“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.