GORDON HELPS
The passing of the next week or two can only be referred to in a few
words, for how can a man gauge the distress of a soul, measure the
intensity of its pangs, weight the heavy burden of sorrow? That good
little Dr. Porter came in very often. Most tactfully he pretended that
his visits were chiefly to me, and would merely drop into the other room
on his way out of mine; at any rate the smallness of the bill he
rendered long afterwards made me surmise that this was the case.
In the meanwhile, the weather remained very warm and the doors were
often left open. I went into the room quite frequently. Eulalie is the
salt of the earth, but she still has a little of the roughness of the
unground crystal so that, for conversational purposes, Frances Dupont
perhaps found my presence more congenial. Her faithful, but temporary,
retainer was always there, exuding an atmosphere of robust health and
lending propriety to my visits. She was generally darning socks.
The hungry one snatches at any morsel presented to him, while those who
are dying of thirst pay little heed to the turbidity of pools they may
chance upon. The poor Murillo-girl, perforce, had to be content with
such friendship and care as her two new friends could give her. Frieda
always came in once a day, but she was tremendously busy with her Orion.
Indeed, her visits were eagerly awaited; she brought little doses of
comfort, tiny portions of cheer that vied with Porter's remedies in
efficacy and, possibly, were much pleasanter to take.
From my friend Hawkins I borrowed baby-scales, fallen into desuetude,
and triumphantly jotted down the ounces gained each week by Baby Paul. I
believe that the humorous peculiarities of my countenance excited the
infant's risibilities; at any rate, the young mother assured me that he
smiled when he looked at me. Presently, after the violence of the blow
had been slightly assuaged and the hours of silent weeping began to grow
shorter, she managed, at times, to look at me as if I also brought a
little consolation.
I remember so well the morning when I found the bed empty and neatly
made up and the young woman sitting in an uncomfortable rocker. I
insisted on returning at once to my room for my old Morris chair,
knowing that she would be much easier in it. At first, to my
consternation, she refused to accept it, under some plea that she did
not want me to be deprived of it. When she finally consented, her eyes
were a little moist and I was delighted when she acknowledged that it
gave her excellent comfort. A little later came the chapter of
confidences, memories of brief happy days with her husband, the warp and
woof of an existence that had already suffered from broken threads and
heart-strings sorely strained.
She had an Aunt Lucinda, it appeared, and when the teacher of singing in
Providence had declared that the girl's voice was an uncut jewel of
great price that must be smoothed over to perfection by study abroad,
the aunt had consented to extend some help and Frances had gone over.
There had been nearly two years of hard study, with some disappointments
and rebuffs, and, finally, great improvement. The crabbed teacher had
begun to smile at her and pat her on the back, so that other young
women had been envious. This, I presume, was tantamount to a badge of
merit. Then, she had sung in one or two concerts and, suddenly, Paul
Dupont, the marvelous, had come into her life. He was a first prize of
the _Conservatoire_, for the violin, and, people said, the coming man.
There had been another concert and, among other things, Frances had sung
Gounod's "Ave Maria" while Paul had played the obligato. It was then
that, for the first time, her own voice thrilled her. Joined to the
vibrant notes the man could cause to weep and cry out in hope, her song
had sounded like a solemn paean of victorious achievement. Critics had
written of her power and brilliancy, of her splendid ease of execution.
And then had come the making of love. He had played again for her, and
she had put her soul in the songs, for him to revel in, for her to cry
out the beating of her heart. It seemed to have come with the swiftness
of a summer storm, and they had married, with just a few friends present
to witness the ceremony and rejoice in their happiness.
Aunt Lucinda had written that a woman, who would go abroad and espouse
a Papist and a fiddler, was utterly beyond the pale. Let her never show
her face in Providence again!
But what did it matter! Happiness lay in the hollow of their hands, rosy
and bright, full of wondrous promise. Yet she had written to Aunt
Lucinda, dutifully, expressing hope that at some later time she might be
looked upon with greater indulgence. And there had been more beautiful
songs, and Paul had played, and their souls had vibrated together.
Finally, a man from New York had engaged them to come over to America
and give a series of concerts. When they started away, she thought she
was getting a bad cold, for her voice was beginning to get a little
husky. Paul asserted that the trip at sea and the long rest would
certainly make everything all right. But in New York she had been
compelled to call on a doctor, who was an exceedingly busy man, with
hosts of patients, who sprayed her throat and gave her medicine to take
and charged very high fees, and--and the voice had kept on growing
huskier and--and it was no use trying to sing, and--and the engagement
had been broken. And Paul had been so good and swore she would be better
by and by, and he had played in concerts, without her, and everything
went on very well, except her voice. Then, one day, she had told a most
marvelous secret to Paul, and they had rejoiced together and been very
happy. Then the war had come like a bolt from the blue, and Paul had
taken the very first boat with hundreds of other reservists. She would
follow him to France after the baby was born, and there she would wait
for him in the dear old house of his parents, who were country people,
cultivating a farm and oh! so proud of their wonderful son. They had
been ever so good and kind to her. She had written to them several
times, but no answer had ever come and then some one told her that the
small village in which they lived had been razed to the ground. It was
over there on the other side of the Marne. And now it was ever so long
since she had received any word from Paul, and they had saved very
little, because money came so easily, and--and now Paul was dead and she
couldn't sing!
Frieda was in the room with me when the tale was told. She rushed out,
and I found her, a few minutes later, in my room, her nose swollen and
her eyes devastated by weeping. But she used my wash-basin and towels
for plentiful ablutions and returned to the room where I left her alone
with Frances Dupont, realizing the futility of a man in such
circumstances.
At the end of another week our stout angel burst again into my room.
Eulalie had been discharged, with mutual regrets, and little Paul was
growing apace. Three and a half ounces in seven days!
"Dave! We've got to find something for Frances to do! In a very short
time she will not have a penny left. Go to work at once and, in the
meanwhile, I'll do my best also. Yes, I know perfectly well that the two
of us will see that she doesn't suffer, but she doesn't want charity;
she wants work!"
She was off again, and I knew that she would at once inquire of the
butcher, the baker and the candlestick-maker in regard to positions
suited to a young woman with a Murillo-face and a baby. I put on my hat
and went at once to Gordon's studio, facing Central Park. I was lucky
enough to find him in.
"Sit down and don't bother me," he said pleasantly. "I must use up the
last of this light."
Before him stood an easel with a wonderful portrait of a young woman
endowed with splendid neck and arms. He was working at some detail of
the gown, which the lady had evidently sent over for him, since the
garment was disposed about a large mannikin with a vacuous face. I
watched delightedly the sure touches with which he reproduced the sheen
of the silk. Gordon doesn't want to talk while he paints, pretending
that in order to do his best work a man must bend all his energies to
it, whether he is sawing wood or writing elegies.
"People wouldn't begin chatting to a fellow while he played Chopin," he
told me one day. "What right have they to disturb the harmonies in a
man's mind when he's creating melodies in color? Hang their
impertinence!"
I presume, however, that painting a silk dress was somewhat mechanical
work to him, for, after some minutes of silent toil, during which he
only stepped back once to survey his work, he began to speak. Like many
other people, he has not the slightest objection to the infringing of
his own rules. It only behooves others to obey them.
"That's Miss Sophia Van Rossum," he told me, taking his short pipe out
of his mouth and putting it down on his stool. "She's been coming in
from Southampton three times a week, to pose. Drives her own car, you
know, and has been arrested a dozen times for speeding. So I finished
the face and hands first, and now I'm sticking in the dress. Don't need
her for that."
"Very rich people, are they not?" I asked.
"You bet. Zinc and lead, I believe; the old man made it in. Fine buxom
creature, isn't she? And mighty good hearted in her way. She hasn't much
more brains than a linnet, I think, and she swims and rows and shoots.
Golf and tennis, too. Found her rather hard to paint, because it's
difficult for her to keep still. Keeps on asking indignantly why I put
blue on her nose, and reaching out for the box of chocolates. I told her
last time I couldn't paint her with one cheek all bulged out with
_pralines_. It made her laugh, and I lost fifteen minutes before I could
quiet her down."
He worked hard for another ten minutes, during which I considered that
he was rather severe on the young lady, or else had idealized her, which
is not a habit of his. To me she looks kindly and not a bit
unintelligent, a rather fine specimen of the robustious modern young
woman. Gordon picked up his brushes.
"That'll do," he said. "The light is changing. Now what the devil do you
want? Awfully glad to see you."
My friend is a good listener. I told him about Frances Dupont, giving
him a brief account of her story and explaining that Frieda and I wanted
to find something for her to do.
"Of course," I finally said, "I suppose that you are going away very
soon to spend the rest of this hot summer in the country. Otherwise, I
would have asked if you couldn't make use of her for a model, at least
till we can find something else."
"I'm not going away yet," he answered, "and I emphatically cannot employ
her, or, at any rate, I won't, which comes to the same thing. Hitherto I
have kept my serenity of mind unimpaired by the simple process of
fighting shy of females in distress. There are lots of models who can be
depended on to keep their mouths shut and not bother a fellow. My
interest is in my picture and nothing else, and I refuse to have it
diverted by the economical problems of ladies on their uppers. If you
want a check, I'll give it to you for her, not on her account, but
because you're the best, old, weak-minded idiot in this burg and I'm
glad to help you out, however silly your quixotic ideas may be. Wait a
minute, I'll write one out for you."
"No," I answered, "I've just sold two stories and got some advance
royalty on my novel. I'd come and ask you for money, if I needed it,
urgently. I might have to, some day. But this poor thing's worrying
herself to death and that's what I want to remedy at once, if possible.
A little occupation would give her something else to think about. If I
tell her that she will have to pose in silence, that it's a part of the
work she's engaged for, she won't say a word. She's an intelligent
woman."
"Why doesn't Frieda employ her?" he asked.
"Because she's no slender, ethereal sprite. Doesn't have anything of the
woodland nymph about her, that's why. Besides, Frieda's doing an Orion
with a covey of Pleiades scattering before him, at present."
"I have nothing for the Winter Academy, just now," said Gordon,
appearing to relent a little. "Strangely enough, Miss Van Rossum doesn't
care to have her portrait exhibited. If I really found a remarkable
type, I'd like to do a mother and child. If you really think this Mrs.
Dupont will keep still and is willing to earn a few weeks of bread and
cheese by the silence of her tongue and some ability to sit quietly in a
chair without getting the fidgets, I shouldn't mind trying her. But, of
course, she'd have to come up to specifications. I'll have to look at
her first. Have you spoken to her about it?"
"Not a word," I answered, "I didn't want to see her disappointed."
"Of course, it's a foolish thing to do," he said, "but you're so anxious
about it that I'll see whether it can be managed. She's just heard of
her husband's death, has she? Well, she won't be thinking of other men
for a while and won't expect to be made love to. Take up your hat, and
we'll go over to that nursery of yours. I'll look her over."
If I hadn't known him so well, I should have been provoked at his
speaking as if the woman had been some second-hand terrier I wanted to
dispose of. We took the elevator and were shot down to the ground
floor.
"Mind you," he warned me, "it's ten to one that I'll discover something
that will make this errand useless. The mere fact of a woman's having a
broken-down voice and a baby doesn't necessarily qualify her to pose as
a mother. The woods are full of them. You've probably endowed her with
good looks that exist only in your imagination."
To this I made no answer. The mere fact of his having consented to
investigate was already a distinct triumph for me. Twenty minutes later
we were climbing up the stairs of what he called my zoological
boarding-house.
On the second landing, he stopped abruptly and listened. Then he turned
to me with a corner of his mouth twisted in the beginning of one of his
sarcastic grins.
"Who's that playing your piano?" he asked.
"I--I fancy it must be Mrs. Dupont," I answered. "You see, she's very
much alone, and my door was open, and I suppose she saw the thing and
walked in, not knowing that I should return so soon."
"Oh! You needn't look so sheepish," he told me. "You look as if a
policeman had caught you with a jimmy in your hip-pocket. My dear old
boy, I hope she isn't the straw that's going to break your back, you old
Bactrian camel! The little wagons they use for the carrying of dynamite
in New York, wherewith to soften its tough old heart and permit the
laying of foundations, are painted red and marked _explosives_. Were I
the world's czar, I should have every woman labelled the same way.
They're dangerous things."
Gordon is somewhat apt to mix his metaphors, a thing rather natural to
one who seeks to wed his wit with a pose of scepticism. Really simple
language, clothing ordinary common sense, is inadequate for a scoffer;
also, I am afraid, for a man who writes about mules and virtuous dogs.
I think we both instinctively stepped more lightly in ascending the
remaining stairs. She was playing very softly. It was a dreamy thing
with recurring little sobs of notes. For a moment we stopped again; I
think it had appealed to us. Then I went in, accompanied by Gordon, and
she ceased at once, startled and coloring a little.
"I am so glad you were diverting yourself with the old piano," I told
her. "I hope you will always use it when I am out, and--and perhaps
once in a while when I am in. My mother used to play such things; she
wasn't always happy. I beg to present my friend Gordon McGrath, who is a
great painter. He's awfully fond of Frieda."
This, I think, was a canny and effective introduction. Any friend of
Frieda's must be very welcome to her.
"Madame," said Gordon, after she had proffered her hand, "won't you
oblige us by sitting down. You have been caught in the act and deserve
the penalty of being humbly begged to play that over again."
She looked at me, uncertainly.
"It would give me ever so much pleasure," I assured her.
At once she sat again and touched the keys. I know so little of music
that my opinions in regard to it are utterly worthless, but I knew at
once that she was no marvelous pianist. No, she was only a woman with a
soul for harmony, which found soft and tender expression on my mother's
old Steinway. Gordon, I noted, sat down in my worst chair, with an elbow
on his knee, his chin resting on the closed knuckles. It was evident
that he was watching her, studying her every motion, the faint swaying
of her shapely head, the wandering of her hands over the keyboard. Once,
she stopped very suddenly and listened.
[Illustration: No, she was only a woman, with a soul for harmony.]
"I beg your pardon," she said, "I thought it was Baby."
She went on, reassured, to an ending that came very soon. It left in me
a desire for more, but I could not ask her to continue. She had brought
a tiny bit of herself into the room, but she belonged body and soul to
the mite in the other.
"I am ever so much obliged to you," I said, as she rose.
"Madame," said Gordon, "it was indeed a treat."
"I am very glad you liked it," she said very simply, "and--and now I
must go back."
She smiled, faintly, and inclined her head. We had both risen and
thanked her again. She passed out of the room and, once she had regained
her own, I heard her faint, husky voice.
"It's mother's own wee lamb!" it said.
Gordon picked up one of my cigarettes, looked at it, put it down, and
took one of his own from his case. Then, he went and stood in front of
my open window, looking out, with his hands stuffed deeply in his
trousers pockets. I maintained a discreet silence.
"Come over here," he ordered, brusquely, as is often his way, and I
complied, holding on to my calabash and filling it from my pouch.
"Dave," he said, very low, that his voice might not carry through the
open doors into the next room. "Those powder-wagons aren't in it. When
the dynamite happens to blow up some Dago, it's a mere accident; the
stuff itself is intended for permissible purposes. A woman like that is
bound to play havoc with some one, and I'm afraid you're the poor old
idiot marked by fate. You're as weak as a decrepit cat. I can see the
whole programme; sympathy at first and the desire to console, all mixed
up with the imagination that has permitted you to write that 'Land o'
Love.' My dear man, you might just as well go and commit suicide in some
decent way. If you don't look out, you're done for!"
"Don't be an ass, Gordon," I told him, lighting my pipe.
"All right, it's your own funeral. But don't come to me, afterwards, and
weep on my shirtfront, that's all. Women get over the loss of a
husband, they even become reconciled to the death of a baby, sometimes.
And this one has music in her soul, and for ever and a day she is going
to deplore the song that fled from her lips. She'll always be unhappy
and you'll have to keep on consoling, and the freedom of your thoughts
will vanish, and, when you try to write, you will have her and her
miseries always before you. Then you will shed tears on your typewriter
instead of producing anything. Better give Frieda some money for her and
go fishing. Don't come back until the Milliken woman sends a postal
telling you that the coast is clear."
"I know nothing about fishing," I answered.
"Then go and learn."
"You're talking arrant nonsense," I informed him.
"I am giving you the quintessence of solid wisdom," he retorted. "But
now I'll tell you about her posing for me. I'm not doing this for your
sake or hers, but because she has a really interesting head, and I know
myself. I can get a good picture out of her, and I'll employ her for
about three weeks. That'll be plenty. After that, I expect to go away
and stay with the Van Rossums in the country. While Mrs. Dupont is busy
posing for me, you and Frieda can look up another job for her. Let me
see; I might possibly be able to pass her on to some other studio, if
she takes to posing, properly."
I put my pipe down, intending to strike while the iron was hot.
"Come in with me," I told him.
"Of course you understand that in some ways she's going to be a good
deal of a nuisance," he said hurriedly. "The baby squalling when I've
just happened to get into my stride and the mother having to retire to
feed the thing. But never mind, she's got quite a stunning face."
I knocked at her door, although I could see her sitting at the window
with the baby in her arms.
"Please don't trouble to get up," I said. "My friend Gordon happens to
need a model; he's thinking of a picture of a mother and child and has
told me that, if you could pose for him, he would be glad to employ you.
It wouldn't last very long, but you would have the baby with you. By the
way, painters have to think very hard when they're at work and so they
can't talk much at the same time, so that models have to keep very
still. I know you won't mind that, because it's part of the work."
The top button of her waist was open. Instinctively her hand went up to
it and covered the very small expanse of white neck that had been
revealed.
"A model!" she exclaimed huskily. "I--I don't know----"
Gordon's face looked as if it was graven in stone.
"It is just for the face and hands," he said coldly. "It will be a
picture of a woman sitting at an open window; just as you were when we
came in. Of course, if you don't care to----"
"Oh! Indeed, I shall be very glad and--and grateful," she answered, very
low. "I will do my best to please you."
"Thanks! I shall be obliged, if you will come on Monday morning at ten."
"Certainly. I shall be there without fail," she answered.
"Very well. I am glad to have met you, Mrs. Dupont. David, I wish I
could dine with you at Camus, this evening, but I have an appointment to
meet some people at Claremont. Good-by."
He bowed civilly to Frances Dupont, waved a hand at me, and was gone.
"Gordon is a tip-top painter," I told her. "His ways are sometimes
rather gruff, but you mustn't mind them. He means all right."
"Oh! That makes no difference. Some of my teachers were pretty gruff,
but I paid no attention. I only thought of the work to be done."
"Of course, that's the only thing to keep in mind," I answered.
"Yes, and I am ever so much obliged to you," she said gratefully.
"You're the best and kindest of friends."
With this I left her and returned to my room, hoping that Gordon
wouldn't be too exacting with her, and thinking with much amusement of
all his warnings and his fears for my safety. That's the trouble with
being so tremendously wise and cynical; it doesn't make for optimism.