CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
AVALANCHE
I
“When I was a child,” he said, “I lived in an orphan asylum. It stood on a hill, and down below there were a lot of iron foundries. The air was always full of smoke. It came up sometimes in clouds—in clouds—in black clouds that even covered up the sun.”
“Oh!” cried Stella, one hand pressed against her cheek. In the presence of his great serenity her agitation seemed immense, unendurable.
“I never knew who my people were. From what I could make out, and it was very little, I guess I must have been picked up somewhere.” He smiled dreamily. “Yes, I guess that must have been it. One day I decided to run away. It was a great many miles to New York, and I walked. Later on I was earning three meals a day making artificial flowers in a garret in Bleeker street. I can see it now—most of the plaster fallen off the walls—dormers sticking out through the roof—elevated trains going by all day right beside the windows.... We made everything,” he said, his tone tender and a little caressing, “from single and double roses to lilies-of-the-valley. But I liked to make violets best, and they let me do them most of the time, because I could turn out so many in a day.”
“Violets....” Stella murmured, and saw again a florist’s boy standing at her door with a small square box and a note.
“Later on, I became a model in a class of sculptors. Then for many years I did whatever work I could get hold of and managed to keep from starving. You see how beautiful it all is? But to get to the shoes....”
He paused just a moment, a faint smile signifying what pure and calm delight this flow of reminiscence brought to his soul. Then he went on speaking.