Months of even tenor succeeded, of unremitting industry, when
nothing else seemed comprehensible to Dangerfield but the rage of
work. So absorbed was he by the richness of the vision which opened
before him in the exploration of the city, that even at nights in
the hundred and one restaurants through which they flitted--beer
garden, water-front quick lunch, oyster-parlor or café in upper
Italy--his eyes were always eager and his pencil busy. Of that
narrow carpet from Twenty-third Street to the Park which is called
New York, they saw nothing. They had plunged back into the healing
flood of humanity that swirls and eddies along its upward striving
voyage beyond the social boundaries of the elevated, feeling the
sincerity of its joy and sorrows, noting its sane and colorful
vulgarity, relishing its vitality, its capacity for progress, and
its God-given will to enjoy and to enthuse.
For these months of intimacy with the simple and direct life of
the massed nations of the cosmopolis, Dangerfield lived and worked
in unconscious fervor. No weakening pause at self-analysis, no
intimidating calculation of what foreign criticism might declare
ever entered his day. He experienced the greatest delight of
which an artist is capable, a joy which is like first love and
must be surrendered with the consciousness of success--the pure
and unreasoning love of the work itself. He had followed Inga’s
intuition and resisted the impulse in him to try the effect of what
he had done on those whose admiration would have been precious to
him. He renounced this temptation of the vanity the more easily in
that he perceived, to his own surprise, that the summer had been
but preparatory to the big things before him.
Meanwhile, many things had happened in the Arcade. About six
weeks after Dangerfield’s return, to the amazement of every one,
Drinkwater and Pansy reappeared. That he had married her, contrary
to the fears of Belle Shaler, was fortunately true, though, beyond
that mere announcement, the girl had nothing to say, maintaining
an obstinate silence to all questions. They took an apartment in
the building next door which was reached by a bridge from the lower
floor, though Drinkwater still maintained his old room in the form
of an office. That he held a strong fascination over his wife was
apparent, for though she was much changed and quite tamed, no word
of complaint or criticism passed her lips. The only evidence of
unhappiness, if any did exist, might perhaps have been noticed in
the assiduity of her attendance on Mr. Cornelius and the thousand
and one attentions with which she surrounded him. “The baron,” who
had been broken in health for some time, seemed to cling to this
affection, though he would never reconcile himself to receiving the
husband.
Tootles, who was of a dramatic temperament, had braced himself
heroically to withstand the tragedy of his life. For several days
his appetite noticeably diminished, but the recovery was rapid
and visibly abetted by the providential meeting with a blonde
student at the art school, who engaged his affections instantly
and tyrannized over him as successfully as the brunette of the
past. The windfall which had come to him from “The Apotheosis of
the Well-dressed Man” had departed in the fashion of all winds,
in an attempt to rival the careers of sudden millionaires, who
are believed to soar from such humble foundations. One-third had
gone in gilt-edged mining stocks from a sleek and confidential
promoter whom Flick had annexed down South; another slice had
been sacrificed to acquire fifty-one per cent of the stock of a
combination corkscrew and coat-hanger to be called the Corkaroo,
which had been sacrificed to them by an inventor in distress,
while the last hundred dollars had been placed in desperation on a
ten-to-one shot, about which a friend of a friend of Flick’s had
private information.
Meanwhile, the Arcade was watching with undiminishing interest the
comedy which was transpiring daily and which had as its principal
actors Mrs. Pomello, King O’Leary, and Millie Brewster. That Myrtle
had come back determined to carry off King O’Leary was evident to
all. In fact, in the frankness of her nature, she made no disguise
of her intention. By one of the caprices of fortune, which the
fickle goddess delights in showering over the metropolis, the
dashing girl, whisked from a manicure-parlor to sudden opulence as
though on some miraculous wishing-carpet of the “Arabian nights,”
found herself a widow within a short three months and sole heiress
to a property which developed beyond her expectations.
Mr. Pomello had died suddenly at Nice, where in an indulgent
cosmopolitan society, appraising by the eyes, they had found easy
acquaintance. Myrtle as a young widow, heiress to fifteen thousand
a year, undeniably stunning if inclined to liberties with the
King’s English, found a number of sufficiently titled adventurers
ready to assist her upward progress into society. Before she left,
she had the exquisite sensation of actually refusing to be a
countess--an internal satisfaction which Providence accorded her as
a reward for constancy.
But, in the directness of her nature, she cared little for these
infirm personalities. She remembered the man who had stirred
her from the first impudent kiss, and, after a certain period
of retirement in memory of the strange, gentle old man who had
transformed her horizon, she came back to America and established
herself in a resplendent suite at a neighboring hotel. Prosperity
had as yet worked no arrogance in the naturalness of her nature,
and though her former friends instinctively drew back in defensive
attitudes at the spectacle of the limousine, the liveried
chauffeur, the exquisite costumes of half mourning and the large
and brilliant jewelry, they soon relaxed their suspicions before
the unaffected generosity and gay moods of the ex-manicure-girl.
The one exception was, of course, Millie Brewster, whose weakness
for King O’Leary had long been evident. The gorgeous arrival of
Mrs. Pomello reduced Millie to a state of melancholic desperation,
which even drove her to the extent of half confidence in Tootles,
who, having had his heart exploded a number of times, felt
qualified for the rôle of a sympathetic consoler.
As a matter of fact, neither Flick nor Tootles were in the least
doubt that Myrtle had made up her mind to carry off O’Leary with
a high hand and marry him, after the easy matter of a divorce had
been settled, nor for that matter had Millie Brewster, who daily
grew more silent and more pathetic, flitting into the studio at
all hours for a glimpse of her idol or at least the opportunity to
converse about him. What O’Leary himself was thinking remained the
mystery, nor could his comrades in the arts, either by sly traps
or direct accusations, procure a clue. In truth, O’Leary himself
was as thoroughly perplexed as the next man. He was human, and
he deeply relished the public rôle he had suddenly found himself
thrown into, by the battle for his possession between the two
charmers, either of whom enchanted when the other was away.
Now, it happened that Tootles, though the sentimental adviser of
Millie, was convinced of the hopelessness of the odds against which
she struggled, while Flick insisted that Myrtle was riding to a
disaster, and for this he had shrewd reasons of his own.
“She’s making mistakes,” he said wisely, on one of the many
occasions when he discussed the absorbing subject with Tootles.
“Some girl, some action, fine eyes and all that, but she’s on the
wrong track! I could put her wise, but I won’t.”
“What mistakes?” said Tootles.
“Introducing society and King to each other. You can’t tame
King--he’ll kick over the traces some day--then good-by.”
“Oh, I don’t know. He doesn’t show any signs yet. He’s driving out,
lunching out, theaters and all that sort of stuff. I do believe
she’s even gotten him worked up to taking tea. Do you mean to say
that’s not serious?”
“Serious for her--she’s rushing the game,” said Flick obstinately.
“Mark my words, she’ll go too far! She’ll start dressing him up.”
“He had on a new tie yesterday,” said Tootles suddenly.
“Sure he did. She’ll try to make a dude out of him--see if she
don’t; and one thing O’Leary isn’t, and that’s a Charlie boy. I
tell you he won’t stand for it. He’ll go cold all of a sudden.”
“My word,” said Tootles doubtfully, “it is a chance though!
Remember the solid-cash basis. That does count for something,
Literature.”
“With you or me, Art,” said Flick crushingly. “I am quite ready to
console the lady and so would you be. I’m wild, but I’m not a wild
Indian like O’Leary. If Myrtle was wise, instead of blowing in on
a circus-wagon with diamond attachments, she’d hang around here in
a sweater and a sunbonnet, and do the joy-riding on a surface-car.
O’Leary will never stand for the fancy stuff, never in the world!”
Even as they were thus debating, King O’Leary came into the studio.
Under one arm he carried a couple of packages, while in the other
hand hung what was unmistakably a hat-box.
“Hello!” said O’Leary, with brazen effrontery, and, whistling, he
moved over to the corner which had been specially allotted to him
as his private dressing-room.
“Hello!” said Flick, who stared first at the hat-box and then at
Tootles.
O’Leary continued to whistle loudly, removing his coat and
vest while he undid the first of the packages. Tootles, in his
amazement, reached out his hand and clung to Flick’s. From the
package, O’Leary drew forth a pink-and-white shirt with cuffs
attached, and slowly and deliberately, without abating his
nonchalant whistling, struggled into it.
“If he puts on a collar, you lose,” said Tootles to Flick, who was
too completely flabbergasted to retort. Even as the words were
spoken, King O’Leary produced a standing collar and attached it to
the shirt with the clumsiness of a first effort. Flick and Tootles
went over backward still holding hands and, thus supinely on their
back, their feet in the air, continued to stare at the apparition.
King O’Leary, having surveyed the effect of the white badge of
servitude in the mirror, flung into his vest and coat and ripping
off the cover of the box produced a derby which he adjusted with
nicety on his head, giving it a rakish tilt. Then he produced a
pair of gloves, shook them carefully in the air, raised his arms,
yawned, and departed whistling. Tootles looked at Flick; Flick
looked at Tootles.
“Poor Millie!” said Tootles, still on his back. “Are you convinced
now?”
“I am,” said Flick. “I give up. I know nothing about human nature.”
For three days, King O’Leary vouchsafed no explanation. He rose,
clamped into stiff shirt and stiff collar, crushed down over his
free brow the unspeakable derby hat, and departed into society.
Flick and Tootles arranged the old flannel shirt, flowing tie, and
venerable sombrero upon a roughly constructed wooden cross in the
corner and placed upon it the following inscription:
SACRED TO THE MEMORY
OF
KING O’LEARY
_Requiscat in Pace_
But on the evening of the third day, while they were sitting glumly
in the easiest chairs, reflecting upon the frailties of human
nature, shortly after ten o’clock the door opened and King O’Leary
came in. While they gazed upon him in amazement, with the utmost
solemnity he placed the derby hat in the center of the floor,
added the stiff collar, and, going to the corner, took from the
commemorative cross the loose shirt, his old friend, the sombrero,
and the limp tie. In another moment, he stood before them the King
O’Leary of old.
“What about the plug hat?” said Flick faintly.
O’Leary’s answer was to advance with deliberation and to plant one
foot firmly upon the degrading object of social servitude. The next
moment there was a slight report and beneath his foot nothing but a
crumpled mass. So ended the romance.
The next week, Mrs. Pomello sailed for Europe. Of what had taken
place between them, O’Leary never dropped a hint. Perhaps it wasn’t
necessary. The badges of servitude which had failed to imprison
O’Leary’s rebellious spirit were appropriately preserved as
mementoes of the past. Millie Brewster used to dust them off with
a certain quiet satisfaction on the days in which she continued to
clean up the room.
* * * * *
During these long and fruitful months, perhaps due to their loyalty
to the unaccustomed haunts of the city, Inga and Dangerfield had
failed so far to meet a single acquaintance of his old life.
All at once, this unconscious isolation was rudely interrupted.
They were returning from a visit to a Yiddish theater, in the heart
of the East Side, when the whim seized Dangerfield, who was an
inveterate night-owl, to turn aside for a last pleasant hour in
one of the least popular restaurants of lower Second Avenue, the
showplace of the exploited East Side.
They had hardly installed themselves at a quiet table before
Dangerfield, looking across the room, was aware of a group of three
men absorbed in his contemplation. He recognized Lupkin, the great
Russian basso, and Fallon, the author, both old acquaintances,
and De Gollyer, the critic, of all the friends of the past
perhaps the closest to his confidence. He bowed abruptly with a
certain confused shyness which was beyond his control and, seeing
their hesitation before Inga’s presence, gave a little sign of
invitation. The next moment De Gollyer crossed over and had him by
the hand. He was a little man, of the world to the finger-tips,
_flaneur_ and connoisseur of all that life yields of the curious,
dramatic, and hidden. Their friendship had been of boyhood origin,
of the strength that never weakens.
“My dear boy,” he exclaimed, still gripping the hand that
Dangerfield had extended him, “is it you or your ghost? I
thought--we thought----”
“You thought,” said Dangerfield interrupting, “that I had gone off
into some corner to pass away like a sick dog. Well, here I am.”
De Gollyer was looking into his eyes, at the strength and the
health in his face, estimating the confident ring in the tones of
his voice, the new energy that seemed to fall from him as from
invisible electric batteries. Then, from his friend, he looked
swiftly at the woman at his side, seeking the explanation.
“My wife,” said Dangerfield, who knew him too well not to
comprehend instinctively the progress of his thoughts. “And--you
are quite right.”
“My dear lady,” said De Gollyer, staring at her a little too
insistently, “I have only been completely astounded twice before in
my life. This is the third time. Will you allow me to sit down and
recover myself?”
“You look astounded,” said Dangerfield, laughing.
“My dear boy, I never saw anything so amazing in my life. But you
look younger and more beautiful than I do. Where have you been?
What have you been doing? Why didn’t you let me know? By Jove, Dan,
I am glad to see you like this!”
The exclamation burst forth so impulsively that Inga, who had
retired into her shell the instant she had fallen under the shrewd,
delving glance of the man of the world, felt a sudden warming of
her heart toward him. Dangerfield put out his hand with a nervous
laugh and laid it on De Gollyer’s arm.
“I know you are, Bob,” he said. “Well, I’m coming back.”
“And the work?”
Dangerfield looked at Inga, a sudden longing in his eyes. She
comprehended and smiled back her acquiescence.
“Come and see--you’ll be the first.”
De Gollyer had not missed the question and the answer which had
flashed between them. Plainly Inga intrigued his imagination the
more. She was the key to the mystery and, at times, while he sat
listening to Dangerfield, his eyes fixed themselves on hers with an
intensity that left her hotly conscious and at times she felt this
glance wandering down to the fingers of her left hand.
Dangerfield was not in the mood for general conversation, and,
beyond amicable greetings, avoided joining De Gollyer’s party. She
herself suggested that they should leave, uncomfortable at the
encounter, keenly aware of the covert looks the three acquaintances
were sending in her direction, divining the manner of their
astonishment, of which she was the object. When they were on the
sidewalk, in the cool of the luminous night, she drew closer to
Dangerfield and slipped her hand under his arm, a little possessive
gesture she seldom used. He looked down at her wondering, a little
perplexed, and patted her hand affectionately.
“Lord, that was a surprise!” he said, thinking of De Gollyer. “It’s
like the wind, banging open the front door. I just had to ask him
up. Did you mind?”
She shook her head.
“It had to come.”