One evening, the third after the party, Dangerfield came stamping
into the Arcade, shaking from him the snow that lay clinging to
his ulster. Inga Sonderson was already in the elevator, but beyond
one of his characteristic, set looks, he paid no attention to her,
to the active amazement of Sassafras, who stared hopefully from
one to the other. Dangerfield was evidently in one of his worst
moods, with furrowed lower face and brooding, far-distant glance.
At the sixth floor he started to bolt out, and then, aware of her
presence, drew back hastily, saying,
“I--I beg your pardon.”
“Thank you, Mr. Dangerfield,” she said, and inclined her head.
He started at the name, whirled about, and peered at her as she
stood waiting for him to open the conversation. Then all at once he
went past her rapidly, and was at his own door, with the key in the
lock, before he became aware that she was back of him. He wheeled
abruptly, stared at her, and in a moment came toward her curiously.
“Are you--I--I forget the name,” he said, after a moment’s attempt
to recall it. “Are you the girl who took care of me--that night?”
She turned under the glare of the hall light, the snow glistening
on her ulster where it had settled, her cheeks tingling, the dainty
upper lip quivering with a faint smile.
“I suppose I am.”
It was characteristic of him that he did not at once thank
her, but continued gazing down into the unfathomable eyes, now
black-blue as the wintry sea.
“Why did you do it?” he said gruffly.
She leaned back, as though withdrawing defensively before his
looming inspection, and the door swung open on the darkness of the
studio, with its wan, gray spread above where the snow was sifting
against the skylight.
“Some one had to--didn’t they?”
The voice, though not a cultured one, had something peculiarly
soothing and pleasant in its low modulation that caught his ear and
left him with the desire to listen further.
“I have seen you before, haven’t I?”
She shook her head.
“That’s strange--seemed to me I had,” he muttered, looking at her
again so intently and so long that at last she repeated to recall
him,
“No; never.”
“You have never posed for me?”
“I don’t pose.”
“What?” He looked startled. “Oh, I beg your pardon.”
“No offense. I shouldn’t mind,” she said, smiling. “Well, good
night.”
“Wait.” He held out his hand, and she gave hers directly. “I have
to thank you very deeply--though I don’t know at all why you should
have done it,” he said, shaking his head as though seeking from her
the answer.
Her shoulders moved in a little deprecatory gesture.
“It’s just my way--that’s all.”
He continued to hold her hand, looking at her as though he were
straining his eyes to distinguish some object in the fog. She did
not attempt to draw her hand away, as most women would, rather
taken with this brusqueness and assumption that was, at heart,
unconscious.
“Something restful about you--your voice, and the touch of your
hand,” he said, as though to himself. “I remember now--that night.
I thought it was an hallucination. Yes; I remember you now, quite
distinctly--and the sound of your voice.” He added abruptly: “You
haven’t told me your name.”
“Inga Sonderson.”
He repeated it.
“Really? Sounds like the sea rolling in--curious name. You’re not
American?”
“I was born here.”
“Shouldn’t have thought it.”
At this moment a door opened down the hall, and, recalled to
himself, he frowned, looked down, seemed suddenly to perceive that
her firm, slender hand lay in his huge spreading one, and said
hastily:
“Well, thank you, anyhow.”
He went into his room without having shown anything more than a
little wonder, a starting curiosity, and much kindliness.
They did not meet again for several days. He made no attempt to
advance the acquaintance, which was perhaps what led her to take
the next step.
During this time, the Arcadians saw little of Dangerfield, though
they knew of his presence by the unusual coming and going of men
such as were rare visitors in those sequestered halls; men of
that outer world that lies bound between the iron confines of the
elevated and lives from Madison Square to the park. In particular
there was one man who arrived in a resplendent car, accompanied by
a young clerk with a black brief-bag under his arm. At such times
loud voices rose in argument, and they could hear the restless
fall of Dangerfield’s feet tramping the room. After these visits
he would disappear, returning late in the night, unseen. At other
times, at any hour, midnight or dawn, he would start from his
studio and begin pacing up and down the hall in slippered feet that
made a dismal, sifting iteration in the wee hours. Once, after
quite a group had been in the studio, and the conversation had gone
into such a high pitch that Tootles had heard him cry, against some
lower-pitched remonstrance, “He’ll do it--by God, he’ll do it!”
Dangerfield was left in such a state of excitement that he passed
Flick in the hall literally without seeing him, his eyes absolutely
blinded to objects about him, as though filled with the obsession
of distant figures. That night he came in late, and wandered up and
down the hall until almost four o’clock in the morning. Whether he
was drunk or sober they had no way of telling--only twice, directly
outside their door, in startling contrast to his silent moods, they
heard him swearing to himself. It was not the oaths themselves,
but the stark savagery with which he ripped them out that caused
Tootles to whisper to Flick:
“Literature, it’s not nice to swear like that. It makes my blood
run cold.”
“What the deuce is he going through?” said Flick, in wonder.
“Hell of some sort,” said Tootles laconically. “Suppose the
Christian thing is to promenade with the chap.”
“Let him alone,” said King O’Leary, who had waked up also. “Fellows
like that aren’t in the mood for coddling.”
Immediately the sifting slip-slip ceased. Probably Dangerfield
had heard the sound of their voices and retired. At any rate,
he had waked up the whole floor and scared Miss Quirley almost
into hysterics. No one, however, reported the disturbance, though
each had been gruesomely affected. There seemed to be a tacit
understanding that the man was passing through some crisis and
should be left alone.
One person, however, took active interest in all Dangerfield’s
movements--the Portuguese-Yankee, Drinkwater, who was always
prowling down toward that end of the floor. Twice, when conferences
had been going on in the corner studio, Inga Sonderson had found
him outside her door, ostensibly seeking a view of the snow-capped
roofs of the tenements that rolled grimly toward the river. Each
time he had mumbled some excuse and unwillingly shifted away.
Meanwhile, the boxes still encumbered the passage, while within the
studio the same heaped-up disorder must have prevailed.
Matters were thus when, on New Year’s eve, Inga Sonderson returned
to the Arcade after a solitary supper at the Childs restaurant on
the avenue. She had no sooner turned the hall than down the somber
stretch she noticed with surprise a brilliant swath of light. She
went on, wondering what this could portend, for since their chance
meeting, she had not laid eyes on her neighbor. Through the opening
of his studio door she could see boxes, furniture and bric-à-brac
piled toward the ceiling like wreckage washed against the shore.
At the grating of her key in the lock, Dangerfield loomed into the
door-frame, dressed for the street, and saw her, with a swift,
appealing light in the storm-ridden face.
“Come in,” he said, without preliminaries, as though he had been
waiting in desperation for her return.
She rather liked this abruptness, so devoid of male coquetry,
instinctively warned that the man must have called to her in his
need. He had returned into the studio, as though sure of her
coming. She entered, closed the door, and found him by the window
that gave on the misery of the tenements, seated in a chair, his
back bent, his fists doubled up and pressed under his chin.
“Talk to me,” he said, in abrupt demand.
She stood a little away from him, looking down at his suffering,
divining the forces of doubt and despair wrestling within his soul.
In the midst of the surging confusion of the studio, they were in a
shallow clearing. She went over and laid her hand on his shoulder,
holding it there until she forced him to look up.
“Let me help,” she said quietly.
The sound of her voice seemed to arrest his attention. He turned
restlessly, his hand closing over her wrist.
“Bad night?”
He nodded, and his eyes wandered from her. All at once he rose with
a great breath, stretched out his arms, and then, with a brusque
turn, came back, looking at her with even a touch of suspicion in
his eyes.
“Why do you want to?”
What thoughts might have been in his mind were dispelled by the
frankness of her answer.
“Because you need help--don’t you?” she said, her eyes never
swerving under the shock of his stare, that was not easy to
encounter.
“Take off your hat.”
She saw that it was his curiosity that had been aroused, and lifted
her two arms in that wholly feminine gesture which seems to accord
the first note of intimacy to the man who witnesses it. He stared
at her more intently, with the eye of the artist, quick to note
values--the massed blacks of her hair and the odd contrast of the
sea-blue eyes against the brown oval of her face that gave to the
little teeth, when she smiled her serious smile, the lustrous flash
of milky porcelain.
“No; that’s true,” he said abruptly.
“What?” she asked, after a moment’s waiting.
“You’ve never posed for me.”
“Do you want me to?”
“No, no; that’s all over,” he said moodily; and, as though the
allusion had been unfortunate, he turned from her, bumping against
the corner of a chest which protruded.
“Great Heavens! What a horror--what a nightmare of a hole!” he
said, gazing about him.
“Then why not fix it up?”
If he heard the question he did not answer it, staring glumly into
the disorder, his fist doubled against his teeth, biting at his
nails, a convulsive, aggressive gesture characteristic of him.
“Let’s unpack things and fix up the studio,” she repeated.
He shook his head, plainly annoyed, and, after a moment, came back,
as though some gust of emotion had whirled through him and left a
lull of fatigue.
“Talk to me,” he said, sinking down limply. “Tell me about
yourself.” But immediately he broke in upon his own mood, saying
abruptly: “So you think I am down and out, don’t you?”
“No--I don’t think that,” she said gently. “That’s what _you_
think.”
“Well, I am,” he said vehemently. “Do you know what’s wrong?” he
added sharply, and, as she continued to watch him, he laughed and
said: “No, no; I won’t tell you that. Find out.”
She laid her hand on his shoulder again, to still the rising
excitement in his voice.
“Why didn’t you call me before?”
“Curious voice you have,” he said, without attention to her
question, in his haphazard jumping way. “Wish you’d go on talking.
It makes me drowsy--feeling of green fields, little swishing
brooks, and multitudes of silver leaves sweeping the skies. I love
your voice.”
“Let me take care of you to-night.”
“Why, what would you do?” he said, jerking up his head.
“Let’s start right by making a home out of this.”
“A home?”
The allusion was unfortunate, for he broke into a laugh, starting
up and seizing her arm, while the excitement seemed to pile up
within him.
“No, no; I’ll tell you what I’m going to do a night like this. I’m
going to break loose--stop this eternal, maddening fighting to hold
myself in--give way!” His voice had risen into rapid, shrill notes,
and she noticed that his eyes had taken on the unseeing shimmer.
“Give way--give way! Stop living as others want you--let the world
roar about you. What’s it matter--whom does it hurt--who cares the
slightest?”
He seized his hat, and, turning toward her, flung an arm around
her, holding her to him as though to sweep her up and out in his
breathless progress.
“Will you do that? Just to-night? Just for one night? Will you
follow me to-night?”
“No, I will not,” she said firmly, though into her eyes leaped
something untamed at the gusty, wild embrace in which he had caught
her. “And you won’t go, either.”
“I won’t?” he said, laughing boisterously, looking down into her
eyes that were so close to his. “That’s a good one! You think you
can change me, do you? Well, you’ll see!”
He let go of her, and was starting toward the door when she said
quickly,
“You’re right--do as you please.”
“Of course I shall,” he said angrily. Then a new thought seemed to
strike him. He hesitated, came back on tiptoe, and said, with a
curious smile:
“Aren’t you just a little bit afraid of me?”
“No; I am not afraid of you,” she said, and she kept her eyes on
his so intently that, in a moment, his glance went away.
“Well, I’ll tell you something,” he said, in a whisper; “I am
afraid of myself.”
He allowed her, without further resistance, to take his hat and
draw off his coat.
At this moment, the sound of voices and the crashing chords of a
piano broke in incongruously upon their mood.
“What’s that?” he said, startled.
“The studio next door,” she said. “They’ve gathered to see the old
year out, I suppose.”
Down the hall they heard Flick calling:
“Every one this way! Greatest social function of the year!”
Then the sound of knocking, an imperative personal summons. She
passed swiftly to the button and extinguished the light. Through
the window a pale shadow made Dangerfield just discernible. She
felt her way back and sat down near him, with a whispered caution
to silence. Tootles’ and Schneibel’s voices could be heard outside
in consultation.
“Oh, Miss Sonderson!”
“She’s oudt.”
“Thought I heard her coming back.”
The door of the room where they were shivered, and Tootles cried:
“I say there, friend Dangerfield, foregather!”
She put her hand quickly over his wrist to check a response. The
knock was repeated.
“He’s oudt, too,” said Schneibel. “Can’t you see, you chump, dere’s
no light?”
“My, but he’ll be off on a record bat to-night!”
“Well, you just bet he will.”
They moved away, and in the obscurity, Dangerfield began to laugh,
a bitter, gloomy laugh.
“Don’t!” she said sharply.
Across the wall, O’Leary’s powerful hands awoke the piano. Sitting
side by side, they heard laughter and the sounds of dancing. The
man at Inga’s side was silent again. Music and the shuffling
iteration of the dance seemed to act in a soothing way upon his
nerves. He began to talk in a low, matter-of-fact voice, with a
curious gift he had, even in the most soul-racking moments, of
standing off and looking back at himself.
“How extraordinary to be ending the year like this! Last year and
this! Up here, marooned, lost--ended! I certainly have seen queer
turns in my life. Well, the last phase, and then _Bonsoir_--
“_La vie est brève:
Un peu d’espoir,
Un peu de rêve,
Et puis bonsoir!_”
“Do you understand French?”
“No.”
“What I like about you,” he said irrelevantly, “is you don’t ask
questions.”
“No; I never do.”
“That’s right,” he said, and, as though unconscious of her
presence, he began to talk to himself in a sort of dreamy monotone
that had an odd contrast of melancholy against the background of
gaiety that came thrumming and throbbing from across the wall.
“Well, and, after all, we’re just children--all great cry-babies.
We can’t enjoy what we’ve got, or know how to keep it. We go out
and shoot ourselves or some one else--at least the great fools
do--because some one we don’t love and over whose life, after all,
we have no right, meets some one else who is bored. Work--work,”
he said, his thoughts flowing in some connection comprehensible
only to himself; “that’s the whole thing--the joy of working for
something, for something you hope to get--and when that’s gone----”
he stopped suddenly, continuing the thought in his own mind,
looking out of the window. “Well, even then, why should we cry out?
At least we don’t starve; we have a roof over our heads; we don’t
harness our bodies to grindstones just to keep on living. I wonder
which counts in the end--what _they_ do, or what we do?”
Evidently he was thinking of the hordes which spread away from
them in filthy blocks, for, after a long contemplation of the
snow-coated roofs, and the heavy, reddened pall of clouds which
caught the city’s reflection, he continued,
“Do you know what keeps them going--all of them--thousands on
thousands--just the same as us?”
“What?”
“Hope,” he said, with a laugh. “The hope that something wonderful
_may_ happen. They don’t know what it is. Poor devils, what
can _they_ hope for? But, you see, it may come. That’s where
destiny plays tricks with us--has its laugh at us. Good Lord,
how life plays with us, like a cat plays with a mouse! Hope!
That’s how it can get us to go on, to stand a little more--the
future--to-morrow--the thing you can’t guess.” He turned to her
again. “Do you understand?”
“Yes, I understand--to-morrow.”
“You don’t understand at all,” he said impatiently. “What would
you do if you knew, absolutely knew, that everything was over,
that all you had hoped for was impossible, that everything you had
been striving for--that nothing was to come of it, nothing--no
more illusions, no more dreams.” The last words seemed to stick in
his mind, for presently he began to grow more excited. “It’s the
dreaming that’s the best of all; and when that’s gone--when you
can’t lie back at night and dream to yourself of doing something
so great that the whole world comes crowding in to stare at it--a
‘Mona Lisa’ or a ‘Spring’ of Botticelli or----” He ended abruptly,
with a curious sound that was not quite a laugh but more a bitter
protest. “No, no--no more dreams, no more.”
On the other side of the wall the dancing had ended. With the
approach of the weakening hour when the old year would yield
its last breath, the company began to sing old-fashioned
ballads--“Kathleen Mavourneen” and “The Lass o’ Lowrie.” He seemed
suddenly to realize all that he had been revealing of the rebellion
in his soul, for he turned toward her in a sudden antagonism.
“Here, I don’t like your sitting there making me talk!”
“I’m not making you,” she said. “It’s you who wanted me to be by
you to-night.”
“That’s so,” he assented. He turned toward her with another touch
of that shrewd, half-smiling cunning which he had shown when he had
thought to frighten her before. “If you only knew----”
“That’s just what I don’t want,” she said quickly. “I don’t want to
know.”
“Really?” he said, drawing back to watch her.
“It isn’t necessary.”
This answer seemed to satisfy him, for he forgot her presently,
returning to the contemplation of the city below them.
“I suppose it’s almost time,” he said. “The whistles will be
blowing soon.”
From the adjoining studio came a chorus led by Schneibel’s shrill
tenor impetuously in advance:
“Should auld acquaintance be forgot,
And never brought to mind?
Should auld acquaintance be forgot,
And days o’ lang syne?”
Far out toward the river, a premature tug began a tiny whistle.
“How ridiculous that sounds!” he said irritably. Then, listening
intently to the repeated chorus, he seemed to be visualizing
another scene, for presently he said, with a touch of sadness, the
first he had displayed:
“They’ll be singing that pretty soon down by the marble fireplace
after the speech. Steingall, Quinny, the whole crowd--the
boys--perhaps--no, no; I guess not--‘auld acquaintance’--I
wonder----”
Outside, a great bell rang, and swift upon it another. All at once,
like a storm breaking, the night awoke with whistle, siren, and
clanging steeple--joyful, eager, perennially hopeful.
She bent toward him and laid her hand over his.
“A new chance.”
He stood up suddenly, as though at the limit of his tether, and
said between his teeth:
“By heavens, I _am_ going out! I can’t stand this.”
She rose silently, and turning, took his overcoat and held it up to
him--an action so unexpected that he looked at her in surprise.
“Thought you didn’t want me to----”
“I was wrong. You have a right to do anything you want.”
He nodded appreciatively, and said suddenly, as though in excuse:
“I can’t help it; I can’t--I tell you, I can’t. I’ve got to get
out.”
“Don’t explain,” she said quietly. “Don’t get excited; and when you
come in, call me.”
He took her shoulders in his hands and turned her toward the light.
“You’re a queer one, queer as I am, I guess--but you understand.”
“Yes; I understand.”
“Why do you do it?” he said suddenly, his mind evidently turning
again and again to the problem which perplexed him.
She laid both her hands against his shoulders, looking straight
into his eyes.
“Because I don’t like to see a splendid ship go down.”
“I--a splendid ship?” he said, with an incredulous laugh.
“One in ten thousand.”
He laughed again, moving irritably.
“So you believe in me, do you?”
“Absolutely.”
He caught his breath, stood silent a long moment in a conflict of
emotions, yielding, longing, haunted, and rebellious. At the end he
said scornfully:
“Yes, they all do--at first. Well, you’re wrong!”
With which he stalked away without further notice. He did not come
back that night at all, though the light shone under her door
patiently. Late the next afternoon, Sassafras came into the studio
with a mysterious gesture to King O’Leary, who was taking tea at
the hands of Myrtle Popper and pretending to like it. Together they
carried Dangerfield to his room. He was in a dreadful condition--a
soiled and hopeless mass from the gutter out of which he had been
rescued.