For a moment he hesitated whether to go down or up the street. The
air was biting, but the snow, fairly well cleaned from the sidewalks,
no longer bothered; and, crossing into Madison Avenue, he turned down
and began to walk rapidly toward that part of the city where there
would be few people and little glare, and as he walked unconsciously
he repeated over and over to himself: "Dorothea has just told me. I
am so sorry."
"Mister, please, sir, buy a paper?" He stopped abruptly. The boy in
front of him stamped first one foot and then the other, and the hand
he held out was rough and red. Drawing it back he blew on it for a
little warmth.
"What are you doing out this time of night?" Laine asked the question
hardly knowing why. "You ought to be home in bed."
"Ain't got no home." The boy laughed cheerfully, and again put his
fist to his mouth and blew upon it. "I'm sleepin' with another boy
this week, but I have to pay him. Please buy a paper, Mister!"
Under his breath Laine caught himself saying something, then handed
the boy a piece of money and passed on. Where was he, anyhow?
Surely he was in no mood for the life of this neighborhood. It was
one he had seldom been in, and as he looked at its houses dull wonder
filled him as to their occupants. To keep breath in their bodies
meant sordid struggle and bitter strife, but possibly they were
happy. Certainly he had long since learned the possession of mere
material things did not mean happiness. He had long since learned a
great many things it was unfortunate to know.
A clock in the church near by struck ten, and turning he went over
into the Avenue and began his walk up-town. As he reached Madison
Square he looked at the empty benches and wondered as to the fate of
the derelicts who daily filled them in warm weather, and wondered if
they, too, wondered what it was all for--this thing called life.
In contrast to the traffic of the day the stillness of the Avenue was
puzzling. Only the whir of an automobile or the occasional hoofbeats
of a cab-horse broke the silence, and hardly less dark than the
tenements just passed were its handsome houses, with their closed
shutters and drawn curtains, and the restless occupants therein. As
he reached the Park he stopped, hesitated, and lighted a fresh cigar.
Three squares away was his sister's house, and in it was the girl
with the fresh, clear voice. He took the note she had sent him out
of his pocket, and in the light hanging just above him looked again
at the firm, clear writing, then put it back. Did she, too, wonder
at life, at its emptiness and aimlessness? Her voice did not sound
as if she were tired of it or found it wearisome. It sounded like a
very happy voice.
At his door he turned the latch-key, and for a moment--a bare
moment--drew back; then, with a shiver, he opened the door and went
inside.
Moses was waiting. "Miss Dorothea she called me up, sir, and told me
to be sure and give you this letter to-night. She slip out of bed to
telephone when that French white lady was out the room, she say. She
had her Ma send it by messenger, and she was so 'fraid you wouldn't
get it to-night she couldn't sleep. She sent a peck of love."
Laine took the letter and went to his room. Dorothea was given to
letters, and if his absence was unduly long a communication to that
effect was promptly received. He had seen her last night, however.
What was she wanting now? Breaking the seal, he read the sprawly
writing with narrowed eyes, then read again, that he might miss no
word.
DEAR UNCLE WINTHROP,--Moses telefoned us and Channing and I have just
cried and cried and cried. But I won't even call his name if you
will only come and let me kiss you so you will know. We wanted to
send you some flowers but Claudia said our love was best. She is so
sorry too. She had one and it died last spring. I had a headake
to-day. It came from my heart because of you and she made it go
away. I think she could make most any kind of pain go away. And her
hands are not red and her hair is brown and her lashes are brown too,
and long and lovely. I don't know the color of her eyes. I think
they are glad color. I love her! I knew I would.
Your devoted niece, DOROTHEA.
P. S.--I told her you didn't like young ladies and she said she
didn't like old gentlemen, except a few. Please, P-L-E-A-S-E come
and see me--and you can come in the nursery if you don't want to see
her. She knows.
Your loving niece,
DOROTHEA.
P. S. Again.--You ought to hear her laugh. Its delishus.
He put the letter back in the envelope, and the envelope in his
pocket. "She knows," he repeated. What under heaven had Dorothea
been telling her? He must see Dorothea and have it stopped. Did she
think him a feeble and infirm person who leaned on a stick, or a
crabbed and cross one who had no manners? He would have to call, if
only to thank her for her note. No. He would do that in writing.
Next week, perhaps, he might drop in and see Dorothea. But Hope and
Channing should take the girl about, show her the city. Certainly
Hope could not be so idiotic as to let clothes matter. In his
sister's world clothes were the insignia of its order, and of late
Hope had shown signs that needed nipping. He must see Hope. Next
week would be time enough, but Hope and Dorothea must both be seen.