III

A year pa.s.sed.

I had been painting along the Thames, lying in my punt, my face up to the sky, or paddling in and out among the pond-lilies. I had idled, too, on the lagoons of my beloved Venice, listening to Luigi crooning the songs he loves so well, the soft air about me, the plash of my gondolier's oar wrinkling the sheen of the silver sea. It had been a very happy summer; full of color and life. The brush had worked easily, the weather had lent a helping hand; all had been peace and quiet.

Ofttimes, when I was happiest, somehow m.u.f.fles's solitary figure rose before me, the tears coursing down his cheeks, and with it that cold silence--a silence which only a dead body brings to a house and which ends only with its burial.

The week after I landed--it was in November, a day when the crows flew in long wavy lines and the heavy white and gray clouds pressed close upon the blue vista of the hills--I turned and crossed through the wood, my feet sinking into the soft carpet of its dead leaves. Soon I caught a glimpse of the chimneys of Shady Side thrust above the evergreens; a curl of smoke was floating upward, filling the air with a filmy haze. At this sign of life within, my heart gave a bound.

m.u.f.fles was still there!

When I swung back the gate and mounted the porch a feeling of uncertainty came over me. The knocker was gone, and so was the sign. The old-fashioned window-casings had been replaced by a modern door newly painted and standing partly open. Perhaps m.u.f.fles had given up the bar and was living here alone with his children.

I pushed open the door and stepped into the old-fashioned hall. This, too, had undergone changes. The lantern was missing, and some modern furniture stood against the walls. The bar where Bowser had dispensed his beverages and from behind which he had brought his drawings had been replaced by a long mahogany counter with marble top, the sideboard being filled with cut gla.s.s and the more expensive appointments of a modern establishment. The tables and chairs were also of mahogany; and a new red carpet covered the floor. The proprietor was leaning against the counter playing with his watch-chain--a short man with a bald head. A few guests were sitting about, reading or smoking.

"What's become of Mulford," I asked; "d.i.c.k Mulford, who used to be here?"

The man shook his head.

"Why, yes, you must have known him--some of his friends called him m.u.f.fles."

The man continued to shake his head. Then he answered, carelessly:

"I've only been here six months--another man had it before me. He put these fixtures in."

"Maybe you can tell me?"--and I turned to the bar-keeper.

"Guess he means the feller who blew in here first month we come," the bar-keeper answered, addressing his remark to the proprietor. "He said he'd been runnin' the place once."

"Oh, you mean that guy! Yes, I got it now," answered the proprietor, with some animation, as if suddenly interested. "He come in the week we opened--worst-lookin' b.u.m you ever see--toes out of his shoes, coat all torn. Said he had no money and asked for something to eat. Billy here was goin' to fire him out when one of my customers said he knew him. I don't let no man go hungry if I can help it, and so I sent him downstairs and cook filled him up. After he had all he wanted to eat he asked Billy if he might go upstairs into the front bedroom. I don't want n.o.body prowlin' 'round--not that kind, anyhow--but he begged so I sent Billy up with him. What did he do, Billy? You saw him." And he turned to his a.s.sistant.

"Didn't do nothin' but just look in the door, he held on to the jamb and I thought he was goin' to fall. Then he said he was much obliged, and he walked downstairs again and out the door cryin' like a baby, and I ain't seen him since."

Another year pa.s.sed. To the picture of the man sitting alone in that silent, desolate room was added the picture of the man leaning against the jamb of the door, the tears streaming down his face. After this I constantly caught myself peering into the faces of the tramps I would meet in the street. Whenever I walked before the benches of Madison Park or loitered along the shady paths of Union Square, I would stop, my eye running over the rows of idle men reading the advertis.e.m.e.nts in the morning papers or asleep on the seats. Often I would pause for a moment as some tousled vagabond would pa.s.s me, hoping that I had found my old-time friend, only to be disappointed. Once I met Bowser on his way to his work, a roll of theatre-bills under his arm. He had gone back to his trade and was working in a shop on Fourteenth Street. His account of what had happened after the death of "the Missus" only confirmed my fears. m.u.f.fles had gone on from bad to worse; the place had been sold out by his partners; m.u.f.fles had become a drunkard, and, worse than all, the indictment against him had been pressed for trial despite the Captain's efforts, and he had been sent to the Island for a year for receiving and hiding stolen goods. He had been offered his freedom by the District Attorney if he would give up the names of the two men who had stolen the silverware, but he said he'd rather "serve time than give his pals away," and they sent him up. Some half-orphan asylum had taken the children. One thing Bowser knew and he would "give it to me straight," and he didn't care who heard it, and that was that there was "a good many gospil sharps running church-mills that warn't half as white as d.i.c.k Mulford--not by a d---- sight."

One morning I was trying to cross Broadway, dodging the trolleys that swirled around the curves, when a man laid his hand on my arm with a grip that hurt me.

It was m.u.f.fles!

Not a tramp; not a ragged, blear-eyed vagabond--older, more serious, the laugh gone out of his eyes, the cheeks pale as if from long confinement.

Dressed in dark clothes, his face cleanshaven; linen neat, a plain black tie--the hat worn straight, not slouched over his eyes with a rakish cant as in the old days.

"My G.o.d! but I'm glad to see ye," he cried. "Come over in the Square and let's sit down."

He was too excited to let me ask him any questions. It all poured out of him in a torrent, his hand on my knee most of the time.

"Oh, but I had it tough! Been up for a year. You remember about it, the time Pipes went bail. I didn't git none o' the swag; it warn't my job, but I seed 'em through. But that warn't nothin'. It was de Missus what killed me. Hadn't been for de kids I'd been off the dock many a time.

Fust month or two I didn't draw a sober breath. I couldn't stand it.

Soon's I'd come to I'd git to thinkin' agin and then it was all up wid me. Then Pipes and de Sheriff went back on me and I didn't care. Bowser stuck to me the longest. He got de kids took care of. He don't know I'm out, or he'd turn up. I tried to find him, but n.o.body don't know where he was a-workin'--none of de barrooms I've tried. Oh, but it was tough!

But it's all right now, d'ye hear? All right! I got a job up in Harlem, see? I'm gittin' orders for coal." And he touched a long book that stuck out of his breast-pocket. "And I've got a room near where I work. And I tell ye another thing," and his hand sought mine, and a peculiar light came into his eyes, "I got de kids wid me. You just oughter see de boy--legs on him thick as your arm! I toll ye that's a comfort, and don't you forgit it. And de little gal! Ain't like her mother?

what!--well, I should smile!"

HIS LAST CENT<>

Jack Waldo stood in his studio gazing up at the ceiling, or, to be more exact, at a Venetian church-lamp--which he had just hung and to which he had just attached a red silk ta.s.sel bought that morning of a bric-a-brac dealer whose shop was in the next street. There was a bare spot in that corner of his sumptuously appointed room which offended Waldo's sensitive taste--a spot needing a touch of yellow bra.s.s and a note of red--and the silk ta.s.sel completed the color-scheme. The result was a combination which delighted his soul; Jack had a pa.s.sion for having his soul delighted and an insatiable thirst for the things that did the delighting, and could no more resist the temptation to possess them when exposed for sale than a confirmed drunkard could resist a favorite beverage held under his nose. That all of these precious objects of bigotry and virtue were beyond his means, and that most of them then enlivening his two perfectly appointed rooms were still unpaid for, never worried Jack.

"That fellow's place," he would say of some dealer, "is such a jumble and so dark that n.o.body can see what he's got. Ought to be very grateful to me that I put 'em where people could see 'em. If I can pay for 'em, all right, and if I can't, let him take 'em back. He always knows where to find 'em. I'm not going to have an auction."

This last course of "taking his purchases back" had been followed by a good many of Jack's creditors, who, at last, tired out, had driven up a furniture van and carted the missing articles home again. Others, more patient, dunned persistently and continually--every morning some one of them--until Jack, roused to an extra effort, painted pot-boilers (portrait of a dog, or a child with a rabbit, or Uncle John's exact image from a daguerrotype many years in the family) up to the time the debt was discharged and the precious bit of old Spanish leather or the Venetian chest or Sixteenth Century chair became his very own for all time to come.

This "last-moment" act of Jack's--this reprieve habit of saving his financial life, as the noose was being slipped over his bankrupt neck--instead of strangling Jack's credit beyond repair, really improved it. The dealer generally added an extra price for interest and the trouble of collecting (including cartage both ways), knowing that his property was perfectly safe as long as it stayed in Jack's admirably cared-for studio, and few of them ever refused the painter anything he wanted. When inquiries were made as to his financial standing the report was invariably, "Honest but slow--he'll pay some time and somehow," and the ghost of a bad debt was laid.

The slower the better for Jack. The delay helped his judgment. The things he didn't want after living with them for months (Jack's test of immortality) he was quite willing they should cart away; the things he loved he would go hungry to hold on to.

This weeding-out process had left a collection of curios, stuffs, hangings, bra.s.s, old furniture, pottery, china, costumes and the like, around Jack's rooms, some of which would have enriched a museum: a Louis XVI. cabinet, for instance, that had been stolen from the Trianon (what a lot of successful thieves there were in those days); the identical sofa that the Pompadour used in her afternoon naps, and the undeniable curtain that covered her bed, and which now hung between Jack's two rooms.

In addition to these ancient and veritable "antiques" there was a collection of equally veritable "moderns," two of which had arrived that morning from an out-of-town exhibition and which were at this precise moment leaning against the legs of an old Spanish chair. One had had three inches of gilt moulding knocked off its frame in transit, and both bore Jack's signature in the lower left-hand corner.

"Didn't want 'em, eh?" cried Jack, throwing himself on to the divan, temporarily exhausted with the labor of hanging the lamp and attaching the ta.s.sel. "Wanted something painted with darning-needle brushes--little tooty-wooty stuff that everybody can understand. 'See the barndoor and the nails in the planks and all them knots!'"--Jack was on his feet now, imitating the drawl of the country art-buyer--"'Ain't them natural! Why, Maria, if you look close ye can see jes' where the ants crawl in and out. My, ain't that wonderful!'"

These remarks were not addressed to the offending canvas nor to the imaginary countryman, but to his chum, Sam Ruggles, who sat hunched up in a big armchair with gilt flambeaux on each corner of its high back--it being a holiday and Sam's time his own. Ruggles was entry clerk in a downtown store, lived on fifteen dollars a week, and was proud of it. His daily fear--he being of an eminently economical and practical turn of mind--was that Jack would one day find either himself tight shut in the lock-up in charge of the jailer or his belongings strewed loose on the sidewalk and in charge of the sheriff. They had been college mates together--these two--and Sam loved Jack with an affection in which pride in his genius and fear for his welfare were so closely interwoven, that Sam found himself most of the time in a constantly unhappy frame of mind. Why Jack should continue to buy things he couldn't pay for, instead of painting pictures which one day somebody would want, and at fabulous prices, too, was one thing he could never get through his head.

"Where have those pictures been, Jack?" inquired Sam, in a sympathetic tone.

"Oh, out in one of those G.o.d's-free-air towns where they are studying high art and microbes and Browning--one of those towns where you can find a woman's club on every corner and not a drop of anything to drink outside of a drug-store. Why aren't you a millionnaire, Sam, with a gallery one hundred by fifty opening into your conservatory, and its centre panels filled with the works of that distinguished impressionist, John Somerset Waldo, R.A.?"

"I shall be a millionnaire before you get to be R.A.," answered Sam, with some emphasis, "if you don't buckle down to work, old man, and bring out what's in you--and stop spending your allowance on a lot of things that you don't want any more than a cow wants two tails. Now, what in the name of common-sense did you buy that lamp for which you have just hung? It doesn't light anything, and if it did, this is a garret, not a church. To my mind it's as much out of place here as that bra.s.s coal-hod you've got over there would be on a cathedral altar."

"Samuel Ruggles!" cried Jack, striking a theatrical att.i.tude, "you talk like a pig-sticker or a coal-baron. Your soul, Samuel, is steeped in commercialism; you know not the color that delights men's hearts nor the line that entrances. The lamp, my boy, is meat and drink to me, and companionship and a joy unspeakable. Your dull soul, Samuel, is clay, your meat is figures, and your drink profit and loss; all of which reminds me, Samuel, that it is now two o'clock and that the nerves of my stomach are on a strike. Let--me--see"--and he turned his back, felt in his pocket, and counted out some bills and change--"Yes, Sam"--here his dramatic manner changed--"the account is still good--we will now lunch.

Not expensively, Samuel"--with another wave of the hand--"not riotously--simply, and within our means. Come, thou slave of the desk--eat, drink, and be merry, for to-morrow we die--or bust, Samuel, which is very nearly the same thing!"

"Old John" at Solari's took their order--a porter-house steak with mushrooms, peas, cold asparagus, a pint of extra dry--in honor of the day, Jack insisted, although Sam protested to the verge of discourtesy--together with the usual a.s.sortment of small drinkables and long smokables--a Reina Victoria each.

On the way back to the studio the two stopped to look in a shop-window, when Jack gave a cry of delight and pressed his nose against the gla.s.s to get a better view of a small picture by Monet resting on an easel.

"By the G.o.ds, Sam!--isn't that a corker! See the way those trees are painted! Look at the air and light in it--not a value out of scale--perfectly charming!--_charming_," and he dived into the shop before Sam. could check him.

In a moment he was out again, shaking his head, chewing his under-lip, and taking another devouring look at the canvas.

"What do they want for it, Jack?" asked Sam--his standard of merit was always the cost of a thing.

"About half what it's worth--six hundred dollars."

"Whew!" burst out Sam; "that's nearly as much as I make in a year. I wouldn't give five dollars for it."

Jack's face was still pressed against the gla.s.s of the window, his eyes riveted on the canvas. He either did not hear or would not answer his friend's criticism.

"Buy it, Jack," Sam continued, with a laugh, the hopelessness of the purchase making him the more insistent. "Hang it under the lamp, old man--I'll pay for the candles."