Oh, how good it was to enter New York once more! I remembered how ugly
the city had looked to me that first time when I had come from Boston.
Now even the rows of flat houses and dingy tall buildings seemed to take
on a sturdy and friendly beauty.
Paul was walking up and down the station, and he came rushing up to me,
as I came through the gates. He was pale, and even seemed to tremble, as
he caught me by the arm and cried:
“When you did not come on that train, I was afraid you had changed your
mind, and were not coming back to me. I’ve been waiting here all day,
watching each train that arrived from Providence. Oh, sweetheart, I’ve
been nearly crazy!”
I told him about the fire, and he seized hold of my hands, and examined
them.
“Don’t tell me you _hurt_ yourself!” he cried. And when I reassured him,
it was all I could do to keep him from hugging me right there in the
station. All the way on the car he held my hand, and although he did not
say anything at all to me, I knew just what was in his heart. He loved
me, and nothing else in all the whole wide world mattered.
He had helped me out at the studio building, and now as I went up the
old rickety stairs, I realized that this was _my home_!
It was a ramshackle, very old, neglected, rickety sort of place, and I
do not know why they called it Paresis Row. The name did not sound ugly
to me, somehow. I loved everything about the place, even the queer
business carried on on the lower floors, and old Mary, the slatternly
caretaker, who scolded the boys alternately and then did little
kindnesses for them. I remember how once she kept a creditor away from
poor Fisher, by waving her broom at him, till he fled in fear.
I laughed as we went by the door of that crazy old artist that the boys
used to tease by dropping a piece of iron on the floor after holding it
up high. They would wait a few minutes, and then he would come hobbling
up the stairs. There would be three regular taps, and then he would put
his head in and say:
“Gentlemen, methinks I heard a noise!”
On the first floor back a man taught singing, and he had gotten up a
class of policemen. It seemed as if they sang forever the chorus of a
song that went like this:
“Don’t be afraid, don’t be afraid, don’t be a-f-rai-d!”
* * * * *
Several artists had committed suicide in the building. I am not sure of
the causes, and we never dwelt upon the reasons. There was nothing
pretty about the place; it was cold and not even very clean; but--it was
my _home_!
Paul opened the door of his studio. The place was all cleaned up and new
paper on the walls. He showed me behind the screen a little gas stove,
pots and pans hanging at the back of it, and dishes in a little closet.
Then, taking me by the hand, he opened a door, and showed me a little
room adjoining his studio. It seemed to me lovely. It was prepared in
soft gray, and the curtains of yellow cheesecloth gave an appearance of
sunlight to it. There were several pieces of new furniture in the room,
and a little mission dresser. Paul opened the drawers, and rather shyly
showed me some sheets, pillow slips and towels, which he said he had
purchased for me, and added:
“I hope they are all right. I don’t know much about such things.”
I knew then that Paul intended the room to be for me. He had only the
one studio room before.
“Well, little mouse,” he said, “are you afraid to live with a poor
beggar, or do you love me enough to take the chance?”
Thoughts were rushing through my mind. Memories of conversations and
stories among the artists, on the marriage question, by some considered
unnecessary and somehow with Paul it seemed right and natural, and the
primitive woman in me answered: “Why not? Others have lived with the man
they loved without marriage. Why should not I?” He was waiting for me to
speak, and I put my hands up on his shoulders, and said:
“Oh, yes, Paul, I will come to you! I will!”
A little later, I said:
“Now I must go over to my old room and have my trunk and some other
things I left there brought over, and I must tell Mrs. Whitehouse, the
landlady, as she expects me back to-day.”
“Well, don’t be long,” said Paul. “I’m afraid you will slip through my
arms just as I have found you.”
Mrs. Whitehouse, the landlady, met me at the door. I told her I was
going to move over to Fourteenth Street, to Paresis Row. She threw up
her hands and exclaimed:
“Lands sakes! That is no place for a girl to live, and I have no use for
them artists. They are a half-crazy lot, and never have a cent to bless
themselves with. If I were a young and pretty girl like you, Miss
Ascough, I would not waste my time on the likes of them. Now there’s
been a fine-looking gent calling for you the last two days, and I told
him you’d be back to-day. He’s a real swell, and if you’d take my
advice, you’d get right next to him.”
Even as she spoke the front doorbell rang. She opened the door, and
there was Reggie! I was standing at the bottom of the stairs, but when I
saw him, I fled into the parlor. He came after me, with his arms
outstretched. I found myself staring across at him, as if I were looking
at a stranger.
“Marion,” he cried, “I’ve come to bring you home.”