CHAPTER XVII. THE SHADOW OF TERROR
Two days before the date set for Von Gerhard's departure the book wasfinished, typed, re-read, packed, and sent away. Half an hour afterit was gone all its most glaring faults seemed to marshall themselvesbefore my mind's eye. Whole paragraphs, that had read quite reasonablybefore, now loomed ludicrous in perspective. I longed to snatch it back;to tidy it here, to take it in there, to smooth certain rough placesneglected in my haste. For almost a year I had lived with this thing,so close that its faults and its virtues had become indistinguishable tome. Day and night, for many months, it had been in my mind. Of late someinstinct had prompted me to finish it. I had worked at it far into thenight, until I marveled that the ancient occupants of the surroundingrooms did not enter a combined protest against the clack-clacking of mytypewriter keys. And now that it was gone I wondered, dully, if I couldfeel 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 inhushed tones of mock awe. Also he delighted in getting down on hands andknees and guiding a yard-stick carefully about my desk with a viewto having a fence built around it, bearing an inscription which wouldinform admiring tourists that here was the desk at which the brilliantauthor had been wont to sit when grinding out heart-throb stories forthe humble Post. He took an impish delight in my struggles with my heroand heroine, and his inquiries after the health of both were of such anature 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 devotedto the work in hand. On the day after the book was sent away I wasconscious of a little shock as I strolled into Blackie's sanctum andtook my accustomed seat beside his big desk. There was an oddly pinchedlook about Blackie's nostrils and lips, I thought. And the deep-setblack eyes appeared deeper and blacker than ever in his thin littleface.
A week of unseasonable weather had come upon the city. June was goingout in a wave of torrid heat such as August might have boasted. The dayhad seemed endless and intolerably close. I was feeling very limp andlanguid. Perhaps, thought I, it was the heat which had wilted Blackie'sdebonair spirits.
"It has been a long time since we've had a talk-talk, Blackie. I'vemissed you. Also you look just a wee bit green around the edges. I'mthinking 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 hiswindow, came back to me, and there was in them a curious and quizzicalexpression as of one who is inwardly amused.
"I've been thinkin' about a vacation. None of your measly little twoweeks' affairs, with one week on salary, and th' other without. I ain'tgoin' t' take my vacation for a while--not till fall, p'raps, or maybewinter. But w'en I do take it, sa-a-ay, girl, it's goin' t' be a realone."
"But why wait so long?" I asked. "You need it now. Who ever heard ofputting off a vacation until winter!"
"Well, I dunno," mused Blackie. "I just made my arrangements for thattime, and I hate t' muss 'em up. You'll say, w'en the time comes, thatmy plans are reasonable."
There was a sharp ring from the telephone at Blackie's elbow. Heanswered 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 tellyou," he said. "Something most important. If I call for you at six wecan 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 amkept cool."
"That was Von Gerhard," said I to Blackie, and tried not to lookuncomfortable.
"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, "toVienna. 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 medicalpapers, and the big magazines, and all that, lately. Gettin' t' be a bigbug, Von Gerhard is. Sorry he's goin', though. I was plannin' t' consulthim just before I go on my--vacation. But some other guy'll do. He don'tapprove of me, Von Gerhard don't."
For some reason which I could never explain I went back into the roomand held out both my hands to Blackie. His nervous brown fingers closedover 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 weapprove 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 seraphicmood. I had bathed, donned clean linen and a Dutch-necked gown. Theresult was most soul-satisfying. My spirits rose unaccountably. Even thesight 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 bayroad stretching its flawless length along the water's side. It was alivewith swift-moving motor cars swarming like twentieth-century pilgrimstoward the mecca of cool breezes and comfort. There were proudlimousines; comfortable family cars; trim little roadsters; noisyrunabouts. Not a hoof-beat was to be heard. It was as though thehorseless 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 branchesone caught occasional gleams of silvery water. The rush of cool airfanned my hot forehead, tousled my hair, slid down between my collar andthe back of my neck, and I was grandly content.
"Even though you are going to sail away, and even though you have thegrumps, and refuse to talk, and scowl like a jabberwock, this is anextremely 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 thenquickly perfected."
"Perfected!" I groaned. "I turn cold when I think of it. The lastchapters got away from me completely. They lacked the punch."
Von Gerhard considered that a moment, as I wickedly had intended that heshould. Then--"The punch? What is that then--the punch?"
Obligingly I elucidated. "A book may be written in flawless style, witha plot, and a climax, and a lot of little side surprises. But if itlacks that peculiar and convincing quality poetically known as thepunch, it might as well never have been written. It can never be asix-best-seller, neither will it live as a classic. You will never seeit advertised on the book review page of the Saturday papers, norwill the man across the aisle in the street car be so absorbed in itscontents that he will be taken past his corner."
Von Gerhard looked troubled. "But the literary value? Does that notenter--"
"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 writea successful book, and the other to learn to whistle through myteeth--this way, you know, as the gallery gods do it. I am almostdespairing of the whistle, but I still have hopes of the book."
Whereupon Von Gerhard, after a moment's stiff surprise, gave vent to oneof 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 hearmore about the book. Not so flippant, however, small one. The time ispast when you can deceive me with your nonsense."
"Surely you would not have me take myself seriously! That's another debtI owe my Irish forefathers. They could laugh--bless 'em!--in the veryteeth of a potato crop failure. And let me tell you, that takes somesense of humor. The book is my potato crop. If it fails it will meanthat I must keep on drudging, with a knot or two taken in my belt. ButI'll squeeze a smile out of the corner of my mouth, somehow. And if itsucceeds! Oh, Ernst, if it succeeds!"
"
Then, Kindchen?"
"Then it means that I may have a little thin layer of jam on my breadand butter. It won't mean money--at least, I don't think it will. Afirst book never does. But it will mean a future. It will mean that Iwill have something solid to stand on. It will be a real beginning--abreathing spell--time in which to accomplish something really worthwhile--independence--freedom from this tread-mill--"
"Stop!" cried Von Gerhard, sharply. Then, as I stared in surprise--"Ido ask your pardon. I was again rude, nicht wahr? But in me there is aqueer vein of German superstition that disapproves of air castles. Sicheinbilden, we call it."
The lights of the bay pavilion twinkled just ahead. The green car pokedits nose up the path between rows of empty machines. At last it drew up,panting, before a vacant space between an imposing, scarlet touring carand a smart, cream-colored runabout. We left it there and walked up thelight-flooded path.
Inside the great, barn-like structure that did duty as pavilion glassesclinked, chairs scraped on the wooden floor; a burst of music followeda sharp fusillade of applause. Through the open doorway could be seen acompany of Tyrolese singers in picturesque costumes of scarlet and greenand 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 istoo brightly lighted, and too noisy. We will find a table out here underthe trees, where the music is softened by the distance, and our eyes arenot offended by the ugliness of the singers. But inexcusably ugly theyare, these Tyrolese women."
We found a table within the glow of the pavilion's lights, but stillso near the lake that we could hear the water lapping the shore. Acadaverous, sandy-haired waiter brought things to eat, and we made braveefforts to appear hungry and hearty, but my high spirits were ebbingfast, and Von Gerhard was frankly distraught. One of the women singersappeared suddenly in the doorway of the pavilion, then stole down thesteps, and disappeared in the shadow of the trees beyond our table.The voices of the singers ceased abruptly. There was a moment's hushedsilence. Then, from the shadow of the trees came a woman's voice, clear,strong, flexible, flooding the night with the bird-like trill of themountain yodel. The sound rose and fell, and swelled and soared. Asilence. Then, in a great burst of melody the chorus of voices withinthe pavilion answered the call. Again a silence. Again the wonder of thewoman's voice flooded the stillness, ending in a note higher, clearer,sweeter than any that had gone before. Then the little Tyrolese, hermoment 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 toremember, when you are gone."
Von Gerhard beckoned the hovering waiter. "Take these things away. Andyou need not return." He placed something in the man's palm--somethingthat caused a sudden whisking away of empty dishes, and many obsequiousbows.
Von Gerhard's face was turned away from me, toward the beauty of thelake and sky. Now, as the last flirt of the waiter's apron vanishedaround the corner he turned his head slowly, and I saw that in his eyeswhich 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 firstI should tell you--although this is not the thing which I have to say toyou--"
"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 knewnot 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.
The lights of the pavilion fell away, and advanced, and swung about in agreat sickening circle. I shut my eyes. The lights still swung before myeyes. Von Gerhard leaned toward me with a word of alarm. I clung to hishands with all my strength.
"No!" I said, and the savage voice was not my own. "No! No! No! Itisn't true! It isn't--Oh, it's some joke, isn't it? Tell me, it's--it'ssomething funny, isn't it? And after a bit we'll laugh--we'll laugh--ofcourse--see! I am smiling already--"
"Dawn--dear one--it is true. God knows I wish that I could be happy toknow it. The hospital authorities pronounce him cured. He has been quitesane for weeks."
"You knew it--how long?"
"You know that Max has attended to all communications from the doctorsthere. A few weeks ago they wrote that Orme had shown evidences ofrecovery. He spoke of you, of the people he had known in New York, ofhis work on the paper, all quite rationally and calmly. But they mustfirst be sure. Max went to New York a week ago. Peter was gone. Thehospital authorities were frightened and apologetic. Peter had walkedaway quite coolly one day. He had gone into the city, borrowed money ofsome old newspaper cronies, and vanished. He may be there still. He maybe--"
"Here! Ernst! Take me home! O God; I can't do it! I can't! I ought tobe happy, but I'm not. I ought to be thankful, but I'm not, I'm not! Thehorror of having him there was great enough, but it was nothing comparedto the horror of having him here. I used to dream that he was wellagain, and that he was searching for me, and the dreadful realness of itused to waken me, and I would find myself shivering with terror. OnceI dreamed that I looked up from my desk to find him standing in thedoorway, smiling that mirthless smile of his, and I heard him say, inhis mocking way: 'Hello, Dawn my love; looking wonderfully well. Grasswidowhood agrees with you, eh?'"
"Dawn, you must not laugh like that. Come, we will go. You areshivering! Don't, dear, don't. See, you have Norah, and Max, and me tohelp you. We will put him on his feet. Physically he is not what heshould be. I can do much for him."
"You!" I cried, and the humor of it was too exquisite for laughter.
"For that I gave up Vienna," said Von Gerhard, simply. "You, too, mustdo your share."
"My share! I have done my share. He was in the gutter, and he wasdragging me with him. When his insanity came upon him I thanked God forit, and struggled up again. Even Norah never knew what that strugglewas. Whatever I am, I am in spite of him. I tell you I could hug mywidow's weeds. Ten years ago he showed me how horrible and unclean athing can be made of this beautiful life. I was a despairing, coweringgirl of twenty then--I am a woman now, happy in her work, her friends;growing broader and saner in thought, quicker to appreciate the finerthings in life. And now--what?"
They were dashing off a rollicking folk-song indoors. When it wasfinished there came a burst of laughter and the sharp spat of applaudinghands, and shouts of approbation. The sounds seemed seared upon mybrain. I rose and ran down the path toward the waiting machine. Therein the darkness I buried my shamed face in my hands and prayed for thetears that would not come.
It seemed hours before I heard Von Gerhard's firm, quick tread upon thegravel path. He moved about the machine, adjusting this and that, thentook his place at the wheel without a word. We glided out upon thesmooth white road. All the loveliness of the night seemed to havevanished. Only the ugly, distorted shadows remained. The terror ofuncertainty gripped me. I could not endure the sight of Von Gerhard'sstern, set face. I grasped his arm suddenly so that the machine veeredand darted across the road. With a mighty wrench 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 hadbeen 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 itwhat it is, in the face of a hundred temptations; in spite of a hundredpitfalls. I can't lay
it down again for Peter Orme to trample. Ernst, ifyou love me, take me away now. To Vienna--anywhere--only don't ask me totake 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."