A Top-Floor Idyl Part 27

"_My dear Sophia_:

"It's rather hard on a fellow to be compelled to acknowledge he's anything but a decent sportsman. I'm afraid I shall have to. In your kindness you may, perhaps, forgive me. I have made a bad mess of things. I wouldn't mind so much if it wasn't hitting you also, because you're a good pal and a splendid girl who deserves a better chap. I'm off abroad to play chauffeur to the cripples, and, of course, there is no telling when I'll be back.

"I hope to G.o.d you will find some decent fellow who really deserves you and will make you happy.

"Affectionately,

"GORDON."

After I had finished this horrible and clumsy message, I looked at Miss Van Rossum. There was something very wistful and strong in the glance that rested upon me. I had no doubt that she had been studying my face, as I read, and watching the impression made on me. Of course, he had been greatly agitated when he wrote. I felt sure that he must have torn up one letter after another and finally sent the worst of all. It had dwindled into a few lines, which explained nothing, being merely brutal and final, like a knockout blow. He had made a mess of things, forsooth!

Well, the reading of such a letter might have made one think that he had robbed a bank or cheated at cards!

"You see, Mr. Cole, it doesn't say much, does it? I just had to tell my mother that Gordon had felt called upon to go off and--and do a big thing, and that of course the--the whole thing was put off indefinitely.

I--I don't think she was disappointed. Of course, they had allowed me to have my own way, and they liked Gordon very well, but they had a notion that in our own circle--But, of course, that's neither here nor there.

Naturally, I knew at once that Gordon could never have done anything really wrong. He's a very true and genuine man, in his way, and incapable of--of a nasty action. So I just had to suppose that perhaps some other woman had come into his life and that he didn't love me any more. And he--he was never very demonstrative, you know; it wasn't his way. But he had always been such a good friend, and so wonderfully clever, and--But of course, you know all that. His letter to you, I think, gives me what they call a clue. He--he sends his love to--to somebody I don't know. Of course I'm not going to ask--I really only came to know whether there was anything I could do. I wondered whether there was, perhaps, some money trouble, or something like that, and I'd have been so glad to--to help out. You were his best friend and could have told me how to manage it, but now I see----"

She interrupted her words, rising from the chair I had offered her and looking very handsome and, I must say, dignified.

"I wouldn't have troubled you, you know, but I have been all at sea.

It--it has been rather tough, because Gordon is a man whom a woman could love very deeply--at any rate I never realized how I felt towards him, until I had gone away and then received this letter."

I had been listening, looking into her fine, clear, blue eyes, which honestly and truly, with the frankness and candor of the child or the chaste woman, had expressed the love that had been in her heart and, perhaps, lingered there still. So intent had I been upon her words that I had failed to hear advent.i.tious sounds. Frances, also, with her hand pressed to her bosom, showed eyes dimmed by gathering tears. She had risen with the impulse to go forward and press this suffering woman to her heart. I was about to explain the message of love in Gordon's postscript, when there was a wheezing at the door, which had been left open.

Fat and beaming, with her most terrible hat and a smudge of yellow ochre on her chin, Frieda came in.

"Beg your pardon," she panted. "It's getting real warm and the stairs are becoming steeper every day. How's the angel lamb?"

"Miss Van Rossum," I said, "let me introduce our excellent friend Miss Frieda Long. Every one who knows her loves her. She's the next best painter to Gordon in this burg, or any other, and a second mother to Baby Paul."

Miss Sophia stared at her for an instant. Then, came a little smile in which there was relief and comprehension. She advanced with arm outstretched, and Frieda went right up to her.

"My dear," said the latter, "our dear old Dave and Gordon have told us enough about you to make me feel glad indeed to know you. I saw that portrait of yours and it didn't flatter you a bit, in fact, it seems to me that it missed something of your expression. But it was mighty good, just the same, like everything he ever did."

She backed off as far as the bed, on which she sat down, fanning herself violently with a newspaper. An instant later she rushed to Frances, took up the baby with the usual robust delicacy she always shows in that process, and began to ask news relating to important developments in dent.i.tion.

Miss Sophia observed her. I saw that some ray of gladness had entered her heart since a terrible question appeared to be settled satisfactorily. To her tall and graceful womanhood the idea that our darling, pudgy Frieda, with her crow's feet, from much staring through her spectacles, with that fright of a hat, could for a second have been mistaken for a rival was nothing less than amusing.

"Well, Mr. Cole, I think I will have to be going now," she said. "I--I am glad--oh, I mean that I hope you will be so kind as to let me know whether you get any further news. I shall always have a deep interest in Gordon's welfare. Letters would reach me at Southampton, all summer.

Good-by, Mrs. Dupont, I am delighted to have had the pleasure of meeting you. Mrs.--I mean Miss Frieda, I hope you will be so kind as to let me see your pictures, some day. I remember now that Gordon showed me one of them at the winter exhibition. I wanted to buy it, but somebody had already snapped it up, of course, because it was so lovely. No, Mr.

Cole, please don't take the trouble."

She had shaken hands with my two friends and insisted on kissing the baby, who appreciated the attention by crowing at her.

I followed her out in spite of her request.

"You must permit me to see you to the door, Miss Van Rossum," I said, "it is the least I can do. I will surely let you know, if I hear anything."

She nodded, very pleasantly, and went down the distressing stair-carpet with the ease of her perfect physical training. At the door there was a big brute of a sixty horsepower runabout and a chauffeur, who swiftly cast aside a half-consumed cigarette and stood at attention. She stopped on the stoop and turned to me.

"I--I don't think I know any more than when I came," she said, rather haltingly. "There--there wasn't anything wrong, was there, Mr. Cole?"

"My dear young lady, I am proud to say that Gordon is incapable of doing anything that would infringe the laws. But he certainly has done an evil thing, for he has treated you very brutally, and I will never forgive him. He has failed to appreciate--to understand. If he has discovered that his heart--that he was incapable of giving you the strongest and most genuine love, it is his misfortune and--I am afraid, perhaps yours, and he did well to go away. But he should have been more considerate, he ought to have explained things in person instead of----"

"But you must remember that I was in Florida, Mr. Cole," she interrupted.

"Then he should have taken the first train and joined you there. A man has no business to s.h.i.+rk a duty," I said indignantly.

"Oh! Mr. Cole! You must remember that Gordon isn't--isn't a man quite like others. He has the quick and impulsive temperament of so many artistic people."

"He always pretends to be so cool and to act only after the most mature deliberation," I objected.

"True enough, but then, you know, that sort of thing is often rather a pose. I suppose that none of us is quite free from a little pretense, under which the true man or woman shows."

"I am glad indeed to hear you take his part," I told her, "and I hope he will do some fine manly things over there and return in his right mind, with his eyes open to--to what he has been so foolish as to----"

"I know that he will give the best of himself, Mr. Cole," she put in.

"Gordon is a first rate sportsman, and that means a man who will play the game, strongly and honestly, without taking the slightest advantage.

And perhaps----"

"My dear lady, I know a good woman who burns candles when she wants anything badly, and prays before the Virgin. I shall get her to exert her good offices in our behalf. I'd give anything to know that everything will turn out as I heartily wish it may, for both your sakes.

In you, I know that he has found all that a man may wish and long for in the world, and yet has failed to appreciate his good fortune."

She put her gloved hand in mine.

"Thank you," she said simply. "I--I'll wait, a long time."

She went down the steps and entered the machine, sitting before the big wheel, strongly aslant and grooved to give a strong grip. The chauffeur jiggled something, whereat the great beast began to hum. She nodded again to me and started without the slightest jerk. Evidently she drove better than Gordon. She turned the nose of the thing around till the front wheels were an eighth of an inch from the sidewalk, backed again in circular fas.h.i.+on, and swept off towards the avenue. Sixty horses, I reflected, could lie obediently in the hollow of her hand, but just one man, who should have thanked Heaven upon his knees, had squirmed away like an arrant fool.

I went up the stairs, slowly, chewing upon the fact that I had given her no inkling of how matters really stood. But, in deference to the feelings of Frances, it had been impossible for me to do so, especially since she was no longer an element in the case. Gordon had given up all hope of her and run away, so that this closed one part of the incident.

Then, if I had told Miss Van Rossum of Gordon's proposal to Frances, it would have made her very unhappy and she might possibly have blamed the model. Women, the very best and dearest of them, are sometimes not quite fair to their own s.e.x.

Yes, it was a matter that belonged to Frances and Gordon, and I had no right to be a bearer of tales, so that Miss Van Rossum is unaware that Gordon went away for love of another woman. I hope she never hears of it. Should anything happen to him, while driving his ambulance at the front, she will be able to maintain a high regard for his memory. As the months pa.s.s on, her feelings may become easier to bear. I wish she could meet and become fond of some fine fellow, who would recognize what a splendid woman she is and adore her ever after. I feel that she deserves it.

When I returned upstairs, I found my two friends discussing Miss Van Rossum, together with her nose and complexion and other appurtenances, including her dress. Their criticisms were highly flattering, I remember. Our stout friend soon left, having merely come in for her daily inspection of Baby Paul.

"Now, David," said Frances, "I must say that I feel more unhappy than ever over Mr. McGrath's conduct. It was abominable of him to jilt that girl, let alone proposing to me. She's a perfectly lovely woman."

"I am disposed to agree with you, Frances. His conduct is inexcusable.

At the same time, I cannot blame him for falling in love with you. Any properly const.i.tuted man would do that without the slightest difficulty.

I myself----"

"Please be serious, David," she interrupted.

"I was never more serious in my life," I a.s.sured her, "but--but tell me how you are getting on with the singing."

"I really think I am doing very well," she told me. "Listen, I will sing you a little thing. Baby likes it ever so much."

She sat right down to the piano, beginning at once without the slightest hesitation. It was the lullaby from _Mignon_. I remember hearing Plancon sing it once; it is a beautiful thing. Frances didn't put all her force in it, the whole strength of her voice, of course, but so much tender sentiment and such sweet understanding that the melody held me in thrall and made me close my eyes. What a fool I have been ever to have thought that a woman holding such a treasure would perhaps bestow herself, some day, upon an insignificant writer!