All the changes and events of that strange, eventful year came crowding to my mind as I crouched there at the window. Four new friends, tried and true! I conned them over joyously in my heart. What a strange contrast they made! Blackie, of the elastic morals, and the still more elastic heart; Frau Nirlanger, of the smiling lips and the lilting voice and the tragic eyes—she who had stooped from a great height to pluck the flower of love blooming below, only to find a worthless weed sullying her hand; Alma Pflugel, with the unquenchable light of gratefulness in her honest face; Von Gerhard, ready to act as buffer between myself and the world, tender as a woman, gravely thoughtful, with the light of devotion glowing in his steady eyes.
“Here’s richness,” said I, like the fat boy in Pickwick Papers. And I thanked God for the new energy which had sent me to this lovely city by the lake. I thanked Him that I had not been content to remain a burden to Max and Norah, growing sour and crabbed with the years. Those years of work and buffeting had made of me a broader, finer, truer type of womanhood—had caused me to forget my own little tragedy in contemplating the great human comedy. And so I made a little prayer there in the moon-flooded room.
“O dear Lord,” I prayed, and I did not mean that it should sound irreverent. “O dear Lord, don’t bother about my ambitions! Just let me remain strong and well enough to do the work that is my portion from day to day. Keep me faithful to my standards of right and wrong. Let this new and wonderful love which has come into my life be a staff of strength and comfort instead of a burden of weariness. Let me not grow careless and slangy as the years go by. Let me keep my hair and complexion and teeth, and deliver me from wearing soiled blouses and doing my hair in a knob. Amen.”
I felt quite cheerful after that—so cheerful that the strange bumps in the new bed did not bother me as unfamiliar beds usually did. The roses I put to sleep in their jar of green, keeping one to hold against my cheek as I slipped into dreamland. I thought drowsily, just before sleep claimed me:
“To-morrow, after office hours, I’ll tuck up my skirt, and wrap my head in a towel and have a housecleaning bee. I’ll move the bed where the wash-stand is now, and I’ll make the chiffonnier swap places with the couch. One feels on friendlier terms with furniture that one has shoved about a little. How brilliant the moonlight is! The room is flooded with it. Those roses—sweet!—sweet!—”
When I awoke it was morning. During the days that followed I looked back gratefully upon that night, with its moonlight, and its roses, and its great peace.
CHAPTER XVII
THE SHADOW OF TERROR
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?”