It was a weird ending to the night of Christmas romping for King
O’Leary, sitting breathless on an upturned box, his elbows on his
knees, chin in hand, staring through the dim shafts of light at the
two figures in the further corner--Dangerfield, limp and inert,
head and shoulders a confused shadow against the white, propped-up
pillows, with the lithe figure of the girl, straight as a young
spruce, waiting. From the time O’Leary had placed him in the great
four-poster bed, the man had not moved, while the heavy breathing,
slow and regular, was the only sound through the stillness in the
room. Against O’Leary the boxes rose in craggy somberness; a rug,
leaning against the wall in an elongated roll, stretched upward
like a climbing tree. Bits of sculpture, struggling groups of
single busts, peered down at him above heaped-up chairs and tables
in such confusion that, at times, he seemed to be moving through a
fantastic warehouse.
Doctor Baker was away, and in despair they had routed Mr. Dean out
of bed--the pale young man who was studying to be a veterinary. He
had come, perched on the bed like a shadowy crow, taken the pulse,
listened to Inga, and departed, after a wise caressing of his chin,
without committing himself. Half an hour later, after a diligent
consultation of certain books, he slipped back and beckoned O’Leary
into the hall.
“The best thing is to let him sleep,” he said, with a
professionally satisfied air. “Give him all the sleep he can get.
Looks to me like nerves--and a touch--I’m not sure--but there are
certain indications--lips blue, and the way he went over--a touch
of heart-disease. Of course, it might be acute indigestion and
then, too, he has been hitting it up pretty hard----”
“I congratulate you,” said King O’Leary, who had a prejudice
against the profession, and who returned without imparting this
expert opinion.
At about three o’clock, as nearly as he could judge, Dangerfield
suddenly awoke, or at least seemed to awake, and sat bolt upright
in bed, staring directly at the girl. This silent confrontation
lasted a long moment; possibly in the darkness Dangerfield, if
he were truly awake and not in a semisomnambulistic state, was
staring at the girl with that startled animal intensity which had
characterized his first entrance. All at once she put out her hand
and said in a low, softly modulated voice:
“That’s enough; lie down again--go back to sleep.”
He did not respond immediately, and his eyes seemed to wander
apprehensively into the shadows, but at last, perhaps under the
pressure of her hand, he lay back. In a moment he began to stir and
toss, mumbling incoherently to himself. She leaned over, taking his
hand, and said something in gentle command, and presently he became
quiet, and his sleep from then on was untroubled.
Toward the first filtering in of the dawn, King O’Leary, dozing at
his post, woke up at a touch on his shoulder. It was Inga, looming
out of the mist that streaked the room, like a dweller from the
sea, one finger on her lips in warning, looking seriously down at
him from her sea-blue eyes and dark face. They tiptoed across the
room, looked a moment back at the unconscious figure on the bed,
and stole out, closing the door. In the hall, the dusty globe shone
sickly in the watery dawn.
“He’s all right now, I think,” she said, in a whisper. “It’s better
for us not to be there when he awakes.”
“I--I guess I fell asleep,” said King O’Leary awkwardly, a little
ashamed before the alert and young figure which showed no sign of
fatigue.
“You really didn’t need to be there,” she said, and he noticed
there was an awakened ring in her voice, as though a great joy or a
great test had come to her. “Better get a bit of sleep now.”
“And you?”
“Don’t worry about me.”
“I say, wouldn’t it be a good thing to lock him in--until later?”
“No, no,” she said with some emphasis; “never that--that sets
them crazy. Besides, he’d get out of the window and over the
roofs--there’s a way over the tenements. Then there _would_ be
trouble.”
He stared at her with a feeling that this was a situation not
entirely new to her, wondering many things. She felt the weight
of this curiosity, for she turned toward her door, but without
embarrassment, saying:
“Good night; thank you.”
“I say, will you tell me one thing?”
“What?”
She turned, her hand to the door, her back against it, drawing
her eyebrows together, and, for the first time, he noticed the
dark pools of wakefulness under her eyes, shadows that were not
unbecoming, but gave an expression of acute sensitiveness to the
fragile, dark oval of her face, which ordinarily was a little too
placid--like the unmarked stretch of new-fallen snow.
“Did you know him--before?” he said, with a jerk of his head toward
the corner studio.
She shook her head.
“But you know--at least you’ve got a guess--who he is?” he
persisted.
“Yes,” she said, after a moment’s consideration; “I think I know.”
Then she nodded and went in.
* * * * *
Everything remained deeply quiet until about ten o’clock in the
morning, when Dangerfield awoke, dressed himself in the discarded
evening clothes, put on his fur coat and top-hat, and went down
the hall, searching the inscriptions on each door until he arrived
at the room of Mr. Cornelius, where, oblivious to the appearance
of curious heads, he knocked loudly and entered. He was there
fully half an hour before he emerged, and, returning to his room,
closed and locked the door. What was said at this odd interview,
no one ever found out. The baron, instantly questioned, replied
that it was a matter which lay between them. He was in a high state
of excitement, seeming unaccountably younger and making fearful
blunders in English. His answer naturally served to increase the
curiosity of the Arcadians, already exceedingly intrigued--an
effect which was further heightened by the subsequent actions of
Dangerfield himself.
Hardly had the surprise of his visit to the baron in incongruous
attire died down, when he came out of his room shaved and properly
dressed, and went down the hall and out. Sassafras, who took him
down, vowed he looked just as natural as any one. At five o’clock
the same afternoon, as the three friends were discussing the one
topic, Dangerfield entered unexpectedly, and a curious thing
happened. He came in as he had the night before, without a word
of greeting, until he had stood quite a moment, with the same
startled, set look that an animal shows--a look of trying to take
in mentally, to comprehend something unaccustomed. This, however,
passed, and he came forward with outstretched hand and winning
smile.
“I am afraid I gave you quite a shock last night,” he said, and
then, evidently forgetting that introductions had taken place,
he added: “My name’s Dangerfield. Seeing that I am your next-door
neighbor, I hope I did not make too bad an impression.”
“This is free soil up here,” said Tootles cheerfully. “Nobody’s
business what anybody does.”
This answer must have raised a suspicion in the visitor’s mind, for
he was quiet a moment and presently asked:
“I am rather hazy as to last night. What happened?”
“Oh, there was quite a christening up here,” said Flick
sympathetically. “You stood around for a while like a statue of
Liberty and then went to sleep rather violently.”
“Did I do that?” said Dangerfield gloomily.
“Oh, don’t let that worry you,” said Flick, who seemed all at
once to realize that his past record debarred him from sitting in
judgment. “Thought you were damned dignified. Only, you gave the
skirts quite a scare.”
“I am sorry for that,” said Dangerfield gravely. He hesitated, and
added: “The fact is, I get doubled up occasionally. It’s a nervous
contraction that stiffens up my right side. It’s nothing to worry
about--there’s nothing really to be done. The only thing to do is
to stretch me out and let me come to. Did you notice that my right
arm was doubled up?” he asked, suddenly looking at King O’Leary.
“Why, yes; it seems to me it was,” O’Leary answered, looking down
at the floor, so as to avoid the other’s gaze.
“That’s it.”
Flick had it on his tongue to retort: “Old geezer, struck me you
were pickled,” but, for some reason, he restrained this impulse and
said instead:
“Lingering with us long?”
“I suppose so.”
“Going to sling some paint?”
“What?”
“You’re an artist, aren’t you?”
“Oh, yes.”
“What kind--cow, sea bathing or just green grass?”
Dangerfield looked at him a moment, and gradually a smile broke
through.
“I see. Well, I am only a portrait painter.”
“Like Tootles,” said Flick.
Dangerfield glanced at Tootles, who acknowledged this tribute by
bowing and saying with dignity, after making sure that no remnants
of Wimpfheimer & Goldfinch’s cartoons were visible:
“Quite right. I do portraits. My friend is one of the hopes of
literature. Mr. O’Leary draws harmonies from even a rented piano.”
“I hope you will take me in,” said Dangerfield, with his engaging
smile. “Perhaps we can get off to a better start.”
“You’re examining the impressive mural decoration to the left?”
said Tootles, following Dangerfield’s gaze, which had suddenly
fixed itself in fascinated surprise upon the sunset breaking over
the cañon of Colorado.
“Your work?”
“It’s not my work,” said Tootles firmly. “It belongs to the first
Hoboken period. Mr. Flick Wilder, the well-known art connoisseur,
collects such things. You may laugh,” he added, perceiving
Dangerfield’s eyes twinkling.
“That’s all right; but you should see the walls,” said Flick
defensively. “Well, how does it strike you--what do you think of
our little boudoir?”
“It’s great--it’s real,” said Dangerfield, with such genuine joy
that they all burst into laughter.
For half an hour he passed around, eager as a boy, examining
everything, marveling at the owls and the Chinese dragon, which
Flick called the “belly-light,” roaring with laughter over the
reconstruction of the Harlem bear which had so wantonly attacked
Flick, and gazing enraptured at the signs, the lodging box and the
allotted abodes of Literature and Art, giving his advice as to
the place to be assigned to Music, which was the present problem.
During all this time he entered into their moods with enthusiasm
and boyish glee as though nothing existed outside of the room, nor
a worry in the world. But all at once, without warning or apparent
cause, he lapsed back into his former moodiness, seemed to forget
them completely, and presently, with a sign to King O’Leary, rose
and left the room.
“Who took me into my room last night?” he asked, when King O’Leary
had followed him into the hall.
“I did.”
“By yourself?”
“Yes; and you were some load,” said O’Leary cheerfully.
Dangerfield was silent a moment, his glance wandering up and down
the hall. Finally he asked, after a delay so long that O’Leary had
grown tired of waiting:
“I have an impression--was any one else with you?”
“Yes, there was--”
“A woman?” he interrupted.
O’Leary nodded.
“I thought so,” he said, with a sort of sigh of relief. Presently
he added, but with less curiosity, “Who was it?”
“Girl across the way from you--Miss Sonderson. She happened along
just as you keeled over. No one knows much about her, only she
seemed to be able to handle you in first-rate style.”
“How long was she there?”
“_We_ spent the night, thank you,” said O’Leary, who had begun to
be impatient for some signs of gratitude to appear.
“She lives here--you’re sure?” said Dangerfield, looking at him
intently.
“Sure; opposite to you. Look for yourself,” said King O’Leary with
some irritation.
Dangerfield gave him a second glance, and then went slowly to Inga
Sonderson’s door and bent over the card carefully.
“Yes; that’s right,” he said, nodding, and went into his room, as
though that were, the only point to be settled.
“Well, you certainly are a queer rooster,” said King O’Leary to
himself, so perplexed that he remained scratching his head. The
door opened, and Dangerfield reappeared, coming toward him with
extended hand.
“Please forgive me. What I wanted to say--what I came in to say,
was to thank you.”
“Oh, forget it!” said O’Leary, instantly mollified. He felt the
grasp of the other man’s hand, and liked him better for its free,
powerful hug.
“I am not--not quite myself these days,” said Dangerfield, with
boyish frankness. “Don’t mind what I do--and I hope we will be good
friends.”
As he said this, there came a look of pain across the eyes, a look
of inward distress that struck O’Leary, who went back into the
studio, however, without response.
The man had a sense of authority, as he had authority himself,
and there was perhaps in King O’Leary’s heart a shade of jealousy
that the memory of Inga Sonderson and the way she had gone to his
assistance did not serve to lessen. When he entered, his first
question showed in what direction his curiosity had gone.
“What do you know about that Sonderson girl?”
“Lady Vere de Vere?” began Tootles.
“She’s not that,” said King O’Leary gruffly. “She’s the real stuff.
Well, what do you know about her, Flick?”
“About as much as you, old life-guard.”
“I believe,” said Tootles, who assumed his English manner to
show that his feelings were ruffled, “that there was a bit of an
attachment between her and that chap, Champeno--queer beggar, and
shockingly wild. How far it went, I really could not say. We hadn’t
organized the Sixth Floor Social Club in those days, and the most
we chaps did was to remark it was hot when it was hot, and cold
when it was cold, and there you are!”
“Tootles,” said Flick severely, “put the cold soup, the cold turkey
and the cold pig upon the table.” And turning to King O’Leary, he
said. “Well, what do you think of Dangerfield? How do you make him
out?”
“Haven’t made up my mind yet,” said King O’Leary shortly.
“What _is_ wrong with him?” said Tootles, from the provision-box.
“Booze!” said Flick, in virtuous condemnation.
“Not entirely,” said King O’Leary, shaking his head. “I’ve seen a
lot of booze-fighters, and helped tuck some of them underground,
but I never saw any rum hound just like this guy.”
“Maybe he’s murdered some one,” said Tootles cheerfully.
“That would be more like it.”
“Well, I think he’s a nut,” said Flick.
“And I think he’s one corker!” said Tootles enthusiastically.
“‘Corker’ is not English, Art,” said Flick.
“Quite right, old boy. I consider him a jolly good chap,” said
Tootles. “We’d better have the girls in; we never can eat all
this.”
At this moment there came a determined pounding on the wall.
“What’s that?” said Flick, startled.
“Madame Probasco’s spirits,” said Tootles, who always took an
extreme view.
“Why, it’s Schneibel!” said King O’Leary, listening to the
knocking, which was repeated with more insistence.
They rushed around and found the dentist doubled up on the sofa
betwixt rage and pain, gasping,
“Dot lobster--oh, dot lobster salad!”
“That’s true,” said Flick, in a whisper. “He ate half the salad; I
saw him.”
While Tootles ran off in search of Dean, O’Leary and Flick gazed,
fascinated, at the unfortunate man, who, between his fury and his
agony, had turned an orange red.
Young Mr. Dean arrived, and immediately began to explore for
symptoms of appendicitis, showing that whatever his present
incapacity, he had at least mastered the economic theory of
medicine.
“No, no; it ain’t de appendix, it’s de lobster--de damned lobster
an’ de pistache ice-cream--”
“Has he eaten that combination?” said the pale young man, who,
from the last twenty-four hours’ experience, had begun to form a
professional manner.
“And more,” said Flick.
“Then that is probably the cause,” said the sub-doctor regretfully,
at which Schneibel howled out an oath, roaring:
“Don’ tell vat it is! Stop it; for God’s sake, stop it!”
“But how will we stop it?” said King O’Leary.
Thus confronted, Mr. Dean looked very solemn and introspective,
while the others waited.
“Well?” said Flick.
“If he were a horse,” said the sub-doctor pensively, “I think I’d
bleed him.”
“Throw him oudt--throw dot chump oudt!” cried Schneibel, who rose
up in such wrath that Mr. Dean whisked away.
King O’Leary had the happy idea to resort to Miss Quirley, who
came, applied a hot-water bottle and dosed him from three small
blue bottles so efficaciously that in half an hour the storm was
over.
They sat down with the assistance of the others to vanquish the
cold remnants and to plan a party which would complete the one that
had been so rudely interrupted.
In the middle of the meal, King O’Leary, who had been singularly
silent, rose without explanation, searched a moment in his trunk,
which was stowed behind the second Japanese atrocity, and left the
room.
He went rapidly down the hall until he had covered two-thirds of
the way to Miss Sonderson’s room. Then he slowed down abruptly,
hesitated, went on, listened and finally knocked. Instantly the
door was half opened and the girl appeared, lifting her eyes in
wonder.
“Here,” said King O’Leary, shoving forth a little package carefully
wrapped and inscribed “A Merry Christmas.”
“What is it?” she said, noticing the confusion in his eyes.
“From the Christmas party last night,” he said awkwardly. “This was
on the tree for you. Every one got something--please take it. And
say--what I wanted to tell you is--my hat’s off to you! Honest, I
think you’re a wonder!”
Before she could answer, he had actually blushed, wheeled clumsily,
and gone hastily back.