THE SHADOW OF TERROR
Two days before the date set for Von Gerhard’s departure the book was
finished, typed, re-read, packed, and sent away. Half an hour after it
was gone all its most glaring faults seemed to marshall themselves
before my mind’s eye. Whole paragraphs, that had read quite reasonably
before, now loomed ludicrous in perspective. I longed to snatch it
back; to tidy it here, to take it in there, to smooth certain rough
places neglected in my haste. For almost a year I had lived with this
thing, so close that its faults and its virtues had become
indistinguishable to me. Day and night, for many months, it had been in
my mind. Of late some instinct had prompted me to finish it. I had
worked at it far into the night, until I marveled that the ancient
occupants of the surrounding rooms did not enter a combined protest
against the clack-clacking of my typewriter keys. And now that it was
gone I wondered, dully, if I could feel Von Gerhard’s departure more
keenly.
No one knew of the existence of the book except Norah, Von Gerhard,
Blackie and me. Blackie had a way of inquiring after its progress in
hushed tones of mock awe. Also he delighted in getting down on hands
and knees and guiding a yard-stick carefully about my desk with a view
to having a fence built around it, bearing an inscription which would
inform admiring tourists that here was the desk at which the brilliant
author had been wont to sit when grinding out heart-throb stories for
the humble Post. He took an impish delight in my struggles with my hero
and heroine, and his inquiries after the health of both were of such a
nature as to make any earnest writer person rise in wrath and slay him.
I had seen little of Blackie of late. My spare hours had been devoted
to the work in hand. On the day after the book was sent away I was
conscious of a little shock as I strolled into Blackie’s sanctum and
took my accustomed seat beside his big desk. There was an oddly pinched
look about Blackie’s nostrils and lips, I thought. And the deep-set
black eyes appeared deeper and blacker than ever in his thin little
face.
A week of unseasonable weather had come upon the city. June was going
out in a wave of torrid heat such as August might have boasted. The day
had seemed endless and intolerably close. I was feeling very limp and
languid. Perhaps, thought I, it was the heat which had wilted Blackie’s
debonair spirits.
“It has been a long time since we’ve had a talk-talk, Blackie. I’ve
missed you. Also you look just a wee bit green around the edges. I’m
thinking a vacation wouldn’t hurt you.”
Blackie’s lean brown forefinger caressed the bowl of his favorite pipe.
His eyes, that had been gazing out across the roofs beyond his window,
came back to me, and there was in them a curious and quizzical
expression as of one who is inwardly amused.
“I’ve been thinkin’ about a vacation. None of your measly little two
weeks’ affairs, with one week on salary, and th’ other without. I ain’t
goin’ t’ take my vacation for a while—not till fall, p’raps, or maybe
winter. But w’en I do take it, sa-a-ay, girl, it’s goin’ t’ be a real
one.”
“But why wait so long?” I asked. “You need it now. Who ever heard of
putting off a vacation until winter!”
“Well, I dunno,” mused Blackie. “I just made my arrangements for that
time, and I hate t’ muss ’em up. You’ll say, w’en the time comes, that
my plans are reasonable.”
There was a sharp ring from the telephone at Blackie’s elbow. He
answered it, then thrust the receiver into my hand. “For you,” he said.
It was Von Gerhard’s voice that came to me. “I have something to tell
you,” he said. “Something most important. If I call for you at six we
can drive out to the bay for supper, yes? I must talk to you.”
“You have saved my life,” I called back. “It has been a beast of a day.
You may talk as much and as importantly as you like, so long as I am
kept cool.”
“That was Von Gerhard,” said I to Blackie, and tried not to look
uncomfortable.
“Mm,” grunted Blackie, pulling at his pipe. “Thoughtful, ain’t he?”
I turned at the door. “He—he’s going away day after to-morrow,
Blackie,” I explained, although no explanation had been asked for, “to
Vienna. He expects to stay a year—or two—or three—”
Blackie looked up quickly. “Goin’ away, is he? Well, maybe it’s best,
all around, girl. I see his name’s been mentioned in all the medical
papers, and the big magazines, and all that, lately. Gettin’ t’ be a
big bug, Von Gerhard is. Sorry he’s goin’, though. I was plannin’ t’
consult him just before I go on my—vacation. But some other guy’ll do.
He don’t approve of me, Von Gerhard don’t.”
For some reason which I could never explain I went back into the room
and held out both my hands to Blackie. His nervous brown fingers closed
over them. “That doesn’t make one bit of difference to us, does it,
Blackie?” I said, gravely. “We’re—we’re not caring so long as we
approve of one another, are we?”
“Not a bit, girl,” smiled Blackie, “not a bit.”
When the green car stopped before the Old Folks’ Home I was in seraphic
mood. I had bathed, donned clean linen and a Dutch-necked gown. The
result was most soul-satisfying. My spirits rose unaccountably. Even
the sight of Von Gerhard, looking troubled and distrait, did not quiet
them. We darted away, out along the lake front, past the toll gate, to
the bay road stretching its flawless length along the water’s side. It
was alive with swift-moving motor cars swarming like twentieth-century
pilgrims toward the mecca of cool breezes and comfort. There were proud
limousines; comfortable family cars; trim little roadsters; noisy
runabouts. Not a hoof-beat was to be heard. It was as though the
horseless age had indeed descended upon the world. There was only a
hum, a rush, a roar, as car after car swept on.
Summer homes nestled among the trees near the lake. Through the
branches one caught occasional gleams of silvery water. The rush of
cool air fanned my hot forehead, tousled my hair, slid down between my
collar and the back of my neck, and I was grandly content.
“Even though you are going to sail away, and even though you have the
grumps, and refuse to talk, and scowl like a jabberwock, this is an
extremely nice world. You can’t spoil it.”
“Behute!” Von Gerhard’s tone was solemn.
“Would you be faintly interested in knowing that the book is finished?”
“So? That is well. You were wearing yourself thin over it. It was then
quickly perfected.”
“Perfected!” I groaned. “I turn cold when I think of it. The last
chapters got away from me completely. They lacked the punch.”
Von Gerhard considered that a moment, as I wickedly had intended that
he should. Then—“The punch? What is that then—the punch?”
Obligingly I elucidated. “A book may be written in flawless style, with
a plot, and a climax, and a lot of little side surprises. But if it
lacks that peculiar and convincing quality poetically known as the
punch, it might as well never have been written. It can never be a
six-best-seller, neither will it live as a classic. You will never see
it advertised on the book review page of the Saturday papers, nor will
the man across the aisle in the street car be so absorbed in its
contents that he will be taken past his corner.”
Von Gerhard looked troubled. “But the literary value? Does that not
enter—”
“I don’t aim to contribute to the literary uplift,” I assured him. “All
my life I have cherished two ambitions. One of them is to write a
successful book, and the other to learn to whistle through my
teeth—this way, you know, as the gallery gods do it. I am almost
despairing of the whistle, but I still have hopes of the book.”
Whereupon Von Gerhard, after a moment’s stiff surprise, gave vent to
one of his heartwarming roars.
“Thanks,” said I. “Now tell me the important news.”
His face grew serious in an instant. “Not yet, Dawn. Later. Let us hear
more about the book. Not so flippant, however, small one. The time is
past when you can deceive me with your nonsense.”
“Surely you would not have me take myself seriously! That’s another
debt I owe my Irish forefathers. They could laugh—bless ’em!—in the
very teeth of a potato crop failure. And let me tell you, that takes
some sense of humor. The book is my potato crop. If it fails it will
mean that I must keep on drudging, with a knot or two taken in my belt.
But I’ll squeeze a smile out of the corner of my mouth, somehow. And if
it succeeds! Oh, Ernst, if it succeeds!”
“Then, Kindchen?”
“Then it means that I may have a little thin layer of jam on my bread
and butter. It won’t mean money—at least, I don’t think it will. A
first book never does. But it will mean a future. It will mean that I
will have something solid to stand on. It will be a real beginning—a
breathing spell—time in which to accomplish something really worth
while—independence—freedom from this tread-mill—”
“Stop!” cried Von Gerhard, sharply. Then, as I stared in surprise—“I do
ask your pardon. I was again rude, nicht wahr? But in me there is a
queer vein of German superstition that disapproves of air castles. Sich
einbilden, we call it.”
The lights of the bay pavilion twinkled just ahead. The green car poked
its nose up the path between rows of empty machines. At last it drew
up, panting, before a vacant space between an imposing, scarlet touring
car and a smart, cream-colored runabout. We left it there and walked up
the light-flooded path.
Inside the great, barn-like structure that did duty as pavilion glasses
clinked, chairs scraped on the wooden floor; a burst of music followed
a sharp fusillade of applause. Through the open doorway could be seen a
company of Tyrolese singers in picturesque costumes of scarlet and
green and black. The scene was very noisy, and very bright, and very
German.
“Not in there, eh?” said Von Gerhard, as though divining my wish. “It
is too brightly lighted, and too noisy. We will find a table out here
under the trees, where the music is softened by the distance, and our
eyes are not offended by the ugliness of the singers. But inexcusably
ugly they are, these Tyrolese women.”
We found a table within the glow of the pavilion’s lights, but still so
near the lake that we could hear the water lapping the shore. A
cadaverous, sandy-haired waiter brought things to eat, and we made
brave efforts to appear hungry and hearty, but my high spirits were
ebbing fast, and Von Gerhard was frankly distraught. One of the women
singers appeared suddenly in the doorway of the pavilion, then stole
down the steps, and disappeared in the shadow of the trees beyond our
table. The voices of the singers ceased abruptly. There was a moment’s
hushed silence. Then, from the shadow of the trees came a woman’s
voice, clear, strong, flexible, flooding the night with the bird-like
trill of the mountain yodel. The sound rose and fell, and swelled and
soared. A silence. Then, in a great burst of melody the chorus of
voices within the pavilion answered the call. Again a silence. Again
the wonder of the woman’s voice flooded the stillness, ending in a note
higher, clearer, sweeter than any that had gone before. Then the little
Tyrolese, her moment of glory ended, sped into the light of the noisy
pavilion again.
When I turned to Von Gerhard my eyes were wet. “I shall have that to
remember, when you are gone.”
Von Gerhard beckoned the hovering waiter. “Take these things away. And
you need not return.” He placed something in the man’s palm—something
that caused a sudden whisking away of empty dishes, and many obsequious
bows.
Von Gerhard’s face was turned away from me, toward the beauty of the
lake and sky. Now, as the last flirt of the waiter’s apron vanished
around the corner he turned his head slowly, and I saw that in his eyes
which made me catch my breath with apprehension.
“What is it?” I cried. “Norah? Max? The children?”
He shook his head. “They are well, so far as I know. I—perhaps first I
should tell you—although this is not the thing which I have to say to
you—”
“Yes?” I urged him on, impatiently. I had never seen him like this.
“I do not sail this week. I shall not be with Gluck in Vienna this
year. I shall stay here.”
“Here! Why? Surely—”
“Because I shall be needed here, Dawn. Because I cannot leave you now.
You will need—some one—a friend—”
I stared at him with eyes that were wide with terror, waiting for I
knew not what.
“Need—some one—for—what?” I stammered. “Why should you—”
In the kindly shadow of the trees Von Gerhard’s hands took my icy ones,
and held them in a close clasp of encouragement.
“Norah is coming to be with you—”
“Norah! Why? Tell me at once! At once!”
“Because Peter Orme has been sent home—cured,” said he.
The lights of the pavilion fell away, and advanced, and swung about in
a great sickening circle. I shut my eyes. The lights still swung before
my eyes. Von Gerhard leaned toward me with a word of alarm. I clung to
his hands with all my strength.
“No!” I said, and the savage voice was not my own. “No! No! No! It
isn’t true! It isn’t—Oh, it’s some joke, isn’t it? Tell me, it’s—it’s
something funny, isn’t it? And after a bit we’ll laugh—we’ll laugh—of
course—see! I am smiling already—”
“Dawn—dear one—it is true. God knows I wish that I could be happy to
know it. The hospital authorities pronounce him cured. He has been
quite sane for weeks.”
“You knew it—how long?”
“You know that Max has attended to all communications from the doctors
there. A few weeks ago they wrote that Orme had shown evidences of
recovery. He spoke of you, of the people he had known in New York, of
his work on the paper, all quite rationally and calmly. But they must
first be sure. Max went to New York a week ago. Peter was gone. The
hospital authorities were frightened and apologetic. Peter had walked
away quite coolly one day. He had gone into the city, borrowed money of
some old newspaper cronies, and vanished. He may be there still. He may
be—”
“Here! Ernst! Take me home! O God; I can’t do it! I can’t! I ought to
be happy, but I’m not. I ought to be thankful, but I’m not, I’m not!
The horror of having him there was great enough, but it was nothing
compared to the horror of having him here. I used to dream that he was
well again, and that he was searching for me, and the dreadful realness
of it used to waken me, and I would find myself shivering with terror.
Once I dreamed that I looked up from my desk to find him standing in
the doorway, smiling that mirthless smile of his, and I heard him say,
in his mocking way: ‘Hello, Dawn my love; looking wonderfully well.
Grass widowhood agrees with you, eh?’”
“Dawn, you must not laugh like that. Come, we will go. You are
shivering! Don’t, dear, don’t. See, you have Norah, and Max, and me to
help you. We will put him on his feet. Physically he is not what he
should be. I can do much for him.”
“You!” I cried, and the humor of it was too exquisite for laughter.
“For that I gave up Vienna,” said Von Gerhard, simply. “You, too, must
do your share.”
“My share! I have done my share. He was in the gutter, and he was
dragging me with him. When his insanity came upon him I thanked God for
it, and struggled up again. Even Norah never knew what that struggle
was. Whatever I am, I am in spite of him. I tell you I could hug my
widow’s weeds. Ten years ago he showed me how horrible and unclean a
thing can be made of this beautiful life. I was a despairing, cowering
girl of twenty then—I am a woman now, happy in her work, her friends;
growing broader and saner in thought, quicker to appreciate the finer
things in life. And now—what?”
They were dashing off a rollicking folk-song indoors. When it was
finished there came a burst of laughter and the sharp spat of
applauding hands, and shouts of approbation. The sounds seemed seared
upon my brain. I rose and ran down the path toward the waiting machine.
There in the darkness I buried my shamed face in my hands and prayed
for the tears that would not come.
It seemed hours before I heard Von Gerhard’s firm, quick tread upon the
gravel path. He moved about the machine, adjusting this and that, then
took his place at the wheel without a word. We glided out upon the
smooth white road. All the loveliness of the night seemed to have
vanished. Only the ugly, distorted shadows remained. The terror of
uncertainty gripped me. I could not endure the sight of Von Gerhard’s
stern, set face. I grasped his arm suddenly so that the machine veered
and darted across the road. With a mighty wrench Von Gerhard righted
it. He stopped the machine at the road-side.
“Careful, Kindchen,” he said, gravely.
“Ernst,” I said, and my breath came quickly, chokingly, as though I had
been running fast, “Ernst, I can’t do it. I’m not big enough. I can’t.
I hate him, I tell you, I hate him! My life is my own. I’ve made it
what it is, in the face of a hundred temptations; in spite of a hundred
pitfalls. I can’t lay it down again for Peter Orme to trample. Ernst,
if you love me, take me away now. To Vienna—anywhere—only don’t ask me
to take up my life with him again. I can’t—I can’t—”
“Love you?” repeated Ernst, slowly, “yes. Too well—”
“Too well—”
“Yes, too well for that, Gott sei dank, small one. Too well for that.”