CHAPTER XIX. A TURN OF THE WHEEL
"You who were ever alert to befriend a man You who were ever the firstto defend a man, You who had always the money to lend a man Down on hisluck and hard up for a V, Sure you'll be playing a harp in beatitude(And a quare sight you will be in that attitude) Some day, wheregratitude seems but a platitude, You'll find your latitude."
From my desk I could see Peter standing in the doorway of the newseditor's room. I shut my eyes for a moment. Then I opened them again,quickly. No, it was not a dream. He was there, a slender, graceful,hateful figure, with the inevitable cigarette in his unsteadyfingers--the expensive-looking, gold-tipped cigarette of the old days.Peter was Peter. Ten years had made little difference. There were queerlittle hollow places in his cheeks, and under the jaw-bone, and at thebase of the head, and a flabby, parchment-like appearance about theskin. That was all that made him different from the Peter of the olddays.
The thing had adjusted itself, as Norah had said it would. The situationthat had filled me with loathing and terror the night of Peter's returnhad been transformed into quite a matter-of-fact and commonplace affairunder Norah's deft management. And now I was back in harness again, andPeter was turning out brilliant political stuff at spasmodic intervals.He was not capable of any sustained effort. He never would be again;that was plain. He was growing restless and dissatisfied. He spokeof New York as though it were Valhalla. He said that he hadn't seen apretty girl since he left Forty-second street. He laughed at Milwaukee'squaint German atmosphere. He sneered at our journalistic methods, andcalled the newspapers "country sheets," and was forever talking of theWorld, and the Herald, and the Sun, until the men at the Press Clubfought shy of him. Norah had found quiet and comfortable quartersfor Peter in a boarding-house near the lake, and just a square or twodistant from my own boarding-house. He hated it cordially, as only theluxury-loving can hate a boarding-house, and threatened to leave daily.
"Let's go back to the big town, Dawn, old girl," he would say. "We'reburied alive in this overgrown Dutch village. I came here in the firstplace on your account. Now it's up to you to get me out of it. Think ofwhat New York means! Think of what I've been! And I can write as well asever."
But I always shook my head. "We would not last a month in New York,Peter. New York has hurried on and left us behind. We're just two piecesof discard. We'll have to be content where we are."
"Content! In this silly hole! You must be mad!" Then, with one of hisunaccountable changes of tone and topic, "Dawn, let me have somemoney. I'm strapped. If I had the time I'd get out some magazine stuff.Anything to get a little extra coin. Tell me, how does that littlesport you call Blackie happen to have so much ready cash? I've never yetstruck him for a loan that he hasn't obliged me. I think he's sweet onyou, perhaps, and thinks he's doing you a sort of second-hand favor."
At times such as these all the old spirit that I had thought dead withinme would rise up in revolt against this creature who was taking, fromme my pride, my sense of honor, my friends. I never saw Von Gerhard now.Peter had refused outright to go to him for treatment, saying that hewasn't going to be poisoned by any cursed doctor, particularly not byone who had wanted to run away with his wife before his very eyes.
Sometimes I wondered how long this could go on. I thought of the olddays with the Nirlangers; of Alma Pflugel's rose-encircled cottage;of Bennie; of the Knapfs; of the good-natured, uncouth aborigines,and their many kindnesses. I saw these dear people rarely now. FrauNirlanger's resignation to her unhappiness only made me rebel morekeenly against my own.
If only Peter could become well and strong again, I told myself,bitterly. If it were not for those blue shadows under his eyes, and theshrunken muscles, and the withered skin, I could leave him to livehis life as he saw fit. But he was as dependent as a child, and ascapricious. What was the end to be? I asked myself. Where was it allleading me?
And then, in a fearful and wonderful manner, my question was answered.
There came to my desk one day an envelope bearing the letter-head ofthe publishing house to which I had sent my story. I balanced it for amoment in my fingers, woman-fashion, wondering, hoping, surmising.
"Of course they can't want it," I told myself, in preparation for anydisappointment that was in store for me. "They're sending it back. Thisis the letter that will tell me so."
And then I opened it. The words jumped out at me from the typewrittenpage. I crushed the paper in my hands, and rushed into Blackie's littleoffice as I had been used to doing in the old days. He was at his desk,pipe in mouth. I shook his shoulder and flourished the letter wildly,and did a crazy little dance about his chair.
"They want it! They like it! Not only that, they want another, as soonas I can get it out. Think of it!"
Blackie removed his pipe from between his teeth and wiped his lips withthe back of his hand. "I'm thinkin'," he said. "Anything t' obligeyou. When you're through shovin' that paper into my face would you mindexplainin' who wants what?"
"Oh, you're so stupid! So slow! Can't you see that I've written a reallive book, and had it accepted, and that I am going to write another ifI have to run away from a whole regiment of husbands to do it properly?Blackie, can't you see what it means! Oh, Blackie, I know I'm maudlinin my joy, but forgive me. It's been so long since I've had the taste ofit."
"Well, take a good chew while you got th'chance an' don't count too highon this first book business. I knew a guy who wrote a book once, an' heplanned to take a trip to Europe on it, and build a house when he gothome, and maybe a yacht or so, if he wasn't too rushed. Sa-a-ay,girl, w'en he got through gettin' those royalties for that book they'ddwindled down to fresh wall paper for the dinin'-room, and a new gasstove for his wife, an' not enough left over to take a trolley trip toOshkosh on. Don't count too high."
"I'm not counting at all, Blackie, and you can't discourage me."
"Don't want to. But I'd hate to see you come down with a thud." Suddenlyhe sat up and a grin overspread his thin face. "Tell you what we'll do,girlie. We'll celebrate. Maybe it'll be the last time. Let's pretendthis is six months ago, and everything's serene. You get your bonnet.I'll get the machine. It's too hot to work, anyway. We'll take a spinout to somewhere that's cool, and we'll order cold things to eat, andcold things to drink, and you can talk about yourself till you're tired.You'll have to take it out on somebody, an' it might as well be me."
Five minutes later, with my hat in my hand, I turned to find Peter at myelbow.
"Want to talk to you," he said, frowning.
"Sorry, Peter, but I can't stop. Won't it do later?"
"No. Got an assignment? I'll go with you."
"N-not exactly, Peter. The truth is, Blackie has taken pity on me andhas promised to take me out for a spin, just to cool off. It has been soinsufferably hot."
Peter turned away. "Count me in on that," he said, over his shoulder.
"But I can't, Peter," I cried. "It isn't my party. And anyway--"
Peter turned around, and there was an ugly glow in his eyes and an uglylook on his face, and a little red ridge that I had not noticed beforeseemed to burn itself across his forehead. "And anyway, you don't wantme, eh? Well, I'm going. I'm not going to have my wife chasing all overthe country with strange men. Remember, you're not the giddy grass widdyyou used to be. You can take me, or stay at home, understand?"
His voice was high-pitched and quavering. Something in his manner strucka vague terror to my heart. "Why, Peter, if you care that much I shallbe glad to have you go. So will Blackie, I am sure. Come, we'll go downnow. He'll be waiting for us."
Blackie's keen, clever mind grasped the situation as soon as he saw ustogether. His dark face was illumined by one of his rare smiles. "Comingwith us, Orme? Do you good. Pile into the tonneau, you two, and hang onto your hair. I'm going to smash the law."
Peter sauntered up to the steering-wheel. "Let me drive," he said. "I'mnot bad at it."
"Nix with the artless amateur," returned Blackie. "This ain't nodemonstrati
on car. I drive my own little wagon when I go riding, and Iintend to until I take my last ride, feet first."
Peter muttered something surly and climbed into the front seat next toBlackie, leaving me to occupy the tonneau in solitary state.
Peter began to ask questions--dozens of them, which Blackie answered,patiently and fully. I could not hear all that they said, but I sawthat Peter was urging Blackie to greater speed, and that Blackie wasexplaining that he must first leave the crowded streets behind. SuddenlyPeter made a gesture in the direction of the wheel, and said somethingin a high, sharp voice. Blackie's answer was quick and decidedly inthe negative. The next instant Peter Orme rose in his place and leaningforward and upward, grasped the wheel that was in Blackie's hands. Thecar swerved sickeningly. I noticed, dully, that Blackie did not go whiteas novelists say men do in moments of horror. A dull red flush crept tothe very base of his neck. With a twist of his frail body he tried tothrow off Peter's hands. I remember leaning over the back of the seatand trying to pull Peter back as I realized that it was a madman withwhom we were dealing. Nothing seemed real. It was ridiculously like thethings one sees in the moving picture theaters. I felt no fear.
"Sit down, Orme!" Blackie yelled. "You'll ditch us! Dawn! God!--"
We shot down a little hill. Two wheels were lifted from the ground. Themachine was poised in the air for a second before it crashed into theditch and turned over completely, throwing me clear, but burying Blackieand Peter under its weight of steel and wood and whirring wheels.
I remember rising from the ground, and sinking back again and risingonce more to run forward to where the car lay in the ditch, and tuggingat that great frame of steel with crazy, futile fingers. Then I ranscreaming down the road toward a man who was tranquilly working in afield nearby.