FRANCES READS MY BOOK.
A great extravagance of mine lies in the fact that I pay my board here,
for the sake of Mrs. Milliken, and take a good many of my meals outside,
for mine. Strange as it may seem to the inveterately domestic, I enjoy a
little table of my own, with a paper or a book beside me and the utter
absence of the "please pass the butter" or "I'll trouble you for the
hash" of the boarding-house.
Hence, I rose from my chair for another refection outside and debated as
to whether I might venture out without my overcoat, when Frieda came out
of Frances's room and penetrated mine.
"She is all right now," I was informed. "Her headache has quite left
her, and Madame Smith has been in to inform her that the shop is to be
opened to-morrow. So I have told Frances she had better continue to lie
down and have a good rest. I may come in again, later this afternoon,
for a cup of tea."
"You are a million times welcome to it," I said, "but you will have to
make it yourself. I have to go over to my sister's where there is
another blessed birthday. I shall have to go out now and pick out a
teddy bear or a Noah's ark. I am afraid they will keep me until late.
Give Frances my love and insist on her going out to-morrow evening with
us, to Camus."
"Very well, I certainly will," answered Frieda, bending over with much
creaking of corset bones. "What are these books on the floor? You ought
to be ashamed of yourself for ill-treating valuable, clean volumes."
"They may be clean, but I doubt their value," I said. "They're only
copies of the 'Land o' Love.'"
"What a pretty cover design, but the girl's nose is out of drawing. Sit
right down and sign one of them for me and I want to take another to
Frances. It will help her to pass away the time."
I obeyed, decorating a blank page with my illegible hieroglyphics, and
repeated the process on a second copy for Frances, after which I
departed.
Goodness knows that I love the whole tribe of my sister's young ones,
and my sister herself, and hold her husband in deep regard. He is a
hard-working and inoffensive fellow, who means well and goes to church
of a Sunday. He proudly introduces me as "my brother-in-law the author,"
and believes all he sees in his morning paper. Despite all this, I abhor
the journey to their bungalow although, once I have reached it, I
unquestionably enjoy the atmosphere of serene home life. The infants
climb on my knees and wipe their little shoes on my trousers, bless
their hearts! To little David, named after me, I was bringing a bat and
baseball mitt, with some tin soldiers. He is now six years old and
permitted to blow his own nose under his mother's supervision. The pride
he takes in this accomplishment is rather touching.
A large box of candies would permit the others to share in my largess,
and I arrived at the top of the Palisades laden like a commuter. After
the many embraces, my expert advice was sought in regard to the proposed
location of an abominable bronze stag, purchased cheap at an auction,
and the thirst I was supposed to be dying from was slaked with homemade
root beer. Thereafter, I was taken for a walk and made to inspect a new
house under construction, that was being erected by an individual who is
godfather to little Philippa. Upon our return, the scratchy phonograph
was called upon to contribute to the general entertainment, my sister
constantly running in and out of the parlor to the kitchen, where a
perspiring straw-headed Swede toiled at the forthcoming dinner.
From this I arose at last, quite happy and slightly dyspeptic. In honor
of the day the children were allowed an extra half-hour of grace before
being driven off to bed. After peace reigned upstairs, I was consulted
at length in regard to my views concerning the future prospects of the
sewing-machine trade, in which John is interested, while my sister
requested my opinion as to an Easter hat. I finally left, after
contributing the wherewithal for a family visit to the circus, and John
was so good as to accompany me all the way to the trolley tracks.
They are lovable, dear people, prudent in their expenditure in order
that their offspring may be well brought up, and happy in their modest
and useful lives. If I were only a successful writer, a maker of best
sellers, I should rejoice in the ability to help them carry out their
plans and achieve their reasonable ambitions. As it is, I can only
assist Santa Claus in his yearly mission and try, at various time, to
bring extra little rays of sunshine to them.
As the trolley and ferryboat brought me home, I had the feeling that the
night was far advanced and that I had been on a long journey which
rendered the prospect of bed and slumber a highly desirable one. But
once in the embrace of the big city, I realized that it was but the
shank of the evening and that the hurried life of the town, maker of
successes and destroyer of many hopes, was throbbing fast. My watch
showed but ten o'clock when I reached my caravanserai, but I climbed up
the last steps, carefully, anxious to avoid making any disturbance that
might awaken Frances and her little one.
To my surprise I found that her door was still open. She was holding my
book, closed, upon her lap, and as she lifted her head I saw her
wonderful eyes gazing at me, swimmingly, and she rose with hand
outstretched.
"Come in for a moment, David. Yes, leave the door open. Baby Paul is
sleeping soundly and will not awaken. Take a chair and let me talk to
you about that book. But--but before I speak of it, I want to have a
long, long look at you. Yes, it is the same dear old David--you haven't
changed a bit. And yet, Dave, you are a great big man. I never knew how
big, until I read this volume. I have been at it ever since you left!"
"My dear child, it is all fiction and, I am afraid, not very good.
Jamieson doesn't think very much of it."
"It makes no difference what he thinks. I know that I haven't been able
to keep my eyes away from it since Frieda brought it in. Oh! David,
where did you ever find such things to say; how did you ever discover
and reveal such depths of feeling, such wonderful truth in the beats of
struggling hearts. You should be so proud of yourself, so glad that this
book of yours will bring comfort and hope to many. It has made me feel
like a new woman, one who has received a message of cheer and gladness.
Thank you, David, for those words written on the fly-leaf, and thank you
still more for the strength and the courage those pages have brought
me!"
I looked at her, rather stupidly, until I reflected that she had read
the volume through the distorting glasses of her friendliness to me, of
the interest she takes in my work.
"My dear," I told her, "I am happy indeed that you have been able to
gather a little wheat from the chaff of the 'Land o' Love.' You have
hypnotized yourself a little into thinking that whatever comes from your
friend Dave must be very good. For your sake, as well as mine, and
especially for the good of Baby Paul, I wish indeed that your impression
may be shared by others."
"I know it will be! It can't help appealing to ever so many. It is
perfectly wonderful. I like your other books, ever so much, but this one
is different."
"That's the trouble," I informed her.
She shook her head, as if in despair at my pessimism.
"Don't be foolish, Dave. You have done a fine piece of work. Oh! You can
smile, if you want to. I know I am nothing but a girl--I mean a
woman--but since early girlhood I have lived in an atmosphere of art,
which is nothing but truth expressed in all its beauty. I think I have
always understood the big things in painting and in music,
instinctively, and in this book I find a melody that uplifts me, a riot
of splendid color which appeals to me, because it is all true."
"Gracious! My dear Frances!" I said, laughing. "I fear that, if you are
ever tempted to read it again, you will meet with a great loss of
illusion."
But she laughed also, her low sweet voice coming clear and happy.
"I--I had been feeling so badly, David, and the moment I set foot in
your dear 'Land o' Love' I was glad again to be alive. My baby looked
more beautiful than ever to me, and the years that are to come, more
hopeful. Dear friend, I am so glad and proud that a man like you has
come into my life!"
For a second only I looked at her, and then my eyes fell. I was glad
indeed of her words, but I felt that her regard and affection would be
all I should ever obtain from her. The love of so glorious a creature
was never meant for a little scribbler, but how splendid a thing it was
for a man to have been able to gain her esteem, to have succeeded in
having her call him, trustfully, by his first name and permit him to
sit beside her in the little room where she spends so many hours and
croons to her baby!
"Dr. Porter says that my throat is doing ever so well," she told me,
after a moment of silence. "He sees no objection to my beginning to sing
a few scales. I must keep very carefully to the middle of my register,
so that I may put no undue strain on my voice. Oh! David! I have always
doubted that it would ever come back. Isn't it queer? Since I finished
the book, I feel uplifted, hopeful. Indeed, I am beginning to believe
that some day I shall sing again, just as I did when----"
A little cloud passed over her face, that darkened it for a moment. She
was evidently thinking of the beautiful days that could never come back.
But after a time it disappeared and she sat in her chair, with hands
folded in her lap upon which the book still rested, looking at me in her
sweet friendly way. Then, suddenly, the little cloud came again and she
leaned forward, swiftly.
"Did--did you see Mr. McGrath?" she asked.
"He sent for me last night," I acknowledged.
"And--and of course he told you----"
"Everything, I suppose."
She kept her eyes lowered, persistently, looking gravely and sadly at
the worn carpet.
"At--at first I couldn't understand," she began. "Frieda told me days
and days ago that he was engaged--she had seen it in a paper. Of course,
he never spoke to me about it. When--when he began to say those things,
I thought he was out of his senses and--and I was afraid. He was pale
and trembling all over, and then I realized that he was asking me to
marry him. Oh! David! For a moment a dreadful temptation came to me. My
baby was in my arms--and this meant that I should always have bread for
him--that he could be taken care of--that it wouldn't matter, then, if I
ever could sing again. I--I could buy health and happiness for him, and
strength. Oh! It came to me just like a flash, and then it went away
again, thank God! I couldn't listen to him. It meant that I should have
to give up the memories that are still living and abandon the struggle,
yes, the blessed struggle for my livelihood and Baby's, to go to him as
a loveless wife. No, it was impossible, David! And he was so unhappy, so
frightfully unhappy when I told him I could never marry him, and--and
then I ran away. And he had always been so kind to me, Dave, and so
considerate--not like you, of course, because nobody could be like you,
but he was always so nice and pleasant, and I never had the slightest
idea that--that he had--that he was in love with me. And--and is it
true, David, that he is engaged to another woman?"
"I am afraid so, Frances, and I think she is a very fine and good woman,
and--and I am sorry for her. He can never have really loved her, of
course, but you know that Gordon was always a schemer, that he had
mapped out all his life like a man planning the building of a house. And
then, all of a sudden, he found out that nature was too strong for him,
that hearts and minds can't be shut within metes and bounds, and that
the real love in him was paramount. Oh! The pity of it all!"
I could see that she was also strongly affected and that it had been a
shock to her, a shrewd and painful blow, to hear my friend begging for a
love she could not give. He had been one of a few people lately come
into her life who had helped to mitigate its bitterness. Her soul, full
of gratitude, had revolted at having been compelled to inflict pain on
him, and yet she had been forced to do so and it had left her weak and
trembling, with temples on fire and throbbing. Then, she had wanted to
shut herself away from all, to try and close her eyes in the hope that
the ever-present vision of this thing might vanish in the darkness of
her room.
"I don't know why it was, Dave, but it seemed to break my heart. I was
never so unhappy, I think, excepting on the day when--when I saw that
terrible announcement. Why! David! How could there have been any love
left in my heart to give away? How could I have listened to such things?
Is there ever a night when I don't kneel down and pray for the poor soul
of the man who lies somewhere on those dreadful fields, buried amid his
comrades, with, perhaps, never a tiny cross over him nor a flower to
bear to him a little of the love I gave him? How often I have wished
that Baby were older, so that he could also join his little hands and
repeat the words after me. I--I wouldn't tell you all this, David, if I
didn't know how well you understand a woman's heart; if I didn't realize
how splendid and disinterested your friendship is."
She stopped. Her eyes were turned towards the little bed where Paul was
sleeping, while one of her hands had sought her forehead again, as if
the pain had returned. And, as I looked at her, I became uneasy with a
sense that she esteemed me too highly and gave me credit I didn't and
couldn't deserve, for, in the heart of me, I knew I loved her with such
intensity of feeling that it hurt me with the bitterest of pangs.
Ay! She had said it. There could be no other love for her! The old one
was still strong in her soul, for the man she would never see again but
whose image was graven so deep in her memory that he was still with her,
a vision upstanding though silent, listening to the prayers she said for
him and, perhaps, in her sleep, no longer a mute wraith of the beloved,
but one who whispered again softly some of the words of long ago. I
would fain, also, have prayed for courage never to bare my heart to her,
for strength enabling me to remain the disinterested friend she deemed
me, to whom she could at least give affection and trust.
"It is late, David," she finally said. "Good night. I think I will read
that last chapter of the 'Land o' Love,' again, before I go to sleep.
It will show me a world full of fine big things and bring the
blessedness of new hope."
"I hope it will, my dear Frances," I answered, and returned to my room
where I touched a match to the gas and filled my big calabash. As I
looked about me, I felt that my little kingdom was a rather bare and
shabby one. Hitherto it had been perfectly sufficient for my needs, nor
had I ever seen in it anything to find fault with. In fact I had many a
time thought myself fortunate in having so secure a retreat, which only
the feet of faithful friends could be attracted to. They would come to
it only for the sake of their old David. They were content to sit on the
edge of the bed, if the chairs gave out. But now I realized that for
some time strange dreams had been coming to me, of a possibility that in
its occupant a marvelous and glorious creature might one day find
something kindred, a heart to which her own would respond. I had begun
to lift my eyes up to her and now I saw how pitiful the room and the
lodger must seem to her. I felt that all that I should ever get out of
life would be fiction, invention, the playing of tunes on hearts of my
own creation that would never beat for me saving in printed pages. Never
could they become my very own; always, they would go out to others, to
laugh or weep or yawn over. They would represent but pieces of silver
with which I might perhaps bring a bit of happiness to a few, after
paying for my shelter and food, and the clothes which Gordon asserts are
never really made for me.
Poor old Gordon! Frieda predicted that he would be hoist by his own
petard, some day, and it has come to pass. He is now far out of sight of
land, and his head is still awhirl with the amazing wrecking of his
schemes. It would have been a bigger thing for him to do, and a braver,
to have gone to that splendid girl Sophia Van Rossum and confessed he
had sinned against her, and begged her pardon, humbly. I suppose he has
written to her and explained that he has lost the right even to touch
the hem of her garment. It is good that he had the saving grace not to
keep up his pretence of love for her, but his sudden and amazing
departure shows how keenly he has felt the blow. His ambitions have
flown, his plans gone a-gley, and the one thing that could remain was
the eager searching for an immediate change, for a reckless occupation
in whose pursuit he might gamble with his life and, perhaps, throw it
away. I saw his purpose, clearly. In the ambulance corps there would be
no long months of drilling, no marching up and down fields and roads
clear of any enemy. He could at once go to work and play his part in the
great game. May he return safely, and may the hand of time deal gently
with him! Were I fitted for it, I should gladly take his place. The idea
of also running away, before temptation becomes unendurable, is
beginning to appeal to me with no little strength.
But what could I do at that front where they want men of youthful vigor
and bravery, in whom the generous sap of life at its finest runs
swiftly? I think I will have to remain here and continue to turn out my
little stories. I will keep on giving them a happy ending, that my
readers may finish them contentedly. But always I shall remain conscious
of the tale of my own life, in which there will never be an entrance
into that happiness I so freely bestow on the poor little children of my
imagination.
Yet, who knows? It may be that, for many years yet, I may from time to
time see Frances, even if her art should take her at times far from me.
She may teach Baby Paul to look upon me as some sort of uncle, who bears
him great affection and even love. The boy may, in the future, come to
me and tell me of his pleasures and his pains, and listen to the advice
old fellows so freely and uselessly give. And I will talk to him of his
mother, of the brave good woman who toiled for him, who shed the benison
of her tenderness on him, and yet had some left that she could bestow on
the obscure scribbler. Never will I tell him that the writer of stories
loved her, for that is something that must remain locked up in my
heart.