LONELINESS
A big figure arose from a desk at the opposite side of the room.
Glenwood handed in a bulky wad of matter to be read and strolled over to
O'Byrn's desk. Throwing himself into a convenient chair, he produced his
cigar case. They lighted weeds and sat for a time in congenial if smoky
silence.
It was Micky's night off, but it was early. He was loitering about the
office for a few moments before leaving to fulfill an engagement that
had become usual. He now sat regarding Glenwood appreciatively. What a
man he was, to be sure! He sat at indolent ease, his feet on Micky's
desk, hands clasped behind his handsome blonde head, staring dreamily
far beyond the littered room. He wore no coat. Micky marked the deep
chest, the swell of the splendid muscles outlined beneath the folds of
the soft outing shirt, the well set neck. There was the suggestion, none
the less strong in repose, of mingled virility and grace. Strength of
great scope was here, strength that had once against odds rescued him,
O'Byrn, from an unpleasant predicament.
How puny was he, O'Byrn, by contrast, physically--and morally. Ah, but
that last thought stung! For here was a man who was thoroughly master of
himself, without being a milksop. His was no pedestal. He was one of
the boys, yet liberty did not spell license with him. There was for him
no painful crawl up a slippery toboggan of renewed intentions, following
a wild, shooting descent that had left him gasping and breathless at the
bottom. Glenwood's was the absolutely perfect mechanism of the normal.
Tough fibred, richly endowed in mental, moral and physical equipment
from long generations of right livers, how different was his lot from
O'Byrn's, cursed at the outset with a vicious appetite which had been
fostered from the beginning by the man who had bequeathed it; hampered,
too, with an indifferent physique that rendered the more hopeless the
boy's struggles with his mastering vice. True, after all, mused Micky
bitterly, that men are created equal in only limited senses.
He rose abruptly and walked to the window, staring out into the soft
night, for the ebon had settled down. Close by loomed the shadowy bulk
of the city hall, dwarfing the stark ambitious blocks that were its
lesser neighbors. Under the luminous moon glittered an adjacent church
spire; stars peppered the curtained sky. Far down, amid the glare of
myriad electric lights, there arose the faint roll of carriage wheels,
drowned the next moment in the rumble of passing street cars. Within
there sounded the sharp click of typewriters; in a sudden lull there was
audible the ticking of a telegraph key at the end of the room. A man
entered hastily, seated himself before a desk and began to write like
mad. Another young fellow, after a few brief words from the city editor,
seized his hat and hurried on a mission. The room was unwontedly busy
for so early an hour. Copy boys scurried, telephone bells rang, editors
summoned and reporters scuttled. Always there poured into the great
room, in strange and turbulent contrast to the wideflung peace of dead
white moon and watching stars in the black night sky outside, the
unresting flood, the formidable torrent of life and death and the joys
and ills that lurk between, called News.
Micky stared out of the window, oblivious to the whirl within. It would
have distracted a novice. To the veteran it meant only the inevitable
environment of effort. Many such find it difficult to write in the midst
of quietude. Of such was Micky, and so it was that, with no scribbling
to do, he could lose himself in vague, sad contemplation of moon and
stars and black night sky, with the roar of the flood no louder in his
unheeding ears than the ripple of a little river through June meadows.
It was with a start that he was recalled to earth with a violent slap
upon his thin shoulder. He turned, eyes still wool-gathering, to
confront Dick.
"What's the dream?" demanded that worthy, smiling down at him. "Isn't
this something new?"
"Why," answered Micky, a little confusedly, "I was thinking. Yes," with
a laugh but with sober eyes, "it's something new, Dick, I guess. It
would be better if it were oftener," a little wistfully.
Dick, staring out of the window, readily fell in with his mood.
"Thinking? Yes, it's a good thing,--sometimes. But you don't have much
time for it in this business."
"No," rejoined Micky thoughtfully. "You need to put in all your hustling
on the job, and it don't give you time for a heavy load under your
roof." He glanced at the clock. "Well, I must be going. Didn't know it
was so late. Gimme a cigar."
Dick produced one and Micky proceeded to light up. Dick surveyed the
other's unwonted immaculateness with an air of understanding. "Give her
my regards," he said.
"Her?" repeated Micky, in simulated amazement. "Nit; you're off. I'm
going to cut coupons tonight; they're accumulating on me." He vanished
with a grin and Dick sauntered back to his desk.
Micky descended in the elevator and stepped forth into the cool night
air. He stood for a moment in indecision, debating whether he should
take a car. Too fine a night to ride, he decided, and started down the
street at a brisk pace. Presently leaving the crowded thoroughfare for a
quieter side street, he proceeded southward. After a half an hour's walk
he turned a final corner and was on Mulberry Avenue. Down the street he
went to a modest little dwelling, with a light shining from the shaded
parlor windows. He ascended the steps and rang the bell. The door
opened. Micky stepped inside and they entered the tiny parlor.
The door communicating with the sitting room opened ever so cautiously.
A freckled, inquisitive face appeared unobtrusively in the gap, but
Maisie saw it. "Terence!" she exclaimed, and the face disappeared.
Maisie slammed the door shut with asperity, then, taking a seat near it,
turned her pretty face toward her caller. "You're late, Micky," said she
reprovingly. Micky was progressive. It had not taken him long to induce
her to address him by his Christian name.
"Yes," admitted Micky. "I didn't know it was so late. I forgot to wind
my watch, anyway. What time is it?" He moved toward her, his timepiece
in his hand. It was an old silver hunting-case affair. In fumbling with
the spring to open it, the rear cover opened, disclosing the faded
picture of a woman. Micky held it out to the girl.
"My mother," he said simply. "She died when I was little." Maisie looked
at the sweet face and patient eyes a moment, then her look sought
Micky's face. It held an unwonted gravity, the blue eyes were a little
misty. He leaned over her, his gaze bent upon the dial of her smart
little watch.
"Eight forty-five, eh?" he exclaimed. "Whew! it is late." He set his
watch and then began winding it. "That case is loose, I must get it
fixed," he pursued. He glanced again at the girl's timepiece, then
whimsically shook his own. "Not much like yours, is it?" he said, with a
sorry smile. "Poor little turnip! But it'll be buried with me, Maisie,
I'll never have another. I don't want another. You see,--she gave it to
me."
He sank into a chair, his face in the shadow. "I can see it now," he
pursued in a low voice, "just as if it was yesterday. How tickled I was!
and so was she, to see me so. There were just us two, and now--I'm
alone. Oh! it's years ago, but it's one of those things that'll hurt
every time I remember it--now she's gone--will hurt till I go, too! Of
course it didn't cost her much, poor little woman. It couldn't; she
didn't have it. How she managed to save the few poor dollars for it, God
knows; I can't figure it. But she did, and one day when I got in from
selling my papers, she met me and gave it to me. And I was only a kid,
Maisie, and I up and bellered like a calf, with my arms around
her,--and she cried, too; and it wasn't very long,--" his voice broke
for a moment,--"it wasn't very long after that,--it was dark and cold I
remember, and snowflakes in the air,--and I was crying and trying to
pull away from them while they were leading me away--from--her grave."
It was very still. The girl averted her eyes; they were full of tears.
O'Byrn sat in the shadow, his head bent. In a moment he resumed.
"I've knocked around from pillar to post since then, Maisie, from one
end of the land to the other. I've lived high and low, from glad rags to
just plain rags. I could always get a job--and I could always lose it.
Oh, yes, I might as well be frank," with a bitter laugh. "It's whisky--a
heritage. Not all the time--fits that I can't help--every now and
then--like bad dreams, only worse--they're real! It's at those times
that the old feeling grips me, too,--to keep movin'. Why, I usually wake
up where everything's strange--and I have to ask 'em where I am. I've
been on the road to something worth while so often--and always kicked it
over. And it cropped out in me so young! You'd be surprised--"
"Oh, don't!" she cried. He stared at her mutely. "What makes you say
such horrible things about yourself?" she pursued passionately, a quiver
in her voice. "Do you want me to believe--"
"The truth," he interrupted, gently. "Only the truth. Of course, I
haven't known you long, but it seems like all my life. I'd feel like a
yellow dog, somehow, if I shouldn't tell you. But then, we won't say
anything more about it. I'm not to blame, exactly; it was a present.
We'll go back, there isn't much to tell. It's always been the newspaper
business with me. Odds and ends at first, then they found I could write,
and I've been at it ever since. I wasn't much on education, but I've
picked up quite a lot, and I've seen the country. Oh, I've had my
dreams. Maybe I could do something sometime--if--" He broke off
abruptly.
She sprang up, coming quickly to him. Her little hand sought his arm.
"Micky," she breathed softly, with shining eyes, "do it! You can; it's
in you; if you will only leave off--and you can--you must! Think of her,
Micky,--she cried over you--perhaps she's crying yet! Make her smile,
instead! Oh, what makes me talk to you like this, only knowing you a few
weeks? What right--"
He caught her hand as she moved slowly away and drew her back. "What
right?" he echoed warmly. "The best in the world! It does me good!
You're a true friend, you are, and you can see what a mess I've made of
my life and how I could do better if I would--or could, for you don't
know what I have to fight against, Maisie." He drew a chair for her
close to his own. "But then, I'm young yet," he pursued, with a rather
sorry smile. "Time yet, perhaps, for dreams. Dreams!" he repeated, with
a queer, half-shamed look, "how the fellows at the office would laugh to
hear me say that! They'd say I'd gone bug-house."
"Dreams?" she repeated softly, a divine smile in her wistful eyes, "why,
Micky, we're all dreamers. Between here and the store--the store and
here, day after day, don't you suppose they help me; the dreams? Doesn't
it help your work--your old humdrum work, whatever it is, without any
beginning or ending--doesn't it help to mix a little dreaming with it?
Of course, it doesn't really help me--I'm a poor, silly little
thing--but it can help you, Micky--it can help you!"
"'Poor, silly little thing!'" he repeated after her, his eyes
moistening. "Don't, Maisie, it makes me feel like a fool! Why, I'm not
fit to speak to you, girl! The life I've lived--Oh, the road is where I
belong, after all! And the dreams--why, they're just dreams, that's all.
I'd only have to try to realize them to prove it--and I'm afraid. Yes,
when I haven't been drunk, I've been afraid."
She winced at the word, while he, unheeding, stared gloomily at the
carpet. "What--" she began hesitantly, and stopped. He looked up,
comprehending.
"To write," he said simply. "To write instead of scribble. Oh, I can see
things--and I can feel 'em. Seems to me that I could do it--but it looms
up so that I don't dare try. And sometimes I get into the proper mood,
and get squared away--and then--" He broke off with a despairing
gesture.
"I don't know much about those things, of course," she said, "but I like
to read what I can, and it seems to me that feelin' like you do about
it--I mean it's lookin' so big to you--that you ought to be all the more
able to do it."
He stared at her. This subtle viewpoint had never struck him before. "By
George, it takes a girl, after all, to hit the nail square," he told
her. "I never thought of it. But say,--why--it's encouraging, it is!"
"Sure it is." She smiled at him. "You want to get busy."
He stared wide-eyed in sudden reverie, his eyes wistful, his freckled
face softened with something that contrasted oddly enough with his
ordinary reckless, devil-may-care attitude toward the world. His better
side was uppermost; somehow this girl could always summon it. But now,
as she watched him mutely, a swift shadow darkened his face.
"Yes," he told her, "perhaps I ought to be encouraged by the way I feel
about it, and get busy. I could if I was built right, but I'm not,
Maisie. I can't get settled and I haven't any balance wheel. It's 'off
again, on again, gone again' with me. I can't get fairly into a place
before the old itch to keep moving bothers me, and with the other, the
combination keeps me shifting. Why, I seem to be a whole bunch of
fellows mixed up in a free-for-all, sometimes," he added, with a forlorn
smile. "Other fellows can get down to a steady grind and climb; I can't.
God knows I want to, sometimes." He gave her a queer look; she did not
seem to notice.
"And then," he pursued, "I've never had a home, you know, not since the
poor little mother died. Of course, that wasn't much of a home to look
at, but she was there, and I've never had one since. Oh, it's been so
lonesome sometimes; you don't know. It's the man who goes jumping over
the world alone, here today and there tomorrow, that knows what
lonesomeness is. It's that, I tell you, that's raised the devil with me.
Perhaps I'm wrong, but it seems to me that if it had been with me like
it is with others I'd have been different. I've known fellows inclined
the same way as I am, but they settled down and got homes, and now--why,
they've got me beat out of sight."
"Well," she queried eagerly, "why don't you--" and stopped suddenly, her
cheeks crimsoning, for Micky's disturbed face had with her unthinking
words grown suddenly tense with purpose. A flash of realization had
revealed to him his great need, the influence to anchor him and hold him
fast against the restless, turbid tide that sought to sweep him away.
Why, he needed--her! On the word of this slip of a girl hung his
opportunity for a new and better world; a world for two, two who might
work, one for the other,--and climb; a world in which dreams might come
true. In a moment it would have all been poured forth in broken,
incoherent phrase, the sum of Micky's illumining dream and his desire.
But the girl, with the unerring instinct of her sex, divined the
situation and in quick alarm frustrated O'Byrn's intention, though very
gently.
"Well," she said, smiling at him brightly, "we've had a good talk,
haven't we? I'm glad you told me about--everything. I know you'll win,
it's in you. And now--I know you won't mind--but it's gettin' late, and
I have to get up early, you know."
So Micky, effectually forestalled, went away with settled gloom
shadowing his freckled face. For a long time after he had gone the girl
sat by the window, the light turned low; young eyes staring sombrely out
upon the darkened street; young, fearful soul oppressed by the soft
encroaching shadow of the divinest of life's mysteries.