. I met him to-day on
the Bowery, and what do you think he does? Comes up and shakes hands.
‘Andy,’ says he, ‘I’ve been keeping cases on you. You’ve been putting
in some good licks over on your side of the street, and I’m proud of
you. What’ll you take to drink?” He takes a cigar, and I take a
highball. I told him I was going to get married in two weeks. ‘Andy,’
says he, ‘send me an invitation, so I’ll keep in mind of it, and I’ll
come to the wedding.’ That’s what Big Mike says to me; and he always
does what he says.
“You don’t understand it, Maggie, but I’d have one of my hands cut off
to have Big Mike Sullivan at our wedding. It would be the proudest day
of my life. When he goes to a man’s wedding, there’s a guy being
married that’s made for life. Now, that’s why I’m maybe looking sore
to-night.”
“Why don’t you invite him, then, if he’s so much to the mustard?” said
Maggie, lightly.
“There’s a reason why I can’t,” said Andy, sadly. “There’s a reason why
he mustn’t be there. Don’t ask me what it is, for I can’t tell you.”
“Oh, I don’t care,” said Maggie. “It’s something about politics, of
course. But it’s no reason why you can’t smile at me.”
“Maggie,” said Andy, presently, “do you think as much of me as you did
of your—as you did of the Count Mazzini?”
He waited a long time, but Maggie did not reply. And then, suddenly she
leaned against his shoulder and began to cry—to cry and shake with
sobs, holding his arm tightly, and wetting the _crêpe de Chine_ with
tears.
“There, there, there!” soothed Andy, putting aside his own trouble.
“And what is it, now?”
“Andy,” sobbed Maggie. “I’ve lied to you, and you’ll never marry me, or
love me any more. But I feel that I’ve got to tell. Andy, there never
was so much as the little finger of a count. I never had a beau in my
life. But all the other girls had; and they talked about ’em; and that
seemed to make the fellows like ’em more. And, Andy, I look swell in
black—you know I do. So I went out to a photograph store and bought
that picture, and had a little one made for my locket, and made up all
that story about the Count, and about his being killed, so I could wear
black. And nobody can love a liar, and you’ll shake me, Andy, and I’ll
die for shame. Oh, there never was anybody I liked but you—and that’s
all.”
But instead of being pushed away, she found Andy’s arm folding her
closer. She looked up and saw his face cleared and smiling.
“Could you—could you forgive me, Andy?”
“Sure,” said Andy. “It’s all right about that. Back to the cemetery for
the Count. You’ve straightened everything out, Maggie. I was in hopes
you would before the wedding-day. Bully girl!”
“Andy,” said Maggie, with a somewhat shy smile, after she had been
thoroughly assured of forgiveness, “did you believe all that story
about the Count?”
“Well, not to any large extent,” said Andy, reaching for his cigar
case, “because it’s Big Mike Sullivan’s picture you’ve got in that
locket of yours.”