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 awe3. 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 inscription4 which would inform admiring tourists that here was the desk at which the brilliant author had been wont5 to sit when grinding out heart-throb stories for the humble6 Post. He took an impish delight in my struggles with my hero and heroine, and his inquiries7 after the health of both were of such a nature as to make any earnest writer person rise in wrath8 and slay9 him. I had seen little of Blackie of late. My spare hours had been devoted10 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 nostrils11 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 wilted12 Blackie's debonair13 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 forefinger14 caressed15 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,” mused16 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,” grunted17 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 bug18, 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 linen20 and a Dutch-necked gown. The result was most soul-satisfying. My spirits rose unaccountably. Even the sight of Von Gerhard, looking troubled and distrait21, did not quiet them. We darted22 away, out along the lake front, past the toll23 gate, to the bay road stretching its flawless length along the water's side. It was alive with swift-moving motor cars swarming24 like twentieth-century pilgrims toward the mecca of cool breezes and comfort. There were proud limousines25; 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 descended26 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 scowl27 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 groaned28. “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 elucidated29. “A book may be written in flawless style, with a plot, and a climax30, and a lot of little side surprises. But if it lacks that peculiar31 and convincing quality poetically32 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 aisle33 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 vent34 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 forefathers35. 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 vein36 of German superstition37 that disapproves38 of air castles. Sich einbilden, we call it.”
The lights of the bay pavilion twinkled just ahead. The green car poked39 its nose up the path between rows of empty machines. At last it drew up, panting, before a vacant space between an imposing40, scarlet41 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 doorway42 could be seen a company of Tyrolese singers in picturesque43 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 softened44 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 hearty45, but my high spirits were ebbing46 fast, and Von Gerhard was frankly47 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 abruptly48. 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 swelled49 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 beckoned50 the hovering51 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 obsequious52 bows.
Von Gerhard's face was turned away from me, toward the beauty of the lake and sky. Now, as the last flirt53 of the waiter's apron54 vanished around the corner he turned his head slowly, and I saw that in his eyes which made me catch my breath with apprehension55.
“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 stammered56. “Why should you—”
In the kindly57 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 savage58 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 sane59 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 spoke60 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 standing61 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. Physically62 he is not what he should be. I can do much for him.”
“You!” I cried, and the humor of it was too exquisite63 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 gutter64, and he was dragging me with him. When his insanity65 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, cowering66 girl of twenty then—I am a woman now, happy in her work, her friends; growing broader and saner67 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 spat68 of applauding hands, and shouts of approbation69. 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 gravel19 path. He moved about the machine, adjusting this and that, then took his place at the wheel without a word. We glided70 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 uncertainty71 gripped me. I could not endure the sight of Von Gerhard's stern, set face. I grasped his arm suddenly so that the machine veered72 and darted across the road. With a mighty73 wrench74 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 pitfalls75. I can't lay it down again for Peter Orme to trample76. 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.”
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1
loomed
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| v.隐约出现，阴森地逼近( loom的过去式和过去分词 )；隐约出现，阴森地逼近 | |
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virtues
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| 美德( virtue的名词复数 )； 德行； 优点； 长处 | |
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3
awe
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| n.敬畏，惊惧；vt.使敬畏，使惊惧 | |
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inscription
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| n.（尤指石块上的）刻印文字，铭文，碑文 | |
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wont
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| adj.习惯于；v.习惯；n.习惯 | |
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humble
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| adj.谦卑的，恭顺的；地位低下的；v.降低，贬低 | |
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7
inquiries
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| n.调查( inquiry的名词复数 )；疑问；探究；打听 | |
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8
wrath
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| n.愤怒，愤慨，暴怒 | |
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slay
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| v.杀死，宰杀，杀戮 | |
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devoted
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| adj.忠诚的，忠实的，热心的，献身于...的 | |
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nostrils
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| 鼻孔( nostril的名词复数 ) | |
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12
wilted
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| （使）凋谢，枯萎( wilt的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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13
debonair
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| adj.殷勤的，快乐的 | |
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14
forefinger
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| n.食指 | |
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15
caressed
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| 爱抚或抚摸…( caress的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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16
mused
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| v.沉思，冥想( muse的过去式和过去分词 )；沉思自语说（某事） | |
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17
grunted
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| （猪等）作呼噜声( grunt的过去式和过去分词 )； （指人）发出类似的哼声； 咕哝着说 | |
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18
bug
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| n.虫子；故障；窃听器；vt.纠缠；装窃听器 | |
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19
gravel
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| n.砂跞；砂砾层；结石 | |
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linen
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| n.亚麻布，亚麻线，亚麻制品；adj.亚麻布制的，亚麻的 | |
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21
distrait
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| adj.心不在焉的 | |
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22
darted
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| v.投掷，投射( dart的过去式和过去分词 )；向前冲，飞奔 | |
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23
toll
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| n.过路(桥)费；损失，伤亡人数；v.敲(钟) | |
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24
swarming
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| 密集( swarm的现在分词 )； 云集； 成群地移动； 蜜蜂或其他飞行昆虫成群地飞来飞去 | |
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25
limousines
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| n.豪华轿车( limousine的名词复数 )；（往返机场接送旅客的）中型客车，小型公共汽车 | |
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26
descended
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| a.为...后裔的，出身于...的 | |
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scowl
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| vi.(at)生气地皱眉，沉下脸，怒视；n.怒容 | |
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28
groaned
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| v.呻吟( groan的过去式和过去分词 )；发牢骚；抱怨；受苦 | |
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29
elucidated
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| v.阐明，解释( elucidate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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30
climax
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| n.顶点；高潮；v.(使)达到顶点 | |
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peculiar
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| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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poetically
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| adv.有诗意地，用韵文 | |
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aisle
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| n.（教堂、教室、戏院等里的）过道，通道 | |
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vent
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| n.通风口，排放口；开衩；vt.表达，发泄 | |
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35
forefathers
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| n.祖先，先人；祖先，祖宗( forefather的名词复数 )；列祖列宗；前人 | |
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36
vein
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| n.血管，静脉；叶脉，纹理；情绪；vt.使成脉络 | |
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37
superstition
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| n.迷信，迷信行为 | |
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38
disapproves
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| v.不赞成( disapprove的第三人称单数 ) | |
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39
poked
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| v.伸出( poke的过去式和过去分词 )；戳出；拨弄；与（某人）性交 | |
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40
imposing
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| adj.使人难忘的，壮丽的，堂皇的，雄伟的 | |
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41
scarlet
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| n.深红色，绯红色，红衣；adj.绯红色的 | |
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42
doorway
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| n.门口，(喻)入门；门路，途径 | |
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43
picturesque
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| adj.美丽如画的，（语言）生动的，绘声绘色的 | |
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44
softened
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| （使）变软( soften的过去式和过去分词 )； 缓解打击； 缓和； 安慰 | |
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45
hearty
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| adj.热情友好的；衷心的；尽情的，纵情的 | |
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46
ebbing
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| （指潮水）退( ebb的现在分词 )； 落； 减少； 衰落 | |
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47
frankly
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| adv.坦白地，直率地；坦率地说 | |
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48
abruptly
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| adv.突然地，出其不意地 | |
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49
swelled
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| 增强( swell的过去式和过去分词 )； 肿胀； （使）凸出； 充满（激情） | |
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50
beckoned
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| v.（用头或手的动作）示意，召唤( beckon的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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51
hovering
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| 鸟( hover的现在分词 )； 靠近（某事物）； （人）徘徊； 犹豫 | |
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52
obsequious
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| adj.谄媚的，奉承的，顺从的 | |
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53
flirt
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| v.调情，挑逗，调戏；n.调情者，卖俏者 | |
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54
apron
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| n.围裙；工作裙 | |
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55
apprehension
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| n.理解，领悟；逮捕，拘捕；忧虑 | |
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56
stammered
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| v.结巴地说出( stammer的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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57
kindly
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| adj.和蔼的，温和的，爽快的；adv.温和地，亲切地 | |
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58
savage
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| adj.野蛮的；凶恶的，残暴的；n.未开化的人 | |
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59
sane
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| adj.心智健全的，神志清醒的，明智的，稳健的 | |
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60
spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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61
standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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62
physically
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| adj.物质上，体格上，身体上，按自然规律 | |
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63
exquisite
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| adj.精美的；敏锐的；剧烈的，感觉强烈的 | |
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64
gutter
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| n.沟，街沟，水槽，檐槽，贫民窟 | |
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65
insanity
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| n.疯狂，精神错乱；极端的愚蠢，荒唐 | |
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66
cowering
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| v.畏缩，抖缩( cower的现在分词 ) | |
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67
saner
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| adj.心智健全的( sane的比较级 )；神志正常的；明智的；稳健的 | |
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68
spat
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| n.口角，掌击；v.发出呼噜呼噜声 | |
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69
approbation
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| n.称赞；认可 | |
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70
glided
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| v.滑动( glide的过去式和过去分词 )；掠过；（鸟或飞机 ） 滑翔 | |
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71
uncertainty
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| n.易变，靠不住，不确知，不确定的事物 | |
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72
veered
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| v.（尤指交通工具）改变方向或路线( veer的过去式和过去分词 )；（指谈话内容、人的行为或观点）突然改变；（指风） （在北半球按顺时针方向、在南半球按逆时针方向）逐渐转向；风向顺时针转 | |
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73
mighty
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| adj.强有力的；巨大的 | |
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74
wrench
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| v.猛拧；挣脱；使扭伤；n.扳手；痛苦，难受 | |
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75
pitfalls
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| （捕猎野兽用的）陷阱( pitfall的名词复数 )； 意想不到的困难，易犯的错误 | |
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76
trample
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| vt.踩，践踏；无视，伤害，侵犯 | |
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