Part 2

Breen and Nielsen stared at him again.

Somewhat later, the painter and the writer were comfortably seated in the latter's comfortable workshop.

"I guess so, but I hope it isn't true," Nielsen was saying.

"Oh, he'll get over it. These attachments of his are never serious nor of long duration. And at best, she's only a hardened little thing, a fact he'll realize in good season."

"John was always much slower to learn matters than the rest of us," Nielsen said dreamily.

"Yes."

"He's foolishly sensitive too."

"And foolishly sentimental," Breen concluded.

There was a pause.

"And how about your story?" the painter continued.

"By the way, I'm thinking of using Erna as a model for--"

"Want her to pose for you too, old Sly Fox?" Breen demanded in revenge.

"Of course, and incidentally to find out--"

"I know," Breen interrupted, and the pair laughed in mutual admiration.

In the meanwhile, John Carstairs was busy--working. He was seated at the small upright piano, which monopolized a good part of the space in his small studio. About an hour later, he had finished improvising and selecting and arranging his material and now placed a large sheet of music paper against the piano rack. The staves were blank at present, but it was certain that the young composer intended covering them as rapidly as possible. First of all, however, he wrote the title of the composition at the head of the page: To Thee.

IV

An evening performance was in full swing at the Phoenix Music Hall, a small but well attended five and ten cent moving picture and vaudeville establishment on Eighth Avenue, not far from Landsmann's. At present, the moving pictures were doing a turn, and the auditorium was dark. Music from a piano, placed close to the stage, was the only accompaniment, but it was an adequate one. A young, slender, anaemic individual was seated at the piano.

At the moment, he was playing a dainty popular waltz as a descriptive background for a French comedy scene. Many a laugh rolled toward him. Then he commenced a two-step, as the screen announced a change of pictures. The audience laughed more frequently and with heartier approval, as an American farce romped by. Again, the screen announced a change.

An Irish romance was under way. For this class of sketch, Carstairs was expected to interpolate or to improvise something "sweet and dreamy." Therefore, he took advantage of the opportunity. He leaned closer to the keyboard, lowered his head and was soon engulfed in what he was rendering--so much so, that he did not turn to keep in touch with the pictures, as was his habit. The yearning sentimental composition had made him captive.

Let others talk against Erna, he would still hold fast to his faith in her. Breen was a cynic, and Nielsen too. They flattered themselves that they knew human nature, but they did not, for they were lacking in sympathy. He had been foolish to listen to their prattle concerning Erna. He would not do so in the future. In fact, he ought to drop their acquaintance or to avoid their company, at least. He would do that. Now, he could keep his thought of her, so pure, to himself--his thought of her, who, in spite of her fun-loving and prank-playing nature, was as pure as the purest and whitest of-- Yes, he would keep her pure. And Jimmy Allen, well, he had come back, but his influence over her was dead, dead since the day she had shown him the door, as she had confided to him that time. He could trust her. She was strong enough and pure enough to take care of herself.

This was Friday; to-morrow would be Saturday, and then Sunday, a long, long Sunday, would come and have to pass before she would be with him. Of course, he would see her to-morrow morning at breakfast, but he must be careful to avoid the cynics. Even so, how could he tell her that he had composed this for her, this, the best of his compositions, thanks to the circumstance that she had been its inspiration. Perhaps, it would be better not to tell her; it would be a bigger surprise if he were to play it for her and then offer it to her, as one would a flower or some other symbol.

Would he have the courage to ask her to come to his studio, so that he might play for her? And if he had, suppose she should refuse? But she had accepted an invitation from Breen, and only to pose for him. Surely, she would not refuse him? And if she did not, could he actually amuse and hold her attention by merely playing for her? Why not? She sang a great deal in the store,--it is true, popular music, which he hated--but she had not been educated to anything higher. That did not make her any the less musical; moreover, she would learn in time, at his guidance perhaps, since she possessed so much temperament along with that lovely voice. Therefore, she would not object should he offer to play for her. And he would play as he never had for any one, eventually to lead up to this composition, that belonged so naturally to her. What would she say when he would offer it to her as her own? He must push his courage far enough to ask her to come to his studio.

Carstairs continued playing and dreaming.

The audience was very still now. At one end of the front row, a young couple were sitting, holding hands. When the lights were up a while ago, one might have recognized them as Erna Vitek and Jimmy Allen. Both were living in the proverbial seventh heaven.

"Ain't it lovely?" she was whispering.

"The two boobs in the love story?"

"Not them so much--but the music!"

"Pretty good."

"Nice an' dreamy, ain't it?"

"Yes--sounds as though the guy was playing for us."

Erna gave him a reproving nudge, and he laughed. They listened and watched in silence. But he grew impatient. "Don't care for the story, do you?"

"Sure! What's the matter with it?"

"Them two boobs gimme a pain."

"Why?"

"I dunno."

"They're true to life?"

"So's my dead gran'mother."

She laughed. "What's wrong with 'em?"

He squeezed her hand as gently as he was able. "Where do we come in?"

"What?"

"Ain't we true to life?"

She pulled her hand away.

"What's the matter?" he demanded.

"Nothin'."

"Gimme your--my hand again!"

"No."

"Why not?"

"Just because."

"Sore?"

"No."

He was silent.

Presently, she commanded: "Jimmy!"

No answer.

"Jimmy!"

Again, no answer.

Her hand slid across his arm and sought his.

"Mad?"

"Mm--no."

"Sure?"

"Yes."

"Then why wouldn't you answer?"

"Just because!" he mimicked her.

She slapped his hand gently, his hand opened and they clasped again. There was a pause.

"Erna," he said in bolder tones.

"Not so loud!" she warned him.

"Well then--Erna," he repeated in very low tones.

"That's better."

"How about it?"

"About what?"

"What I asked you 'fore we came here?"

"I asked you not to repeat that," was her reproach.

"I know, but I can't help it. Don't you like it here?"

"Sure."

"I mean here, side o' me--in the dark?"

"Yes."

"Well--" He hesitated.

"Well?" she mocked him.

"Think o' how swell it'd be--"

"Be careful, Jimmy!"

"I can't help it," he persisted. "Think o' how swell it'd be--"

"Jimmy!" she warned him once more.

"Oh shucks!" he returned aloud, and was silent. There was a longer pause.

"Jimmy!"

No answer.

"Jimmy!"

Again, no answer.

"Jimmy!"

A third time, no answer.

She pressed his hand and pushed against his shoulder, but he would not respond. Erna gave in. "I'm sorry--forgive me?"

"Mm--"

"Do you forgive me?"

"Yes."

"You don't say it very loud."

"Well, you jumped on me before for talkin' loud."

"You'd wake the audience," she apologized.

"Well?" he challenged.

"Well what?" she retorted.

"What did you want to say?"

"Nothin'."

"All right!"--and he was silent.

"Ah yes, Jimmy," she resigned.

"Well?"

"You can go on with--with your story, but--but don't go too far."

"All right."

"Promise?"

"Yes."

"Then go ahead."

He revolved matters in his blunt mind, and recommenced: "You remember, I told you 'bout the--the little furnished flat my manager, Nolan, asked me to move in?"

"Yes?"

"Well, why couldn't we--just you an' me--"

"Jimmy!"

"I know, but I can't help it, Erna. Things is different now. When I asked you that time--well, that's all over now. You an' I's forgotten that. So what's buried's buried. An' times is different now. You've got a job, though it's a punk one. I've got a little money an' more to come, an' I've cut drinkin'. My health's fine an' prospects great. After I finish 'the Kid' there'll be Young Walcott--an' after Walcott, a bunch o' others--"

"But Jimmy--"

"Don't butt in!" he begged seriously. "Now, I know you hate that job o' yours--"

"It ain't all cheese an' honey," she confessed.

"No, an' it never will be. Now, why can't you pull up stakes--"

"Jimmy!"

"Don't butt in!" he begged more seriously. "This is different than last time. I'm a--a respectable man now an' you're a respectable woman."

"Always have been," she cautioned him.

"I know," he hastened to admit. "What I've been tryin' to say is: Keep your job a little longer if you want to, till I go on with mine an' get lots o' dough. In the meanwhile--" He stopped.

"Well?" she ventured, but with an ominous inflection.

"I'll rent the little flat off Nolan, an' you an' I can--"

"Jimmy!"

"But I'm askin' you to _marry_ me this time," he protested.

"I know."

"Ain't that different?"

"No."

"Why not?"

"Because it ain't."

"Why not?"

"Because it ain't."

"But Erna--"

"Now listen, Jimmy! You promised not to go too far."

"Oh shucks!" he broke out.

They were silent. He let go her hand and drew away a short distance. She removed her hand rather reluctantly. Once or twice, she pushed against his shoulder. But he would not respond.

The romantic pictures disappeared, and the music ceased. The lights were turned on. There was a sigh throughout the audience. Erna and Jimmy seemed glad of the change as well. A little sooner, they would have been sorry.

She glanced his way. He was not looking in her direction. She nudged him. He still refused to turn his head. "Jimmy," she whispered tenderly.

He stole a half glance at her. She was smiling in invitation. He could not help smiling too.

"You all right now?" she ventured.

He turned toward her, and instantly, his ever-ready laugh dispelled their gloom.

"You all right?" she repeated.

"Yes," he admitted, and declared: "Some scrap that!"

"No, it wasn't," she reassured him and smiled with revived mischief.

Their hands fell back to their natural occupation.

"Turn out the lights!" Jimmy commanded in so loud a tone that most of their neighbors, as well as Erna, giggled.

A German comedian made his appearance and offered the usual monologue. No musical accompaniment was required for this act; therefore, Carstairs had disappeared under the stage. He had not seen Erna and Jimmy, nor they him.

V

Carstairs was waiting at the street corner rendezvous early the following Sunday evening. Impatience had kept him company all day, a long day, but the impatience he felt now was even keener. He had been ahead of their appointment by about twenty minutes, for he was afraid that Erna might be there first. His vigil was that much the longer and more trying. What hours it took for minutes to pass! Suppose she did not come?

The fates, however, were good-humored. He could see an athletic figure coming along at a familiar leisurely pace. It was Erna. His joy and excitement were such that he could scarcely wait for her to reach him. What made her walk so slowly?

"Hello," was her soft cheery greeting.

He had avoided the bakery restaurant all day. He could hardly return her salutation, the last of his courage having fled.

"Where--where shall we go?" he questioned.

"Anywhere," she agreed genially.

Now was his opportunity. He must ask her. Of course, they could not walk the streets the whole of his two hours' freedom. Nor could they go to the theatre so early. Would she sense these arguments? Moreover, they had been to a restaurant for a little refreshment and conversation on their two former outings. She had not enjoyed those visits particularly, reminding her, as they must have, of her daily life at Landsmann's.

"It's a little bit too cold," he ventured.

"Not so very," she returned mischievously, as they started walking.

He was frightened. "But--"

She was enjoying his embarrassment, but came to his assistance with: "Well, where _shall_ we go? It's up to you. You did the invitin'."

"I've got nearly two hours," he explained. "Can you stay out that long?"

"I'm off for the rest o' the night," she assured him; "but I ought to be back under the quilt by ten. I'm a bit tired."

"Of course, you are," he agreed hurriedly--this was another opportunity--"so we mustn't do any walking. Do you--would you like to come--"

"Yes."

"How would you like to come over to my place?"

It was out. What would she say?

"Will anybody else be there?"

"Oh no!"

"It's over there on Fourteenth Street somewhere, ain't it?"

"Yes."

"I don't mind," she said.

Joy and excitement overwhelmed him. He could not speak. And he had imagined all along that it would be so difficult to induce her to come. He did not know what to say.

"Do we cross here?" she suggested.

"Yes," he said in a low tone.

The need of politeness forced itself upon him. Timidly, he took her arm and led her across the street. As a matter of fact, it was she, who was so much stronger and more daring than he, who had done the leading. They reached the opposite side, and walked along in silence. After a minute or so, they approached an old building.

"Here it is," he declared nervously and let go her arm.

They climbed three smelly flights of stairs, followed a dark hallway and came to a halt. He took out his keys and opened a door. "Step in," he requested.

"You've got the light lit," she announced.

"Yes, I thought it'd be--"

"It's awful nice here."

"Do you think so?" he questioned eagerly, greatly encouraged. "But it's such a small, dingy place."

"Oh no," she maintained. "It's nice an' cosy."

Erna walked about, examining articles with her inquisitive eyes. "So this is your piano?"

"Yes, it's an old box."

"No, it's nice lookin'. An' whose picture is that?"

"My mother's."

"An' that one?"

"Oh that--that's only--"

"An old _friend_?" she assisted him.

"Yes," he agreed, and his blushes appeared.

Fortunately, Erna's back was turned. But she knew he was blushing, and her face lighted with pleasure. She examined other articles.

Carstairs asked quickly: "Won't you take off your things?"

Slowly, she removed her coat and hat, and fixed her hair at a small looking glass. "Men use these things too," she observed.

"Yes, we do," he echoed, and put her things on the couch, where he likewise laid his own.

"Sit down," he advised.

"Over here?"

"Yes."

"Oh, this is a nice soft chair."

Carstairs walked about a while. He was so nervous that he did not know what to do. Nevertheless, he realized that he must offer to entertain her. At least, he must say something.

But Erna spoke first. "What makes you walk around?"

"Oh nothing," he returned abruptly, looked about in confusion and finally selected the piano stool, which, however, was so close to Erna's chair that his confusion grew. The girl, herself, had betrayed a little embarrassment once or twice, but she had conquered its last sign. This was perhaps possible because of her enjoyment of Carstairs' rather pathetic condition. Erna loved and craved praise or flattery, and the young composer's substitute for them was certainly a decided tribute.

"It's awful nice here," she repeated.

"I'm glad you think so," he responded gratefully, and glanced toward her, only to look away.

"It's kind o' restful too."

This was an excellent opening.

"You must be very tired," he declared.

"A little bit."

"You've been working all day?"

"Since six-thirty this morning."

"Lord, then you must be tired."

"Not so very much," she denied with pride. "I can stand work."

He dared a glance at her strong body and her bold eyes. How splendid she was!

"But _you_ must be tired," she continued.

"Yes,--no, only a very little."

"You've been workin' all day too."

"At the afternoon performance. I didn't get away until six o'clock."

"An' you go on to-night?"

"From nine to eleven, yes," he explained, and felt ashamed that he was so weary. And she had been working in that stuffy, unhealthy dining room and kitchen since half-past six and was as cheerful as ever.

"You'll be needin' a rest now," she went on.

"Oh no!" he hastily assured her.

"Then will you play for me? I never heard you play, an' I've heard Mr. Breen an' Mr. Nielsen talk so much about you."

"They are flatterers," he said, with a self-conscious laugh. "But if you'd like--if you--would you really like to have me?"

"Of course."

This was his next opportunity, but again, his courage would not assist him. What should he play? "Do you really feel like listening?" he began once more.

"Of course--I like music," she argued.

There was nothing else to do. He had better start playing. And Carstairs turned on the stool. "What shall I play for you?"

"Anything at all."

"But wouldn't you rather--"

"Play somethin' you like yourself," she interrupted.

Carstairs hesitated. He had not had the faintest idea how difficult it would be. Moreover, he could feel her soft brown eyes resting on him. And he had been vowing such wonderful deeds of late: that he would play for her as he never had for any one--that he would play her composition, which belonged so naturally to her. Instead, he could scarcely touch a key.

A spirit of self-condemnation took possession of him. He must forget himself. She would think him a fool. Besides, she might learn how much he--No, she must not learn that. He commenced improvising.

The young composer blundered considerably at first, but his self-resentment helped him, and his efforts soon displayed more coherence and warmth. Should he open his program with "To Thee"? Why not? Why wait until later? But she might understand. She might catch its significance and then--But how could she know that he had written the composition? It might just as easily belong to some other composer. Yes, he would play it.

"Are you ready?" he asked with attempted levity.

"Of course, don't stop!" she encouraged him.

Carstairs played "To Thee", at first, with timidity and uncertainty, but by and by with more resolution and consequent expressiveness as his faith in the composition, as an expression of himself, returned. Gradually, too, he realized how appropriate was the mood that flowed through its measures.

Erna watched him. A greedy little smile played about the corners of her mouth and her nose twitched slightly. But the corners straightened and her nose stopped twitching.

No, he was too soft. His shoulders were so weak and his hands so small and his face so pale--just like his nature. He belonged to his mother up there and to that soft pretty face over there. But he was a nice, decent fellow. And he was lots of fun, he was so different from other men. But he was sad. She loved joy and freedom. He seemed like a mean little prisoner, and he made her feel soft too. But he had always been decent toward her. Yes, he belonged to such as his mother and the pretty face. Anyhow, he knew how to play the piano.... What a different time she had had last night! Jimmy was such a big, strong, happy fellow. But even he did not quite satisfy her. Erna sighed just a little.

She regained immediate control of herself and stopped studying Carstairs. Instead, she followed the patterns in the small rug at her feet. Presently, she gave herself up to the music. It was very pretty. It sounded familiar too.

Carstairs finished playing.

"I like that," she said instantly.

"Do you?" he demanded, wheeling toward her.

"Yes, it's awful nice," she complimented him.

He brightened perceptibly. "Do you really think so? Do you really like it?"

"Of course!"

He could not repress his emotion. "Do you--I--what do you think?" he asked with enthusiasm.

"What?"

"Do you know who wrote that?"

"No."

"I wrote that," he broke out, and leaned forward.

"You did?"

"Yes!"

"It's awful nice," she repeated.

This was not very strong applause, but it was more than sufficient for Carstairs, and he grew reckless. In one moment, he had confessed himself the author of the work, and in the next, such was his present rashness, he was about to go much farther.

"How would you like--" but he stopped, and smiled in a happy way.

"What?" she urged him.

"You're sure you like it?" he repeated.

"Yes."

"Would you like to have it?" he asked with sudden boldness.

"What do you mean?"

"Don't you understand?" he rambled on, and explained: "Composers, you know, write songs and piano pieces and orchestral works, and afterward they often dedicate them to somebody--to one of their friends or--or one of their relatives. Do you understand?"

"Yes."

"That's what I want to do," he continued excitedly. "I wrote the piece--it's nothing wonderful, but I--I put myself into it and--and you like it--"

"Yes."

"So I'd like to give it to you."

"But I don't play," she protested.

"That isn't the point," he declared. "I'm dedicating it to you--that is, your name appears on it: first, the name of the composition, then my name, as composer, and then 'to Miss Erna Vitek.' Do you see?"

"Oh yes!"

"Do you like the idea?"

"Yes, that's fine."

"Great!" he cried.

"But what's the name o' the piece?" she requested quietly.

"Why, I--I gave it a name--but suppose I call it simply: 'A Song'?"

"Yes."

"Sure! That'd be a nice title, wouldn't it?"

"Yes."

His emotions threatened to run over. He wanted to tell her the rest: that, as a matter of fact, she had been the one to inspire the composition--his inspiration--but, well, that would be going too far. She would be learning too much. But this was the happiest day of his life. He had made a long stride, even over the evening when, for a few confidential minutes, she had confided to him those details of her past relation with Allen. He must compose many compositions for her.

Carstairs played other music, composition after composition, many of them his own, but all the while he waited to hear Erna ask him to repeat her composition. She did not do so at once, but eventually, bored--to tell the truth--by the incessant flow of music, she made the request. Overjoyed, he repeated the work, and every measure lingered, breathed and swayed with the mood of its creator. Near the close, Erna succeeded in stifling a yawn.

It was after nine o'clock when Carstairs conducted her down the three flights. He would receive a reprimand and fine when he reported at the music hall. But what did he care?

The young composer did not return to his sanctum until eleven thirty. He quickly lit the gas. At the theatre, a thought had come to torment him, as he had rehearsed the evening's doings and joys many times over. He went to the piano and took down the picture of the girl. Presently, he buried it under a heap of odds and ends that littered the drawer of a bureau, and said to himself for at least the fiftieth time: "What a careless damned fool I am!"

VI

It was early the next afternoon. Breen and Nielsen were arguing in the former's studio: a large unusually well furnished and attractively decorated West Fourteenth Street skylight room.

"Now, you clear out of here!" Breen was commanding. "She'll be here right away."

"Sure she won't disappoint thee?" Nielsen mocked pleasantly.

"No, I saw her this morning and this noon for a moment, and she intends keeping her royal promise."

"How about the rouge garment?"

"She hasn't had time to alter it."

"That won't make any difference, of course," Nielsen ventured in provoking tones.

"Go on! Clear out of here!" Breen repeated.

"You painters!" sang Nielsen, as he backed toward the door.