Part 22 (1/2)
I rose, angrily, and paced the room several times.
”That's arrant nonsense,” I finally declared. ”You will go to Gordon's and you will also return to Madame Felicie Smith's, for a short time. In the meanwhile I will have the piano moved into your room, because it is a silly inc.u.mbrance in mine. You can practise a little by yourself, if Porter allows you to. Then, as soon as he says it is all right, you will go to the Signora Stefano, or to Richetti or some such expert teacher.
I have some money in the bank and I am going to advance it to you, because you can return it later on, when you give concerts or sing at the opera. If you don't give it back, I'll dun you, sue you, set the minions of the law after you, if such a promise can give you any comfort. Don't you dare answer, it is bad for your throat to speak too much, especially when it is nonsense. And I'm going to make a lot more money besides. I have an idea about an old maid and a canary that the magazines will bid for, hungrily. It's the finest thing I ever wrote, although it is still incubating in my head.”
She rose, ever so carefully, so as not to awaken Baby Paul, and deposited him in his crib. Then she came to me with both hands outstretched.
”Do you really think, David, that I would squander your poor little savings? Do you think I am one to speculate on friends.h.i.+p and try to coin money out of kindness?”
She held both my shoulders, her great beautiful eyes seeming to search my soul, which the tears that trembled on her lashes appeared to sear as if they had been drops of molten lead. With some effort, I brought a smile to my lips and shook my head.
”You are a silly infant,” I told her, gravely. ”Little Paul, on the other hand, is a man, an individual endowed with intelligence beyond his months. He will understand that you are not at all concerned in this matter and that I only want to help him out. I want to give him a mother of whom he will be proud, one who will make the little scrivener she met on a top floor ever boastful that once upon a time he was a friend and still maintains her regard. I am only seeking to help him, since we are great pals, to graduate from long frocks to trousers, in antic.i.p.ation of college and other steps towards useful manhood. He is a particular friend of mine; he smiles upon me; he has drooled upon my s.h.i.+rtfront and pulled my moustache. We understand one another, Paul and I, and together we deplore your feminine obstinacy.”
To my frightful embarra.s.sment Frances let go of my shoulders and seized my hands, which she carried swiftly as a flash to her lips, before I could draw them away.
”When I teach him to pray, you will not be forgotten, David. We--we will speak of this some other time, because, perhaps, after all, my voice will never return--as it was before, and then all this will have been but--but idle speculations--and--and I will never forget your goodness.”
Just then, Baby Paul, perhaps thinking that our conversation had lasted long enough, gave the signal for me to retire. He is a rather impatient young man, and I stepped out, closing the door behind me, and went to my room where I thankfully removed the frock coat, after which, David was himself again.
Richetti, I have heard, is a marvelous teacher, and there is no better judge of the possibilities of a voice. I am going to interview him and explain the intricacies of the case. Then, I shall tell him that if he sees the slightest chance he will put me under lasting obligation by sending the bills to me, meanwhile, a.s.suring Frances that he is teaching her gratuitously, in order to enhance his reputation by turning out such a consummate artist. She will fall in my snare and be captured by my wiles.
There are various fas.h.i.+ons, I have always heard, of causing the demise of a cat. Here is where the shrewd and clever conspirator is going to use the plots of his fiction in real life. I am thankful that my professional training is at last to serve me so well!
CHAPTER XV
THE LIGHTNING STROKE
More days have gone by. This morning I happened to meet Jamieson, who is always exceedingly kind and urbane to his flock of authors.
”My dear fellow,” he told me, ”you must not be discouraged if the 'Land o' Love' does not sell quite so well as some of the others, for I have not the slightest doubt that your next book will more than make up for it. A man is not a machine and he cannot always maintain the same level of accomplishment. We are only printing a couple of thousand copies to start with, but, of course, your advance payment, on the day of publication, will be the same as usual.”
He said all this so pleasantly that I almost forgot that this payment was called for on my contract and felt personally obliged to him.
”We will send you a few advance copies by the end of the week,” he said.
”It might pay you to look one of them over, carefully. You have not read the thing for a good many months, now, and you will get a better perspective on it. I have no doubt that you will agree with me that a return to your former manner is rather advisable. I am ever so glad to have seen you. Now, don't worry over this because you have not yet written half the good stuff that's in you, and I certainly look forward to a big seller from you, some day.”
I shook hands with him, feeling greatly indebted, and walked slowly home. There can be few better judges than Jamieson, and his estimate of the ”Land o' Love” leaves me rather blue. I have been so anxious to make money in order to be able to help in the improvement of those repaired vocal chords of Frances and start her on the way towards the success I believe is in store for her, that I feel as if the impending failure of my novel were a vicious blow of fate directed against her. Why was I ever impelled to leave aside some of the conventions of my trade, to abandon the path I have hitherto trodden in safety? One or two multimillionaires may have been able to condemn the public to perdition, but a struggling author might as safely, in broad daylight, throw s...o...b..a.l.l.s at a chief of police. Before I go any further I must carefully read over the seven or eight score pages I have already done for the successor of ”Land o' Love,” and find out whether I am not drifting into too iconoclastic a way of writing.
With my head full of such disquieting thoughts I walked home. As I turned the corner of my street, I saw Frances, a good way ahead of me.
She was doubtless returning from Gordon's studio. Her darling little bundle was in her arms and she hurried along, very fast.
”Baby Paul must be hungry,” I decided, ”and she will run up the stairs.
No use hastening after her, for her door will be closed. Frieda will soon come in, and we shall all go over to Camus, as we arranged last evening.”
Once in my room I took up my ma.n.u.script and began to study it, trying to disguise myself under the skin of the severest critic. I started, with a frown, to read the lines, in a manner that was an excellent imitation of a grumpy teacher I remembered, who used to read our poor little essays as if they had been doc.u.ments convicting us of manslaughter, to say the very least. And yet, so hopelessly vacillating is my nature that I had read but half a chapter before I was figuratively patting myself on the back, in egotistic approval of my own work. I continued, changing a word here and there and dreamily repeating some sentences, the better to judge of their effectiveness, until there was a knock at my door and Frieda came in, looking scared.
”See here, Dave, I've just been in to see Frances. She's come back with a dreadful headache and can't go out to dinner with us. I asked if I could make her a cup of tea and she wouldn't hear of it. The room is all dark and she's lying on the bed.”