CHAPTER XXI. HAPPINESS
We laid Peter to rest in that noisy, careless, busy city that he hadloved so well, and I think his cynical lips would have curled in abitterly amused smile, and his somber eyes would have flamed into suddenwrath if he could have seen how utterly and completely New York hadforgotten Peter Orme. He had been buried alive ten years before--andNewspaper Row has no faith in resurrections. Peter Orme was not even amemory. Ten years is an age in a city where epochs are counted by hours.
Now, after two weeks of Norah's loving care, I was back in the prettylittle city by the lake. I had come to say farewell to all those whohad filled my life so completely in that year. My days of newspaper workwere over. The autumn and winter would be spent at Norah's, occupiedwith hours of delightful, congenial work, for the second book was to bewritten in the quiet peace of my own little Michigan town. Von Gerhardwas to take his deferred trip to Vienna in the spring, and I knew thatI was to go with him. The thought filled my heart with a great flood ofhappiness.
Together Von Gerhard and I had visited Alma Pflugel's cottage, and thegarden was blooming in all its wonder of color and scent as we openedthe little gate and walked up the worn path. We found them in the coolshade of the arbor, the two women sewing, Bennie playing with thelast wonderful toy that Blackie had given him. They made a serene andbeautiful picture there against the green canopy of the leaves. We spokeof Frau Nirlanger, and of Blackie, and of the strange snarl of eventswhich had at last been unwound to knit a close friendship between us.And when I had kissed them and walked for the last time in many monthsup the flower-bordered path, the scarlet and pink, and green and gold ofthat wonderful garden swam in a mist before my eyes.
Frau Nirlanger was next. When we spoke of Vienna she caught her breathsharply.
"Vienna!" she repeated, and the longing in her voice was an actualpain. "Vienna! Gott! Shall I ever see it again? Vienna! My boy is there.Perhaps--"
"Perhaps," I said, gently. "Stranger things have happened. Perhaps ifI could see them, and talk to them--if I could tell them--they might bemade to understand. I haven't been a newspaper reporter all theseyears without acquiring a golden gift of persuasiveness. Perhaps--whoknows?--we may meet again in Vienna. Stranger things have happened."
Frau Nirlanger shook her head with a little hopeless sigh. "You do notknow Vienna; you do not know the iron strength of caste, and custom andstiff-necked pride. I am dead in Vienna. And the dead should rest inpeace."
It was late in the afternoon when Von Gerhard and I turned the cornerwhich led to the building that held the Post. I had saved that for thelast.
"I hope that heaven is not a place of golden streets, and twanging harpsand angel choruses," I said, softly. "Little, nervous, slangy, restlessBlackie, how bored and ill at ease he would be in such a heaven! Howlonely, without his old black pipe, and his checked waistcoats, andhis diamonds, and his sporting extra. Oh, I hope they have all thosecomforting, everyday things up there, for Blackie's sake."
"How you grew to understand him in that short year," mused Von Gerhard."I sometimes used to resent the bond between you and this little Blackiewhose name was always on your tongue."
"Ah, that was because you did not comprehend. It is given to very fewwomen to know the beauty of a man's real friendship. That was the bondbetween Blackie and me. To me he was a comrade, and to him I was agood-fellow girl--one to whom he could talk without excusing his pipeor cigarette. Love and love-making were things to bring a kindly, amusedchuckle from Blackie."
Von Gerhard was silent. Something in his silence held a vague irritationfor me. I extracted a penny from my purse, and placed it in his hand.
"I was thinking," he said, "that none are so blind as those who will notsee."
"I don't understand," I said, puzzled.
"That is well," answered Von Gerhard, as we entered the building. "Thatis as it should be." And he would say nothing more.
The last edition of the paper had been run off for the day. I hadpurposely waited until the footfalls of the last departing reportershould have ceased to echo down the long corridor. The city room wasdeserted except for one figure bent over a pile of papers and proofs.Norberg, the city editor, was the last to leave, as always. His desklight glowed in the darkness of the big room, and his typewriter aloneawoke the echoes.
As I stood in the doorway he peered up from beneath his green eye-shade,and waved a cloud of smoke away with the palm of his hand.
"That you, Mrs. Orme?" he called out. "Lord, we've missed you! That newwoman can't write an obituary, and her teary tales sound like they werecarved with a cold chisel. When are you coming back?"
"I'm not coming back," I replied. "I've come to say good-by to youand--Blackie."
Norberg looked up quickly. "You feel that way, too? Funny. So do therest of us. Sometimes I think we are all half sure that it is onlyanother of his impish tricks, and that some morning he will pop open thedoor of the city room here and call out, 'Hello, slaves! Been keepin' m'memory green?'"
I held out my hand to him, gratefully. He took it in his great palm,and a smile dimpled his plump cheeks. "Going to blossom into a regularlittle writer, h'm? Well, they say it's a paying game when you get thehang of it. And I guess you've got it. But if ever you feel that youwant a real thrill--a touch of the old satisfying newspaper feeling--asniff of wet ink--the music of some editorial cussing--why come up hereand I'll give you the hottest assignment on my list, if I have to takeit away from Deming's very notebook."
When I had thanked him I crossed the hall and tried the door of thesporting editor's room. Von Gerhard was waiting for me far down at theother end of the corridor. The door opened and I softly entered and shutit again. The little room was dim, but in the half-light I could seethat Callahan had changed something--had shoved a desk nearer thewindow, or swung the typewriter over to the other side. I resented it. Iglanced up at the corner where the shabby old office coat had been wontto hang. There it dangled, untouched, just as he had left it. Callahanhad not dared to change that. I tip-toed over to the corner and touchedit gently with my fingers. A light pall of dust had settled over theworn little garment, but I knew each worn place, each ink-spot, eachscorch or burn from pipe or cigarette. I passed my hands over itreverently and gently, and then, in the dimness of that quiet littleroom I laid my cheek against the rough cloth, so that the scent of theold black pipe came back to me once more, and a new spot appeared on thecoat sleeve--a damp, salt spot. Blackie would have hated my doing that.But he was not there to see, and one spot more or less did not matter;it was such a grimy, disreputable old coat.
"Dawn!" called Von Gerhard softly, outside the door. "Dawn! Coming,Kindchen?"
I gave the little coat a parting pat. "Goodby," I whispered, under mybreath, and turned toward the door.
"Coming!" I called, aloud.
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