Читать книгу The Woman Gives - Owen Johnson - Страница 11

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It was a weird ending to the night of Christmas romping for King O’Leary, sitting breathless on an upturned box, his elbows on his knees, chin in hand, staring through the dim shafts of light at the two figures in the further corner—Dangerfield, limp and inert, head and shoulders a confused shadow against the white, propped-up pillows, with the lithe figure of the girl, straight as a young spruce, waiting. From the time O’Leary had placed him in the great four-poster bed, the man had not moved, while the heavy breathing, slow and regular, was the only sound through the stillness in the room. Against O’Leary the boxes rose in craggy somberness; a rug, leaning against the wall in an elongated roll, stretched upward like a climbing tree. Bits of sculpture, struggling groups of single busts, peered down at him above heaped-up chairs and tables in such confusion that, at times, he seemed to be moving through a fantastic warehouse.

Doctor Baker was away, and in despair they had routed Mr. Dean out of bed—the pale young man who was studying to be a veterinary. He had come, perched on the bed like a shadowy crow, taken the pulse, listened to Inga, and departed, after a wise caressing of his chin, without committing himself. Half an hour later, after a diligent consultation of certain books, he slipped back and beckoned O’Leary into the hall.

“The best thing is to let him sleep,” he said, with a professionally satisfied air. “Give him all the sleep he can get. Looks to me like nerves—and a touch—I’m not sure—but there are certain indications—lips blue, and the way he went over—a touch of heart-disease. Of course, it might be acute indigestion and then, too, he has been hitting it up pretty hard——”

“I congratulate you,” said King O’Leary, who had a prejudice against the profession, and who returned without imparting this expert opinion.

At about three o’clock, as nearly as he could judge, Dangerfield suddenly awoke, or at least seemed to awake, and sat bolt upright in bed, staring directly at the girl. This silent confrontation lasted a long moment; possibly in the darkness Dangerfield, if he were truly awake and not in a semisomnambulistic state, was staring at the girl with that startled animal intensity which had characterized his first entrance. All at once she put out her hand and said in a low, softly modulated voice:

“That’s enough; lie down again—go back to sleep.”

He did not respond immediately, and his eyes seemed to wander apprehensively into the shadows, but at last, perhaps under the pressure of her hand, he lay back. In a moment he began to stir and toss, mumbling incoherently to himself. She leaned over, taking his hand, and said something in gentle command, and presently he became quiet, and his sleep from then on was untroubled.

Toward the first filtering in of the dawn, King O’Leary, dozing at his post, woke up at a touch on his shoulder. It was Inga, looming out of the mist that streaked the room, like a dweller from the sea, one finger on her lips in warning, looking seriously down at him from her sea-blue eyes and dark face. They tiptoed across the room, looked a moment back at the unconscious figure on the bed, and stole out, closing the door. In the hall, the dusty globe shone sickly in the watery dawn.

“He’s all right now, I think,” she said, in a whisper. “It’s better for us not to be there when he awakes.”

“I—I guess I fell asleep,” said King O’Leary awkwardly, a little ashamed before the alert and young figure which showed no sign of fatigue.

“You really didn’t need to be there,” she said, and he noticed there was an awakened ring in her voice, as though a great joy or a great test had come to her. “Better get a bit of sleep now.”

“And you?”

“Don’t worry about me.”

“I say, wouldn’t it be a good thing to lock him in—until later?”

“No, no,” she said with some emphasis; “never that—that sets them crazy. Besides, he’d get out of the window and over the roofs—there’s a way over the tenements. Then there would be trouble.”

He stared at her with a feeling that this was a situation not entirely new to her, wondering many things. She felt the weight of this curiosity, for she turned toward her door, but without embarrassment, saying:

“Good night; thank you.”

“I say, will you tell me one thing?”

“What?”

She turned, her hand to the door, her back against it, drawing her eyebrows together, and, for the first time, he noticed the dark pools of wakefulness under her eyes, shadows that were not unbecoming, but gave an expression of acute sensitiveness to the fragile, dark oval of her face, which ordinarily was a little too placid—like the unmarked stretch of new-fallen snow.

“Did you know him—before?” he said, with a jerk of his head toward the corner studio.

She shook her head.

“But you know—at least you’ve got a guess—who he is?” he persisted.

“Yes,” she said, after a moment’s consideration; “I think I know.”

Then she nodded and went in.

Everything remained deeply quiet until about ten o’clock in the morning, when Dangerfield awoke, dressed himself in the discarded evening clothes, put on his fur coat and top-hat, and went down the hall, searching the inscriptions on each door until he arrived at the room of Mr. Cornelius, where, oblivious to the appearance of curious heads, he knocked loudly and entered. He was there fully half an hour before he emerged, and, returning to his room, closed and locked the door. What was said at this odd interview, no one ever found out. The baron, instantly questioned, replied that it was a matter which lay between them. He was in a high state of excitement, seeming unaccountably younger and making fearful blunders in English. His answer naturally served to increase the curiosity of the Arcadians, already exceedingly intrigued—an effect which was further heightened by the subsequent actions of Dangerfield himself.

Hardly had the surprise of his visit to the baron in incongruous attire died down, when he came out of his room shaved and properly dressed, and went down the hall and out. Sassafras, who took him down, vowed he looked just as natural as any one. At five o’clock the same afternoon, as the three friends were discussing the one topic, Dangerfield entered unexpectedly, and a curious thing happened. He came in as he had the night before, without a word of greeting, until he had stood quite a moment, with the same startled, set look that an animal shows—a look of trying to take in mentally, to comprehend something unaccustomed. This, however, passed, and he came forward with outstretched hand and winning smile.

“I am afraid I gave you quite a shock last night,” he said, and then, evidently forgetting that introductions had taken place, he added: “My name’s Dangerfield. Seeing that I am your next-door neighbor, I hope I did not make too bad an impression.”

“This is free soil up here,” said Tootles cheerfully. “Nobody’s business what anybody does.”

This answer must have raised a suspicion in the visitor’s mind, for he was quiet a moment and presently asked:

“I am rather hazy as to last night. What happened?”

“Oh, there was quite a christening up here,” said Flick sympathetically. “You stood around for a while like a statue of Liberty and then went to sleep rather violently.”

“Did I do that?” said Dangerfield gloomily.

“Oh, don’t let that worry you,” said Flick, who seemed all at once to realize that his past record debarred him from sitting in judgment. “Thought you were damned dignified. Only, you gave the skirts quite a scare.”

“I am sorry for that,” said Dangerfield gravely. He hesitated, and added: “The fact is, I get doubled up occasionally. It’s a nervous contraction that stiffens up my right side. It’s nothing to worry about—there’s nothing really to be done. The only thing to do is to stretch me out and let me come to. Did you notice that my right arm was doubled up?” he asked, suddenly looking at King O’Leary.

“Why, yes; it seems to me it was,” O’Leary answered, looking down at the floor, so as to avoid the other’s gaze.

“That’s it.”

Flick had it on his tongue to retort: “Old geezer, struck me you were pickled,” but, for some reason, he restrained this impulse and said instead:

“Lingering with us long?”

“I suppose so.”

“Going to sling some paint?”

“What?”

“You’re an artist, aren’t you?”

“Oh, yes.”

“What kind—cow, sea bathing or just green grass?”

Dangerfield looked at him a moment, and gradually a smile broke through.

“I see. Well, I am only a portrait painter.”

“Like Tootles,” said Flick.

Dangerfield glanced at Tootles, who acknowledged this tribute by bowing and saying with dignity, after making sure that no remnants of Wimpfheimer & Goldfinch’s cartoons were visible:

“Quite right. I do portraits. My friend is one of the hopes of literature. Mr. O’Leary draws harmonies from even a rented piano.”

“I hope you will take me in,” said Dangerfield, with his engaging smile. “Perhaps we can get off to a better start.”

“You’re examining the impressive mural decoration to the left?” said Tootles, following Dangerfield’s gaze, which had suddenly fixed itself in fascinated surprise upon the sunset breaking over the cañon of Colorado.

“Your work?”

“It’s not my work,” said Tootles firmly. “It belongs to the first Hoboken period. Mr. Flick Wilder, the well-known art connoisseur, collects such things. You may laugh,” he added, perceiving Dangerfield’s eyes twinkling.

“That’s all right; but you should see the walls,” said Flick defensively. “Well, how does it strike you—what do you think of our little boudoir?”

“It’s great—it’s real,” said Dangerfield, with such genuine joy that they all burst into laughter.

For half an hour he passed around, eager as a boy, examining everything, marveling at the owls and the Chinese dragon, which Flick called the “belly-light,” roaring with laughter over the reconstruction of the Harlem bear which had so wantonly attacked Flick, and gazing enraptured at the signs, the lodging box and the allotted abodes of Literature and Art, giving his advice as to the place to be assigned to Music, which was the present problem. During all this time he entered into their moods with enthusiasm and boyish glee as though nothing existed outside of the room, nor a worry in the world. But all at once, without warning or apparent cause, he lapsed back into his former moodiness, seemed to forget them completely, and presently, with a sign to King O’Leary, rose and left the room.

“Who took me into my room last night?” he asked, when King O’Leary had followed him into the hall.

“I did.”

“By yourself?”

“Yes; and you were some load,” said O’Leary cheerfully.

Dangerfield was silent a moment, his glance wandering up and down the hall. Finally he asked, after a delay so long that O’Leary had grown tired of waiting:

“I have an impression—was any one else with you?”

“Yes, there was—”

“A woman?” he interrupted.

O’Leary nodded.

“I thought so,” he said, with a sort of sigh of relief. Presently he added, but with less curiosity, “Who was it?”

“Girl across the way from you—Miss Sonderson. She happened along just as you keeled over. No one knows much about her, only she seemed to be able to handle you in first-rate style.”

“How long was she there?”

“We spent the night, thank you,” said O’Leary, who had begun to be impatient for some signs of gratitude to appear.

“She lives here—you’re sure?” said Dangerfield, looking at him intently.

“Sure; opposite to you. Look for yourself,” said King O’Leary with some irritation.

Dangerfield gave him a second glance, and then went slowly to Inga Sonderson’s door and bent over the card carefully.

“Yes; that’s right,” he said, nodding, and went into his room, as though that were, the only point to be settled.

“Well, you certainly are a queer rooster,” said King O’Leary to himself, so perplexed that he remained scratching his head. The door opened, and Dangerfield reappeared, coming toward him with extended hand.

“Please forgive me. What I wanted to say—what I came in to say, was to thank you.”

“Oh, forget it!” said O’Leary, instantly mollified. He felt the grasp of the other man’s hand, and liked him better for its free, powerful hug.

“I am not—not quite myself these days,” said Dangerfield, with boyish frankness. “Don’t mind what I do—and I hope we will be good friends.”

As he said this, there came a look of pain across the eyes, a look of inward distress that struck O’Leary, who went back into the studio, however, without response.

The man had a sense of authority, as he had authority himself, and there was perhaps in King O’Leary’s heart a shade of jealousy that the memory of Inga Sonderson and the way she had gone to his assistance did not serve to lessen. When he entered, his first question showed in what direction his curiosity had gone.

“What do you know about that Sonderson girl?”

“Lady Vere de Vere?” began Tootles.

“She’s not that,” said King O’Leary gruffly. “She’s the real stuff. Well, what do you know about her, Flick?”

“About as much as you, old life-guard.”

“I believe,” said Tootles, who assumed his English manner to show that his feelings were ruffled, “that there was a bit of an attachment between her and that chap, Champeno—queer beggar, and shockingly wild. How far it went, I really could not say. We hadn’t organized the Sixth Floor Social Club in those days, and the most we chaps did was to remark it was hot when it was hot, and cold when it was cold, and there you are!”

“Tootles,” said Flick severely, “put the cold soup, the cold turkey and the cold pig upon the table.” And turning to King O’Leary, he said. “Well, what do you think of Dangerfield? How do you make him out?”

“Haven’t made up my mind yet,” said King O’Leary shortly.

“What is wrong with him?” said Tootles, from the provision-box.

“Booze!” said Flick, in virtuous condemnation.

“Not entirely,” said King O’Leary, shaking his head. “I’ve seen a lot of booze-fighters, and helped tuck some of them underground, but I never saw any rum hound just like this guy.”

“Maybe he’s murdered some one,” said Tootles cheerfully.

“That would be more like it.”

“Well, I think he’s a nut,” said Flick.

“And I think he’s one corker!” said Tootles enthusiastically.

“‘Corker’ is not English, Art,” said Flick.

“Quite right, old boy. I consider him a jolly good chap,” said Tootles. “We’d better have the girls in; we never can eat all this.”

At this moment there came a determined pounding on the wall.

“What’s that?” said Flick, startled.

“Madame Probasco’s spirits,” said Tootles, who always took an extreme view.

“Why, it’s Schneibel!” said King O’Leary, listening to the knocking, which was repeated with more insistence.

They rushed around and found the dentist doubled up on the sofa betwixt rage and pain, gasping,

“Dot lobster—oh, dot lobster salad!”

“That’s true,” said Flick, in a whisper. “He ate half the salad; I saw him.”

While Tootles ran off in search of Dean, O’Leary and Flick gazed, fascinated, at the unfortunate man, who, between his fury and his agony, had turned an orange red.

Young Mr. Dean arrived, and immediately began to explore for symptoms of appendicitis, showing that whatever his present incapacity, he had at least mastered the economic theory of medicine.

“No, no; it ain’t de appendix, it’s de lobster—de damned lobster an’ de pistache ice-cream—”

“Has he eaten that combination?” said the pale young man, who, from the last twenty-four hours’ experience, had begun to form a professional manner.

“And more,” said Flick.

“Then that is probably the cause,” said the sub-doctor regretfully, at which Schneibel howled out an oath, roaring:

“Don’ tell vat it is! Stop it; for God’s sake, stop it!”

“But how will we stop it?” said King O’Leary.

Thus confronted, Mr. Dean looked very solemn and introspective, while the others waited.

“Well?” said Flick.

“If he were a horse,” said the sub-doctor pensively, “I think I’d bleed him.”

“Throw him oudt—throw dot chump oudt!” cried Schneibel, who rose up in such wrath that Mr. Dean whisked away.

King O’Leary had the happy idea to resort to Miss Quirley, who came, applied a hot-water bottle and dosed him from three small blue bottles so efficaciously that in half an hour the storm was over.

They sat down with the assistance of the others to vanquish the cold remnants and to plan a party which would complete the one that had been so rudely interrupted.

In the middle of the meal, King O’Leary, who had been singularly silent, rose without explanation, searched a moment in his trunk, which was stowed behind the second Japanese atrocity, and left the room.

He went rapidly down the hall until he had covered two-thirds of the way to Miss Sonderson’s room. Then he slowed down abruptly, hesitated, went on, listened and finally knocked. Instantly the door was half opened and the girl appeared, lifting her eyes in wonder.

“Here,” said King O’Leary, shoving forth a little package carefully wrapped and inscribed “A Merry Christmas.”

“What is it?” she said, noticing the confusion in his eyes.

“From the Christmas party last night,” he said awkwardly. “This was on the tree for you. Every one got something—please take it. And say—what I wanted to tell you is—my hat’s off to you! Honest, I think you’re a wonder!”

Before she could answer, he had actually blushed, wheeled clumsily, and gone hastily back.