June was ending in a very warm week. Work in the studio lagged, partly
because Dulcie, preparing for graduation, could give Barres little
time; partly because, during June, that young man had been away
spending the week-ends with his parents and his sister at Foreland
Farms, their home.
From one of these visits he returned to the city just in time to read
a frantic little note from Dulcie Soane:
"DEAR MR. BARRES, please, _please_ come to my graduation. I do
want _somebody_ there who knows me. And my father is not well. Is
it too much to ask of you? I hadn't the courage to speak to you
about it when you were here, but I have ventured to write because
it will be so lonely for me to graduate without having anybody
there I know.
"DULCIE SOANE."
It was still early in the morning; he had taken a night train to
town.
So when he had been freshened by a bath and change of linen, he took
his hat and went down stairs.
A heavy, pasty-visaged young woman sat at the desk in the entrance
hall.
"Where is Soane?" he inquired.
"He's sick."
"_Where_ is he?"
"In bed," she replied indifferently. The woman's manner just
verged on impertinence. He hesitated, then walked across to the
superintendent's apartments and entered without knocking.
Soane, in his own room, lay sleeping off the consequences of an
evening at Grogan's. One glance was sufficient for Barres, and he
walked out.
On Madison Avenue he found a florist, selected a bewildering bouquet,
and despatched it with a hasty note, by messenger, to Dulcie at her
school. In the note he wrote:
"I shall be there. Cheer up!"
He also sent more flowers to his studio, with pencilled orders to
Aristocrates.
In a toy-shop he found an appropriate decoration for the centre of the
lunch table.
Later, in a jeweller's, he discovered a plain gold locket, shaped like
a heart and inset with one little diamond. A slender chain by which to
suspend it was easily chosen; and an extra payment admitted him to the
emergency department where he looked on while an expert engraved upon
the locket: "Dulcie Soane from Garret Barres," and the date.
After that he went into the nearest telephone booth and called up
several people, inviting them to dine with him that evening.
It was nearly ten o'clock now. He took his little gift, stopped a
taxi, and arrived at the big brick high-school just in time to enter
with the last straggling parents and family friends.
The hall was big and austerely bare, except for the ribbons and flags
and palms which decorated it. It was hot, too, though all the great
blank windows had been swung open wide.
The usual exercises had already begun; there were speeches from
Authority; prayers by Divinity; choral effects by graduating
pulchritude.
The class, attired in white, appeared to average much older than
Dulcie. He could see her now, in her reconstructed communion dress,
holding the big bouquet which he had sent her, one madonna lily of
which she had detached and pinned over her breast.
Her features were composed and delicately flushed; her bobbed hair was
tucked up, revealing the snowy neck.
One girl after another advanced and read or spoke, performing the
particular parlour trick assigned her in the customary and perfectly
unremarkable manner characteristic of such affairs.
Rapturous parental demonstrations greeted each effort; piano, violin
and harp filled in nobly. A slight haze of dust, incident to
pedalistic applause, invaded the place; there was an odour of flowers
in the heated atmosphere.
Glancing at a programme which he had found on his seat, Barres read:
"Song: Dulcie Soane."
Looking up at her where she sat on the stage, among her comrades in white,
he noticed that her eyes were busy searching the audience--possibly
for him, he thought, experiencing an oddly pleasant sensation at the
possibility.
* * * * *
The time at length arrived for Dulcie to do her parlour trick;
she rose and came forward, clasping the big, fragrant bouquet,
prettily flushed but self-possessed. The harp began a little minor
prelude--something Irish and not very modern. Then Dulcie's pure,
untrained voice stole winningly through the picked harp-strings'
hesitation:
"Heart of a colleen,
Where do you roam?
Heart of a colleen,
Far from your home?
Laden with love you stole from her breast!
Wandering dove, return to your nest!
Sodgers are sailin'
Away to the wars;
Ladies are wailin'
Their woe to the stars;
Why is the heart of you straying so soon--
Heart that was part of you, Eileen Aroon?
Lost to a sodger,
Gone is my heart!
Lost to a sodger,
Now we must part----
I and my heart--for it journeys afar
Along with the sodgers who sail to the war!
Tears that near blind me
My pride shall dry,----
Wisha! don't mind me!
Lave a lass cry!
Only a sodger can whistle the tune
That coaxes the heart out of Eileen Aroon!"
And Dulcie's song ended.
* * * * *
Almost instantly the audience had divined in the words she sang a
significance which concerned them--a warning--perhaps a prophecy. The
69th Regiment of New York infantry was Irish, and nearly every seat in
the hall held a relative of some young fellow serving in its ranks.
The applause was impulsive, stormy, persistent; the audience was
demanding the young girl's recall; the noise they made became
overwhelming, checking the mediating music and baffling the next
embarrassed graduate, scheduled to read an essay, and who stood there
mute, her manuscript in her hand.
Finally the principal of the school arose, went over to Dulcie, and
exchanged a few words with her. Then he came forward, hand lifted in
appeal for silence.
"The music and words of the little song you have just heard," he said,
"were written, I have just learned, by the mother of the girl who sang
them. They were written in Ireland a number of years ago, when Irish
regiments were sent away for over-seas service. Neither words nor song
have ever been published. Miss Soane found them among her mother's
effects.
"I thought the story of the little song might interest you. For,
somehow, I feel--as I think you all feel--that perhaps the day may
come--may be near--when the hearts of our women, too, shall be given
to their soldiers--sons, brothers, fathers--who are 'sailin' away to
the wars.' But if that time comes--which God avert!--then I know that
every man here will do his duty.... And every woman.... And I know
that:
'Tears that near blind you,
Your pride shall dry!----'"
He paused a moment:
"Miss Soane has prepared no song to sing as an encore. In her behalf,
and in my own, I thank you for your appreciation. Be kind enough to
permit the exercises to proceed."
And the graduating exercises continued.
Barres waited for Dulcie. She came out among the first of those
departing, walking all alone in her reconstructed white dress, and
carrying his bouquet. When she caught sight of him, her face became
radiant and she made her way toward him through the crowd, seeking his
outstretched hand with hers, clinging to it in a passion of gratitude
and emotion that made her voice tremulous:
"My bouquet--it is so wonderful! I love every flower in it! Thank you
with all my heart. You are so kind to have come--so kind to me--so
k-kind----"
"It is I who should be grateful, Dulcie, for your charming little
song," he insisted. "It was fascinating and exquisitely done."
"Did you really like it?" she asked shyly.
"Indeed I did! And I quite fell in love with your voice, too--with
that trick you seem to possess of conveying a hint of tears through
some little grace-note now and then.... And there _were_ tears hidden
in the words; and in the melody, too.... And to think that your mother
wrote it!"
"Yes."
After a short interval of silence he released her hand.
"I have a taxi for you," he said gaily. "We'll drive home in state."
The girl flushed again with surprise and gratitude:
"Are--are _you_ coming, too?"
"Certainly I'm going to take you home. Don't you belong to me?" he
demanded laughingly.
"Yes," she said. But her forced little smile made the low-voiced
answer almost solemn.
"Well, then!" he said cheerfully. "Come along. What's mine I look
after. We'll have lunch together in the studio, if you are too proud
to pose for a poor artist this afternoon."
At this her sensitive face cleared and she laughed happily.
"The pride of a high-school graduate!" he commented, as he seated
himself beside her in the taxicab. "Can anything equal it?"
"Yes."
"What?"
"Her pride in your--friendship," she ventured.
Which unexpected reply touched and surprised him.
"You dear child!" he said; "I'm proud of your friendship, too. Nothing
ought to make a man prouder than winning a young girl's confidence."
"You are so kind," she sighed, touching the blossoms in her bouquet
with slender fingers that trembled a little. For she would have
offered him a flower from it had she found courage; but it seemed
presumptuous and she dropped her hand into her lap again.
* * * * *
Aristocrates opened the door for them: Selinda took her away.
Barres had ordered flowers for the table. In the middle of it a doll
stood, attired in academic cap and gown, the Stars and Stripes in one
hand, in the other a green flag bearing a gold harp.
When Dulcie came in she stopped short, enchanted at the sight of the
decorated table. But when Aristocrates opened the kitchen door and her
three cats came trotting in, she was overcome.
For each cat wore a red, white and blue cravat on which was pinned a
silk shamrock; and although Strindberg immediately keeled over on the
rug and madly attacked her cravat with her hind toes, the general
effect remained admirable.
Aristocrates seated Dulcie. Upon her plate was the box containing
chain and locket. And the girl cast a swift, inquiring glance across
the centre flowers at Barres.
"Yes, it's for you, Dulcie," he said.
She turned quite pale at sight of the little gift. After a silence she
leaned on the table with both elbows, shading her face with her
hands.
He let her alone--let the first tense moment in her youthful life ebb
out of it; nor noticed, apparently, the furtive and swift touch of her
best handkerchief to her closed eyes.
Aristocrates brought her a little glass of frosted orange juice. After
an interval, not looking at Barres, she sipped it. Then she took the
locket and chain from the satin-lined box, read the inscription,
closed her lids for a second's silent ecstasy, opened them looking at
him through rapturous tears, and with her eyes still fixed on him
lifted the chain and fastened it around her slender neck.
The luncheon then proceeded, the Prophet gravely assisting from the
vantage point of a neighbouring chair, the Houri, more emotional,
promenading earnestly at the heels of Aristocrates. As for Strindberg,
she possessed neither manners nor concentration, and she alternately
squalled her desires for food or frisked all over the studio,
attempting complicated maneuvres with every curtain-cord and tassel
within reach.
Dulcie had found her voice again--a low, uncertain, tremulous little
voice when she tried to thank him for the happiness he had given
her--a clearer, firmer voice when he dexterously led the conversation
into channels more familiar and serene.
They talked of the graduating exercises, of her part in them, of her
classmates, of education in general.
She told him that since she was quite young she had learned to play
the piano by remaining for an hour every day after school, and
receiving instruction from a young teacher who needed a little extra
pin money.
As for singing, she had had no instruction. Her voice had never been
tried, never been cultivated.
"We'll have it tried some day," he said casually.
But Dulcie shook her head, explaining that it was an expensive process
and not to be thought of.
"How did you pay for your piano lessons?" he asked.
"I paid twenty-five cents an hour. My mother left a little money for
me when I was a baby. I spent it all that way."
"Every bit of it?"
"Yes. I had $500. It lasted me seven years--from the time I was ten to
now."
"_Are_ you seventeen? You don't look it."
"I know I don't. My teachers tell me that my mind is very quick but my
body is slow. It annoys me to be mistaken for a child of fifteen. And
I have to dress that way, too, because my dresses still fit me and
clothes are very expensive."
"Are they?"
Dulcie became confidential and loquacious:
"Oh, very. You don't know about girls' clothes, I suppose. But they
cost a very great deal. So I've had to wear out dresses I've had ever
since I was fourteen and fifteen. And so I can't put up my hair
because it would make my dresses look ridiculous; and that renders the
situation all the worse--to be obliged to go about with bobbed hair,
you see? There doesn't seem to be any way out of it," she ended, with
a despairing little laugh, "and I was seventeen last February!"
"Cheer up! You'll grow old fast enough. And now you're going to have a
jolly little salary as my model, and you ought to be able to buy
suitable clothes. Oughtn't you?"
She did not answer, and he repeated the question. And drew from her,
reluctantly, that her father, so far, had absorbed what money she had
earned by posing.
A dull red gathered under the young man's cheek-bones, but he said
carelessly:
"That won't do. I'll talk it over with your father. I'm very sure
he'll agree with me that you should bank your salary and draw out what
you need for your personal expenses."
Dulcie sat silent over her fruit and bon-bons. Reaction from the keen
emotions of the day had, perhaps, begun to have their effect.
They rose and reseated themselves on the sofa, where she sat in the
corner among gorgeous Chinese cushions, her reconstructed dress now
limp and shabby, the limp madonna lily hanging from her breast.
It had been for her the happiest day of her life. It had dawned the
loneliest, but under the magic of this man's kindness the day was
ending like a day in Paradise.
To Dulcie, however, happiness was less dependent upon receiving than
upon giving; and like all things feminine, mature and immature, she
desired to serve where her heart was enlisted--began to experience the
restless desire to give. What? And as the question silently presented
itself, she looked up at Barres:
"Could I pose for you?"
"On a day like this! Nonsense, Dulcie. This is your holiday."
"I'd really like to--if you want me----"
"No. Curl up here and take a nap. Slip off your gown so you won't muss
it and ask Selinda for a kimono. Because you're going to need your
gown this evening," he added smilingly.
"Why? _Please_ tell me why?"
"No. You've had enough excitement. Tell Selinda to give you a kimono.
Then you can lie down in my room if you like. Selinda will call you in
plenty of time. And after that I'll tell you how we're going to bring
your holiday to a gay conclusion."
She seemed disinclined to stir, curled up there, her eyes brilliant
with curiosity, her lips a trifle parted in a happy smile. She lay
that way for a few moments, looking up at him, her fingers caressing
the locket, then she sat up swiftly.
"Must I take a nap?"
"Certainly."
She sprang to her feet, flashed past him, and disappeared in the
corridor.
"Don't forget to wake me!" she called back.
"I won't forget!"
When he heard her voice again, conversing with Selinda, he opened the
studio door and went down stairs.
Soane, rather the worse for wear, was at the desk, and, standing
beside him, was a one-eyed man carrying two pedlar's boxes under his
arms. They both looked around quickly when Barres appeared. Before he
reached the desk the one-eyed man turned and walked out hastily into
the street.
"Soane," said Barres, "I've one or two things to say to you. The first
is this: if you don't stop drinking and if you don't keep away from
Grogan's, you'll lose your job here."
"Musha, then, Misther Barres----"
"Wait a moment; I'm not through. I advise you to stop drinking and to
keep away from Grogan's. That's the first thing. And next, go on and
graft as much as you like, only warn your pedlar-friends to keep away
from Studio No. 9. Do you understand?"
"F'r the love o' God----"
"Cut out the injured innocence, Soane. I'm telling you how to avoid
trouble, that's all."
"Misther Barres, sorr! As God sees me----"
"I can see you, too. I want you to behave, Soane. This is friendly
advice. That one-eyed pedlar who just beat it has been bothering me.
Other pedlars come ringing at the studio and interrupt and annoy me.
You know the rules. If the other tenants care to stand for it, all
right. But I'm through. Is that plain?"
"It is, sorr," said the unabashed delinquent. The faintest glimmer of
a grin came into his battered eyes. "Sorra a wan o' thim ever lays a
hand to No. 9 bell or I'll have his life!"
"One thing more," continued Barres, smiling in spite of himself at the
Irish of it all. "I am paying Dulcie a salary----"
"Wisha then----"
"Stop! I tell you that she's in my employment on a salary. Don't ever
touch a penny of it again."
"Sure the child's wages----"
"No, they _don't_ belong to the father. Legally, perhaps, but the law
doesn't suit me. So if you take the money that she earns, and blow it
in at Grogan's, I'll have to discharge her because I won't stand for
what you are doing."
"Would you do that, Mr. Barres?"
"I certainly would."
The Irishman scratched his curly head in frank perplexity.
"Dulcie needs clothes suitable to her age," continued Barres. "She
needs other things. I'm going to take charge of her savings so don't
you attempt to tamper with them. You wouldn't do such a thing, anyway,
Soane, if this miserable drink habit hadn't got a hold on you. If you
don't quit, it will down you. You'll lose your place here. You know
that. Try to brace up. This is a rotten deal you're giving yourself
and your daughter."
Soane wept easily. He wept now. Tearful volubility followed--picturesque,
lit up with Hibernian flashes, then rambling, and a hint of slyness in
it which kept one weeping eye on duty watching Barres all the while.
"All right; behave yourself," concluded Barres. "And, Soane, I shall
have three or four people to dinner and a little dancing afterward. I
want Dulcie to enjoy her graduating dance."
"Sure, Misther Barres, you're that kind to the child----"
"_Somebody_ ought to be. Do you know that there was nobody she knew to
see her graduate to-day, excepting myself?"
"Oh, the poor darling! Sure, I was that busy----"
"Busy sleeping off a souse," said Barres drily. "And by the way, who
is that stolid, German-looking girl who alternates with you here at
the desk?"
"Miss Kurtz, sorr."
"Oh. She seems stupid. Where did you dig her up?"
"A fri'nd o' mine riccominds her highly, sorr."
"Is that so? Who is he? One of your German pedlar friends at Grogan's?
Be careful, Soane. You Sinn Feiners are headed for trouble."
He turned and mounted the stairs. Soane looked after him with an
uneasy expression, partly humorous.
"Ah, then, Mr. Barres," he said, "don't be botherin' afther the likes
of us poor Irish. Is there anny harrm in a sup o' beer av a Dootchman
pays?"
Barres looked back at him:
"A one-eyed Dutchman?"
"Ah, g'wan, sorr, wid yer hokin' an' jokin'! Is it graft ye say? An'
how can ye say it, sorr, knowin' me as ye do, Misther Barres?"
The impudent grin on the Irishman's face was too much for the young
man. He continued to mount the stairs, laughing.
X