Her lovely head was bent down towards the sleeping mite
"Maybe I shall sing to you after all, mon petit Paul chéri," she said, hoarsely, and looked up at me, a few tears in her eyes vanishing as she saw the buds I was bringing her.
My finger went to my mouth, as an invitation to silence.
"You have spoken to Master Paul," I said, "and we will have to forgive you. It would have been cruel to forbid you such small comfort. But now, Frieda and I are to attend to all the conversation, for you are to keep as silent as the Sphynx. Eulalie, will you be so kind as to put these flowers in water?"
A moment later came up a messenger with a box, an oblong cardboard thing of immense size. I signed his ticket and bestowed ten cents upon him, because he had curly hair and a snub nose. Then, at a signal from Frances, I opened the box, from which cascaded American Beauties, lilies of the valley and several sprigs of white lilac. I handed the enclosed card to the little mother. She had been staring at the flowers and gazed at the pasteboard in wonder. Then she passed it over to me. It was one of Gordon's, marked "With best wishes. Please don't think of coming for a few days until you are quite well."
"Isn't it nice of him!" exclaimed Frieda, rushing out of the room.
Presently, she returned, bearing two icewater pitchers and a dreadful china vase in which she disposed the flowers, placing them on the mantel-piece. But I was touched when I saw that she put my little roses on the table, in the middle of the room, and told Frances what a delightful odor they had.
"I—I never told him I was going to have the operation," whispered the latter.
"I think I mentioned it to him a few days ago," I said, "and he evidently remembered."
"Gordon is the dearest fellow," declared Frieda. "Frances, you will have to sit down and write him a little note, this evening. And now lie down again on the sofa, my dear, and I'll read the paper to you, if you like. Here is the fashion part of the Times. There is not the slightest doubt that skirts are going to be worn short and somewhat fuller than last year, and the footwear is going to be very elaborate. For my part, I refuse to wear shoes with white uppers because they make fat ankles look ever so much bigger. Oh! Just look at this design for an evening dress!"
I withdrew, seeing them so well occupied. It was only then that I remembered I had had no breakfast, so I took my hat and went out for a solitary refection of coffee and omelette. Passing in front of the erstwhile dyeing and cleaning establishment, I noted that much blistered paint had been scraped off and read a sign stating that the shop would be opened again in a couple of weeks. This looked hopeful; once again will the wind be tempered to the poor lamb. Gordon will finish his picture and she will return to keeping accounts and advising anxious ladies as to the possibilities of renovating sere and yellow waists and skirts. It does not seem probable to me that she will sing again, in spite of the ordeal she has been through. It would sound like too good a thing to be true, and she can't speak above a whisper.
Later in the afternoon, after I had taken a hygienic walk, followed by the absorption of varied information from the papers, Frieda came in again. She considers Frances as a person requiring the utmost care and has brought her a pink shawl to put over her shoulders. I have seen it hang for years from a gas-fixture in Frieda's parlor.
When I proposed the usual refection of tea, Frieda held my arm as if the little pot I brandished had been a lethal weapon, with which I expected to destroy our patient. How could I venture on the responsibility of giving Frances tea without knowing whether it would be good for her? I declared that I would go and find out, and clattered down the stairs, rushing over to Porter's. The street was steeped in sabbatical peace and I reflected that the doctor would probably be out, attending to his growing practice and soothing the fevered brow. The rather slouchy maid of all work opened the door. Looking down the hall I saw Porter's red head issuing cautiously from the edge of a portière. A look of relief came to his features, and he came to me.
"Anything wrong?" he asked.
"No, I came to find out whether it is safe to give Mrs. Dupont a cup of tea?"
"Yes, and anything else she wants. Don't you want to come in the office and meet some fellows? We are playing penny ante. You'll take a hand, won't you?"
"Young man," I said, severely, "gambling is frowned upon by the police."
"Well, the sergeant of the precinct is one of us," he replied. "Plays a mighty good hand."
"Then you have my blessing," I replied, "but I can't accept. I must go back at once and make the tea. Another time I shall be delighted to lose my coppers to one of our brave defenders. Good-by and good luck to you!"
I went away, clad with authority to dispense the cup that cheers, and reflected with regret that Gordon would no longer drop in, as he had been wont to. All his spare hours he would now spend with Miss Van Rossum. I supposed that they would sit on a sofa and hold hands, a good part of the time, unless this occupation be also one of the many inventions issued from the brains of fervid writers. But why do I keep on thinking about him? I am beginning to disapprove of him, and he is drifting away from me. He has crossed a Rubicon and left no bridge for me to go over. I would give anything to know that he is desperately in love with Miss Van Rossum. It would exalt him in my eyes. Her wealth means nothing. True love comes in spite of iron bars or golden ingots. In his attractive personality and wonderful talent he has fully as much to offer as the young woman can bestow upon him. The question before me is whether he is really giving her all he has; his heart as well as his genius; his faith and passion as well as the solitaire she is wearing. I hope I am not unjust to him. But whether I am or not, I presume I am now destined to see little of him. It makes me rather sad to think that one more of my few golden links of friendship is to be broken or slowly dissolved.
For a few moments I stood before the outer door, with the latch-key in my hand, cogitating so deeply that I forgot to fit it in the lock. Presently, I sighed and went in, making my way up the stairs quite slowly and heavily, as if a few more years had suddenly piled themselves up on my head. The ancient stair-carpet looked more than usually unattractive and the wallpaper more decrepit. The fourth step on the second flight, ever inclined to complain, positively groaned under my weight, perhaps mistaking me for Frieda.
Finally I reached my landing.
"He's such a dear old stick-in-the-mud," I heard. "Never happy unless he's worrying over some lost sheep or puzzling over the way of being kind to some one. Frieda, you ought to take him by the nape of the neck, hale him to the Bureau of Licenses, and thence to a parson. After that you could roll him up in cotton-batting and make him happy all his life."
"I'm much too busy," replied Frieda, laughing, "and I don't really think he would like it."
I took a few quick steps and the three looked up. Gordon was sitting on the corner of the bed, looking very fine with a gardenia in his buttonhole. Frieda's face was expanded in the fat and lovable smile it always bears when any one speaks of her marrying. Frances just welcomed me as usual, with a look of her wonderful eyes.
"Hello, Gordon! What's new?" I asked him, rather embarrassed.
"Nothing very much," he replied. "Thought I'd like a cup of tea."