_ Two days before the date set for Von Gerhard's departure
the book was finished, typed, re-read, packed, and sent
away. Half an hour after it was gone all its most
glaring faults seemed to marshall themselves before my
mind's eye. Whole paragraphs, that had read quite
reasonably before, now loomed ludicrous in perspective.
I longed to snatch it back; to tidy it here, to take it
in there, to smooth certain rough places neglected in my
haste. For almost a year I had lived with this thing, so
close that its faults and its virtues had become
indistinguishable to me. Day and night, for many months,
it had been in my mind. Of late some instinct had
prompted me to finish it. I had worked at it far into
the night, until I marveled that the ancient occupants of
the surrounding rooms did not enter a combined protest
against the clack-clacking of my typewriter keys. And
now that it was gone I wondered, dully, if I could feel
Von Gerhard's departure more keenly.
No one knew of the existence of the book except
Norah, Von Gerhard, Blackie and me. Blackie had a way of
inquiring after its progress in hushed tones of mock awe.
Also he delighted in getting down on hands and knees and
guiding a yard-stick carefully about my desk with a view
to having a fence built around it, bearing an inscription
which would inform admiring tourists that here was the
desk at which the brilliant author had been wont to sit
when grinding out heart-throb stories for the humble
Post. He took an impish delight in my struggles with
my hero and heroine, and his inquiries after the health
of both were of such a nature as to make any earnest
writer person rise in wrath and slay him. I had seen
little of Blackie of late. My spare hours had been
devoted to the work in hand. On the day after the book
was sent away I was conscious of a little shock as I
strolled into Blackie's sanctum and took my accustomed
seat beside his big desk. There was an oddly pinched
look about Blackie's nostrils and lips, I thought. And
the deep-set black eyes appeared deeper and blacker than
ever in his thin little face.
A week of unseasonable weather had come upon the
city. June was going out in a wave of torrid heat such
as August might have boasted. The day had seemed endless and
intolerably close. I was feeling very limp and languid.
Perhaps, thought I, it was the heat which had wilted
Blackie's debonair spirits.
"It has been a long time since we've had a talk-talk,
Blackie. I've missed you. Also you look just a wee bit
green around the edges. I'm thinking a vacation wouldn't
hurt you."
Blackie's lean brown forefinger caressed the bowl of
his favorite pipe. His eyes, that had been gazing out
across the roofs beyond his window, came back to me, and
there was in them a curious and quizzical expression as
of one who is inwardly amused.
"I've been thinkin' about a vacation. None of your
measly little two weeks' affairs, with one week on
salary, and th' other without. I ain't goin' t' take my
vacation for a while--not till fall, p'raps, or maybe
winter. But w'en I do take it, sa-a-ay, girl, it's goin'
t' be a real one."
"But why wait so long?" I asked. "You need it now.
Who ever heard of putting off a vacation until winter!"
"Well, I dunno," mused Blackie. "I just made my
arrangements for that time, and I hate t' muss 'em up.
You'll say, w'en the time comes, that my plans are
reasonable."
There was a sharp ring from the telephone at
Blackie's elbow. He answered it, then thrust the
receiver into my hand. "For you," he said.
It was Von Gerhard's voice that came to me. "I have
something to tell you," he said. "Something most
important. If I call for you at six we can drive out to
the bay for supper, yes? I must talk to you."
"You have saved my life," I called back. "It has been
a beast of a day. You may talk as much and as
importantly as you like, so long as I am kept cool."
"That was Von Gerhard," said I to Blackie, and tried
not to look uncomfortable.
"Mm," grunted Blackie, pulling at his pipe.
"Thoughtful, ain't he?"
I turned at the door. "He-- he's going away day
after to-morrow, Blackie," I explained, although no
explanation had been asked for, "to Vienna. He expects
to stay a year--or two--or three--"
Blackie looked up quickly. "Goin' away, is he?
Well, maybe it's best, all around, girl. I see his
name's been mentioned in all the medical papers, and the
big magazines, and all that, lately. Gettin' t' be a big
bug, Von Gerhard is. Sorry he's goin', though. I was
plannin' t' consult him just before I go on my--vacation.
But some other guy'll do. He don't approve of me, Von
Gerhard don't."
For some reason which I could never explain I went
back into the room and held out both my hands to Blackie.
His nervous brown fingers closed over them. "That
doesn't make one bit of difference to us, does it,
Blackie?" I said, gravely. "We're--we're not caring so
long as we approve of one another, are we?"
"Not a bit, girl," smiled Blackie, "not a bit."
When the green car stopped before the Old Folks' Home
I was in seraphic mood. I had bathed, donned clean linen
and a Dutch-necked gown. The result was most
soul-satisfying. My spirits rose unaccountably. Even
the sight of Von Gerhard, looking troubled and distrait,
did not quiet them. We darted away, out along the lake
front, past the toll gate, to the bay road stretching its
flawless length along the water's side. It was alive
with swift-moving motor cars swarming like
twentieth-century pilgrims toward the mecca of cool
breezes and comfort. There were proud limousines;
comfortable family cars; trim little roadsters; noisy
runabouts. Not a hoof-beat was to be heard. It was as
though the horseless age had indeed descended upon the
world. There was only a hum, a rush, a roar, as car
after car swept on.
Summer homes nestled among the trees near the lake.
Through the branches one caught occasional gleams of
silvery water. The rush of cool air fanned my hot
forehead, tousled my hair, slid down between my collar
and the back of my neck, and I was grandly content.
"Even though you are going to sail away, and even
though you have the grumps, and refuse to talk, and scowl
like a jabberwock, this is an extremely nice world. You
can't spoil it."
"Behute!" Von Gerhard's tone was solemn.
"Would you be faintly interested in knowing that the
book is finished?"
"So? That is well. You were wearing yourself thin
over it. It was then quickly perfected."
"Perfected!" I groaned. "I turn cold when I think of
it. The last chapters got away from me completely. They
lacked the punch."
Von Gerhard considered that a moment, as I wickedly
had intended that he should. Then--"The punch? What is
that then--the punch?"
Obligingly I elucidated. "A book may be written in
flawless style, with a plot, and a climax, and a lot of
little side surprises. But if it lacks that peculiar and
convincing quality poetically known as the punch, it might
as well never have been written. It can never be a
six-best-seller, neither will it live as a classic. You
will never see it advertised on the book review page of
the Saturday papers, nor will the man across the aisle in
the street car be so absorbed in its contents that he will
be taken past his corner."
Von Gerhard looked troubled. "But the literary
value? Does that not enter--"
"I don't aim to contribute to the literary uplift,"
I assured him. "All my life I have cherished two
ambitions. One of them is to write a successful book,
and the other to learn to whistle through my teeth--this
way, you know, as the gallery gods do it. I am almost
despairing of the whistle, but I still have hopes of the
book."
Whereupon Von Gerhard, after a moment's stiff
surprise, gave vent to one of his heartwarming roars.
"Thanks," said I. "Now tell me the important news."
His face grew serious in an instant. "Not yet, Dawn.
Later. Let us hear more about the book. Not so
flippant, however, small one. The time is past when you
can deceive me with your nonsense."
"Surely you would not have me take myself seriously!
That's another debt I owe my Irish forefathers. They
could laugh--bless 'em!--in the very teeth of a potato
crop failure. And let me tell you, that takes some sense
of humor. The book is my potato crop. If it fails it
will mean that I must keep on drudging, with a knot or
two taken in my belt. But I'll squeeze a smile out of
the corner of my mouth, somehow. And if it succeeds!
Oh, Ernst, if it succeeds!"
"Then, Kindchen?"
"Then it means that I may have a little thin layer of
jam on my bread and butter. It won't mean money--at
least, I don't think it will. A first book never does.
But it will mean a future. It will mean that I will have
something solid to stand on. It will be a real
beginning--a breathing spell--time in which to accomplish
something really worth while--independence--freedom from
this tread-mill--"
"Stop!" cried Von Gerhard, sharply. Then, as I
stared in surprise--"I do ask your pardon. I was again
rude, nicht wahr? But in me there is a queer vein of
German superstition that disapproves of air castles.
Sich einbilden, we call it."
The lights of the bay pavilion twinkled just ahead.
The green car poked its nose up the path between rows of
empty machines. At last it drew up, panting, before a
vacant space between an imposing, scarlet touring car and
a smart, cream-colored runabout. We left it there and
walked up the light-flooded path.
Inside the great, barn-like structure that did duty
as pavilion glasses clinked, chairs scraped on the wooden
floor; a burst of music followed a sharp fusillade of
applause. Through the open doorway could be seen a
company of Tyrolese singers in picturesque costumes of
scarlet and green and black. The scene was very noisy,
and very bright, and very German.
"Not in there, eh?" said Von Gerhard, as though
divining my wish. "It is too brightly lighted, and too
noisy. We will find a table out here under the trees,
where the music is softened by the distance, and our eyes
are not offended by the ugliness of the singers. But
inexcusably ugly they are, these Tyrolese women."
We found a table within the glow of the pavilion's
lights, but still so near the lake that we could hear the
water lapping the shore. A cadaverous, sandy-haired
waiter brought things to eat, and we made brave efforts
to appear hungry and hearty, but my high spirits were
ebbing fast, and Von Gerhard was frankly distraught.
One of the women singers appeared suddenly in the doorway
of the pavilion, then stole down the steps, and disappeared
in the shadow of the trees beyond our table. The voices of
the singers ceased abruptly. There was a moment's hushed
silence. Then, from the shadow of the trees came a woman's
voice, clear, strong, flexible, flooding the night with the
bird-like trill of the mountain yodel. The sound rose
and fell, and swelled and soared. A silence. Then, in
a great burst of melody the chorus of voices within the
pavilion answered the call. Again a silence. Again the
wonder of the woman's voice flooded the stillness, ending
in a note higher, clearer, sweeter than any that had gone
before. Then the little Tyrolese, her moment of glory
ended, sped into the light of the noisy pavilion again.
When I turned to Von Gerhard my eyes were wet. "I
shall have that to remember, when you are gone."
Von Gerhard beckoned the hovering waiter. "Take
these things away. And you need not return." He placed
something in the man's palm--something that caused a
sudden whisking away of empty dishes, and many obsequious
bows.
Von Gerhard's face was turned away from me, toward
the beauty of the lake and sky. Now, as the last flirt
of the waiter's apron vanished around the corner he
turned his head slowly, and I saw that in his eyes which
made me catch my breath with apprehension.
"What is it?" I cried. "Norah? Max? The children?"
He shook his head. "They are well, so far, as I
know. I--perhaps first I should tell you--although this
is not the thing which I have to say to you--"
"Yes?" I urged him on, impatiently. I had never seen
him like this.
"I do not sail this week. I shall not be with Gluck
in Vienna this year. I shall stay here."
"Here! Why? Surely--"
"Because I shall be needed here, Dawn. Because I
cannot leave you now. You will need--some one--a
friend--"
I stared at him with eyes that were wide with terror,
waiting for I knew not what.
"Need--some one--for--what? I stammered. "Why should
you--"
In the kindly shadow of the trees Von Gerhard's hands
took my icy ones, and held them in a close clasp of
encouragement.
"Norah is coming to be with you--"
"Norah! Why? Tell me at once! At once!"
"Because Peter Orme has been sent home--cured," said
he.
The lights of the pavilion fell away, and advanced,
and swung about in a great sickening circle. I shut my
eyes. The lights still swung before my eyes. Von
Gerhard leaned toward me with a word of alarm. I clung
to his hands with all my strength.
"No!" I said, and the savage voice was not my own.
"No! No! No! It isn't true! It isn't--Oh, it's some
joke, isn't it? Tell me, it's--it's something funny,
isn't it? And after a bit we'll laugh--we'll laugh--of
course--see! I am smiling already--"
"Dawn--dear one--it is true. God knows I wish that
I could be happy to know it. The hospital authorities
pronounce him cured. He has been quite sane for weeks."
"You knew it--how long?"
"You know that Max has attended to all communications
from the doctors there. A few weeks ago they wrote that
Orme had shown evidences of recovery. He spoke of you,
of the people he had known in New York, of his work on the
paper, all quite rationally and calmly. But they must
first be sure. Max went to New York a week ago. Peter
was gone. The hospital authorities were frightened and
apologetic. Peter had walked away quite coolly one day.
He had gone into the city, borrowed money of some old
newspaper cronies, and vanished. He may be there still.
He may be--"
"Here! Ernst! Take me home! O God; I can't do it!
I can't! I ought to be happy, but I'm not. I ought to
be thankful, but I'm not, I'm not! The horror of having
him there was great enough, but it was nothing compared
to the horror of having him here. I used to dream that
he was well again, and that he was searching for me, and
the dreadful realness of it used to waken me, and I would
find myself shivering with terror. Once I dreamed that
I looked up from my desk to find him standing in the
doorway, smiling that mirthless smile of his, and I heard
him say, in his mocking way: `Hello, Dawn my love;
looking wonderfully well. Grass widowhood agrees with
you, eh?'"
"Dawn, you must not laugh like that. Come, we will
go. You are shivering! Don't, dear, don't. See, you
have Norah, and Max,and me to help you. We will put him
on his feet. Physically he is not what he should be. I can
do much for him."
"You!" I cried, and the humor of it was too exquisite
for laughter.
"For that I gave up Vienna," said Von Gerhard,
simply. "You, too, must do your share."
"My share! I have done my share. He was in the
gutter, and he was dragging me with him. When his
insanity came upon him I thanked God for it, and
struggled up again. Even Norah never knew what that
struggle was. Whatever I am, I am in spite of him. I
tell you I could hug my widow's weeds. Ten years ago he
showed me how horrible and unclean a thing can be made of
this beautiful life. I was a despairing, cowering girl
of twenty then--I am a woman now, happy in her work, her
friends; growing broader and saner in thought, quicker to
appreciate the finer things in life. And now--what?"
They were dashing off a rollicking folk-song indoors.
When it was finished there came a burst of laughter and
the sharp spat of applauding hands, and shouts of
approbation. The sounds seemed seared upon my brain. I
rose and ran down the path toward the waiting machine.
There in the darkness I buried my shamed face in my hands
and prayed for the tears that would not come.
It seemed hours before I heard Von Gerhard's firm,
quick tread upon the gravel path. He moved about the
machine, adjusting this and that, then took his place at
the wheel without a word. We glided out upon the smooth
white road. All the loveliness of the night seemed to
have vanished. Only the ugly, distorted shadows
remained. The terror of uncertainty gripped me. I could
not endure the sight of Von Gerhard's stern, set face.
I grasped his arm suddenly so that the machine veered and
darted across the road. With a mighty wrench Von Gerhard
righted it. He stopped the machine at the road-side.
"Careful, Kindchen," he said, gravely.
"Ernst," I said, and my breath came quickly,
chokingly, as though I had been running fast, "Ernst, I
can't do it. I'm not big enough. I can't. I hate him,
I tell you, I hate him! My life is my own. I've made it
what it is, in the face of a hundred temptations; in
spite of a hundred pitfalls. I can't lay it down again
for Peter Orme to trample. Ernst, if you love me, take
me away now. To Vienna--anywhere--only don't ask me to
take up my life with him again. I can't--I can't--"
"Love you?" repeated Ernst, slowly, "yes. Too well--"
"Too well--"
"Yes, too well for that, Gott sei dank, small one.
Too well for that." _