(COMPLETE STORY.] Hearts of Love

New Zealand Graphic, Volume XXXIV, Issue 4, 28 January 1905, Page 23

(COMPLETE STORY.] Hearts of Love

By

Zona Gale

T •No,*’ said Nichola, sharply, “we don't {want any. Go away! You’re letting the sold air in.” A very little voice murmured something, and Nichola raised her own voice at least an octave. “I say no,” she shrilled, “we don’t brant any. When we do we buy it civilised, in a shop.” Peleas and I looked at each other —I inquiringly, Peleas guiltily. I had been treading aloud and, for half an hour, I had been too much interested to look at him. When Nichola’s voice interrupted me, I glaneed up quickly, and Caught Peleas asleep. “It’s the heat of the fire, Ettare,” said he, shamelessly. “Sleep, then,” said I, “the fire still ha's heat! For my part I want to know' who Nichola is driving out.” I went to the door, but Peleas followed me. He is very humble when he lias been wrong. As for me I am never eo haughty and so coldly polite as when II have been found out. Nichola was holding the hall door »pen, but there was neither grace nor hospitality in her. One corner of her gingham apron was tucked in the band of her skirt, and her breath was showing in the cold air from outside. Before her stood a little wisp of a woman with a veil tied about her throat. “It is a new book—quite a new book,” She was assuring old Nichola, “and if you would only ask ” “Ask who?” thundered Nichola. “Who am Ito ask? Is it not that I say ‘no?’ ” “Nichola! Nichola!” I cried, hurrying forward. “What is it? I will talk [With her.” (Nichola, who had been with us so long that she treats me as a stranger yvhen she likes, turned her wrath on me. “It is too cold for you out here.” she Said. “Go back at once. Both of you go back!” When one is seventy it is not agreelable to be ordered about as if one were tone-tenth one’s age. When two people are seventy it is not to be borne. Peleas felt this keenly. “That is true,” he said, with dignity, “therefore we will go to the parlour, and this lady will do us the honour, perhaps, to come too.” The little book agent looked at us gratefully and slipped in the door that Peleas held open. Nichola banged the front door till the knocker sang and went away down the hall, muttering her pagan Italian. Peleas is wont to say that her talk sounds like the names iof many cigars. Of that I cannot be euro and neither can Peleas, for it has long made him ill to smoke, but, as I believe, he keeps all such manly terms in his conversation for fear of growing told. He went and stirred the fire over Which the little woman was hovering; she was blue with cold, and her hands .were stiff upon the two heavy books (that she carried. Peleas drew his chair to the fire for her, and I longed with all my heart to toiler her a cup of tea. The thought of braving Nichola in the kitchen was not a desirable thought, but it was one which I entertained for a moment before disposing of it to Peleas. “Peleas,” 1 said to him carelessly, “will you please ask Nichola to make a cup of tea?" Peleas looked at me as if I had ordered a matter of four oxen, roasted whole, with garlands. “My dear,” said he, “you ought not to climb the stairs. I,et me go up for the cakes in our closet, and you go down to Nichola instead!” Peleas knew all the things that I meant as I looked at him, but “lie showed undisturbed, like a god that won’t.” Bo I went boldly, but noiselessly, to the kitchen. “Nichola,” I began tremulously, “wilt you make just a cup ” Then I stopped, confounded, Nichola .was facing ine with a white-spread tray on which were tea and china cups and bread and butter. “Make me all the work you can,” Mid she, crossly, brushing by me, “with

your dinbin* upstairs, aggravatin’ your rheumatism.” She took the tray to the parlour, and I followed meekly. At the door Nichola met Peleas, scurrying out of her sight with the cakes. “Yah!” said. Nichola, “so it’s cakes—• cakes between meals—cakes in the middle of the clay! No wonder your digestion is made o’ paper.” Old Nichola is like some great, beetling house, all sternness and ill-omen without, but with a heart full of gratefires, and tables laden with fragrant dishes and odorous flowers and things delectable. I never saw anyone so grateful as was the little book agent. Peleas hovered over her like a fatherly butterfly, and I fairly buzzed about her ears. Presently she bc-gan to talk; she told us about the investment two years ago that lost her little income, and about her brother who drove a furniture waggon and was killed, and about the lame, sister who kept house for her and made paper flowers. ‘’Why,” Peleas asked me helplessly afterward, “do they all go to making paper flowers as soon as they fall lame?” She even told us how the book money was to be spent. “My sister want’s an invalid’s chair,” she said, “and she wants a red wrapper. She says if she only had a pretty red wrapper to put on she wouldn't mind bein’ lame.” Finally the little woman stood up and laid the two big books on the table. “1 can't thank you enough,” she said trembling, “ I can’t thank you at all. And I haven’t said one word about the book! It is really quite, quite a new book,” she said earnestly, uttering this calumny with the air of delivering a panegyric, “and will you let me leave it here till to-morrow? It is so late now that I will go home, but I live 'near here, and I shall have to pass here when I start out to-morrow. It will make it easier for me—and I am quite sure the pictures will give you a pleasant evening,” she added, wistfully. I was proud of Peleas. He thanked her with the genuine pleasure which he felt at her kindliness, and she flushed with joy at his sincerity. Nothing in the world is so sweet as this sort of deception when it is as honest as was theirs! She went away in the winter twilight, and Peleas and I watched her slim, bending figure blow through 'the gaslight and disappear. Peleas shivered and turned back to the room. “Think of the dead husbands,” he said, “who have that sort of thing to think of when night falls in the grave.” “Light the lamps then,” said I crossly, for no reason excepting that it unwarrantably enrages me to be thought near tears. But I was sorry a moment afterward that I had hold him to light the lamps, for Nichola caine in for the tray, and she saw the books. She pointed to them with her thumb. “More rubbish," she said briefly. “Did you buy these?” “No, no, Nichola,” we told her hastily. “no, indeed!” “No, indeed!” said Nichola, as she left the room. “Why not? Because you •wasn’t asked, and because you’ll buy them to morrow! Dinner’s on” ■When she was gone, Peleas and I looked at each other guiltily. “She seemed starved,” admitted Peleas. irrelevantly, and I knew that he did not mean Nichola. “I wish we could,” said I, “but we can’t, Peleas.” Peleas shook his head. “The books are twelve dollars apiece,” he said. “We can’t possibly, Bttare. But think of that poor child dreaming of having a red wrapper,” he added, with a sigh. “I know,” I said, “and even Niehohi has one. Do you remember the red wrapper that we gave her a year ago? She has never had it on. She keeps it all wrapped in paper, and she shows it to everyone she knows. Don’t you know I found her spreading it out before the policeman one night, and she wm bo

angry because I opened the kitchen door? tShe says she wears it in her room sometimes, evenings. So there is that red wrapper doing nobody tvny good at all.” Peleas was silent through dinner. When I tried to talk of the way the snow lighted our room at night and of the singing of the elm boughs at our window, he hardly heard me. At last, to rouse him, I even told how, the night before when he was asleep, I had lain long awake and had watched the dying ftre; and how 1 had found in it a fiery Mephistopheles, in red and black, come to woo with bowing of light, a shadowy Marguerite, sitting at her little loom of embers. To all of which, as the door closed on Nichola carrying away the vegetables, I’eleas responded. “This is what we must do: We must go to-morrow and sell those two books before that poor little woman comes back.” “Oh," I said, weakly, “I’eleas, we couldn’t! We don’t know how.” Peleas looked at mo in some scorn. “After all,” he said, “you used to write very well, and my modelling was thought to be not bad. Why in the world should wo not be able to sell two books—two new books? “It is perfectly easy,” lie continued, “you will go down the street, and I will go up. We will start at once after breakfast in the morning, instead of taking our walk. And we will not come back until we have sold the two books.” Nichola came in then, and later there were visitors. All the long evening we listened to their talk about the State, and the stage, and new kinds of notepaper, and I’eleas talked uneasily about Congress, and prophesied war, as he always does when his mind is upset. When at last we were in our room I turned to him with a thousand questions. “Oh, I’eleas,” 1 said, “do you think we could ask more for the books, and make a few dollars extra for her ?’’ “It woudn’t be honest,” said I’eleas, which I did not believe. “But 1 am thinking,” he added, “that we might be able to sell them for a little Jess and then make it. up ourselves. We could atlord to do that.” We talked about it for a long time that night, and I tried to have I’eleas tell me what he intended to say when he got well inside the first house, and how he meant to pass the man at the door. “Is it very practicable, I’eleas, do you think?” 1 asked him at last. “Practicable? No, thank heaven,’’said Peleas so loudly that 1 was afraid that Nichola would hear. “I’m distressed with you. Ettare, for using that odious Word! What things are practicable? Tongs and pokers and elevated trains and oatmeal!” cried Peleas. “Who ever heard of a practicable flower, or a practicable dream, or a practicable rainbow? Nobody! ” “Peleas,” I whispered, “Peleas! If she were, trying to sell those books to buy just an invalid’s ehair for her sister, 1 don’t believe that you would have thought of helping. It is just what she said about the red house-gown that is making you do it.” “Nonsense,” said Peleas, pettishly, and would say no more. But when he was asleep, I lay awake a very long time, you Tn a y bo sure; for though my life is filled with radiant things—memories and dreams and little beauties that. I cannot count —yet to be about to sell a book that you do not own for money to buy a red housegown for someone whom you do not know it a very different joy, far more human and just as radiant. Once in the night I woke suddenly. The fire was out, and the fiery Mephisto and the shadowy Marguerite were gone grey. “Oh, Peleas, Peleas!” I said waking him, “what if we were to sell both books for her.” “Do you think,” Inquired Peleas angrily, “that 1 went-to sleep before 1 had made sure that we would?” ’Early as it was when I raised the curtain the next morning, I could sec that the sun intended shining. We

dressed hurriedly and were dowmatafaa before Nichola had the table laid. She staved at us when we came in. “No wonder you couldn't sleep,” she said, mysteriously. We looked at each other guiltUy. “Cakes in between meals," added Nichola austerely. We looked at each other in relief. When breakfast was over we made ® great show of going to the parlour and beginning to read aloud. Nichola, believing that we were not to walk that morning, camo in for the lamps and eyed us with approval. Presently sh» was safely clattering the dishes below stairs, and singing passionate snatches of “11 Trovatore.” To hear old Nichol* sing “Il Trovatore” is like seeing ths kitchen range suddenly put forth a rainbow. Then Pelcas hurried softly; to the dining-room, and brought out’ coats, which were hung there to b® warmed, and wo put them on quickly, and he took both big books, and WO slipped out Io the street. “You take this book,” said Pelcas at the foot of the steps, “and don’t b* frightened. Remember it's for —” “For the red house-gown,” said I, smiling as bravely as I could. And Peleas smiled too, the smile that first made me love him. Then he waved me good-bye, and faced bravely up thff street. The big book was very heavy, but t took it in both arms, and walked south in the warm sunshine. It was deep winter, and the air was like the air that is over some great plain all blowing grasses and golden sun, where on* walks with deep breaths and watches the high birds wheel. The park was still quiet, and only a few pedestrians were abroad on the avenue. I walked on briskly for a block before I remembered that 1 must select the first, house that I was to go in. I passed a great, grey stone house with a flight of steps, and then a house of brown stone, whoso costly lace curtains frightened me. Then I came to a house with low, friendly entrance, and when I hesitated and turned to look up the* street, Peleas was not in sight. .So lie was making his first trial already! After I had rung the bell, I stood holding the great book and trying to remember what to say. I must be very professional, 1 knew, and not let anyone suspect that 1 had not been selling books all my life. And I was quite resolved to ask 20 dollars for it. Then the inside door opened, and f realised that twelve dollars was a great, price for a book after all. and my heart, beat, so that I could hardly stand. And at that moment a coupe drew up to the curb, and the outside door of the house was swung back, and a rosy-faced old gentleman of about the age of Peleas came hurrying out. “Please,” I said, “will you look at the book I have brought you?" “No, no!” cried the old gentleman, and looked up. “Ixird bless us," bn said, taking off his hat. “what, may I do for you, madame?” Whenever Pc'eas annoys me or slight® my judgment.. I always repeat that incident to him. And you may bo sure it gave me great courage when it happened. “f wanted," T sa : d then boldly, “to‘ show you this very beautiful book that I have. To—to sell it to you," I said. “It is quite a now book,” I heard myself saying next, ns I had hoard the! little woman say the day before, and T blushed hotly and hurried- on, "and it is very cheap," I added, “at—at twenty dollars." The rosy old gentleman looked at ma as if he had never before seen a book agent. “What is the book?” he asked kindly. At that I thought that I should have sat down on the step. For, what with the excitement of our visitors the night before, and our husks that morning, neither Peleas nor I had looked in tha books! And I had not the remotest ide* what I. was selling. “Take it," said I, faintly, offering hint

the big volume, "‘l—l haven’t my glasses.” The old gentleman took the book in some perplexity, and found his own spectacles, and adjusted them, and lifted the cover. “Lord bless my soul!” said he in a moment, and handed the book back to me. "What is it.” 1 asked helplessly. "It’s a collection,” said the old gentleman with sonic severity, "of talks on the teething and table manners and flannel undershirts of very young children. 1 shall have to beg to be excused.” Thereupon he lifted his hat and turned away. A mist of tears came over my eyes, and I took a step forward. "Oil,” 1 said, "indeed, indeed, you must forgive me —but I'm not selling the book for myself. It’s to earn the money for her red wrapper.” And then 1 poured it all out to him. Peleas says that 1 always tell everything. And the old gentleman listened and nodded, and when 1 bad finished he spent a great deal more time than was necessary, considering how anxious 1 was, in wiping his glasses. Alay 1 ask where you live, madame?” he said finally,, with a glance at the coupe. But before 1 eould answer J heard from below a voice that chilled my blood as the kind winter air had never done. It was Niehola. “ f ,' viil -' a,k back with hcr >” called Niehola grimly. “I have come to help her carry the book.” I looked miserably down the steps. Nie iola w a s standing there with the old kitchen shawl wrapped about her, and my best bonnet, which had been hanging in our hall, was on her head. She was O’ jt ' Vilr dly calm—and I sometimes believe r ,at . ” V lola ia descended from an bundled Italian noblemen in gold lace, for m spite of her calm J alone knew that S trembling with rage. ■ Thank you. Niehola,” 1 said humblv, ana deceuded the stops. When J reached the walk the old gentleman was beside J 1 ® said ’ sli P.P i ng someboy mi the red wrapper? Believe me 1 have no use for the book.” Nieh t ol‘? k r < ',r 7, W<> " I CoUltl , Tied mo CdTr - v great volume, hurdidl hL V '!* 9 , i]enee - N ot a word did she speak all the block that lav between us and home, and Niehola silent linn 010 ? rriblC than a “ ar ">? with banners torn to shreds. When we replied our own door 1 gathered eourag* to speak. *‘TA h rn e is P , e!oas ? - ’ I asked, faintlv. In the kitchen with both feet in'the said Niehola. "unless he’s out the bacK doos to sell another book or two by now! I answered nothing to this, for Niehola surprised me by offering me her arm up the steps. When we reached the top she spoke again. "I caught him,” she said, “before he'd rung his first bell.” The book that Peleas had taken lav on .the hall table. Niehola deposited tho <>thpr beside it 3 and hurried me to the dining room. “Pile woman’s in the parlour,” said Niehola, "waiting for her books. You leave her to me.” She went away with my bonnet on One side of her gray hair, and I slipped straightway to the kitchen. Peleas sat by the stove looking very downcast. 1 ■went in_ without saying anything, and stood by the window looking out into the court. The sweetbriar and the little catawbas were laden with white, and the vines against the wall were like white shadows cast by some ghost of a •mu through ghostly air. I eouid hear 'Peleas breathing softly, and I don’t think I ever loved him more than when 1 stood quiet ly there by the kitchen window, with our bright plan in rttins all about us. Sometimes I wish that Peleas and I could live so that we could sit quietly by our own kitchen fire, as we used, year ago, when little Vedrie was here. "It seems,” said Peleas. finally, without looking up, ‘that those were sample books, and they weren't for sidling outright. Only to show around.” 'Chen I remembered suddenly what the old gentleman had slipped in my hand, and 1 pulled it from my glove and unfolded it. ft was twenty dollars! "Oh, Peleas.” f cried, "the man that J was book agent to gave me this! And the little woman is upstairs now, Nichela says. Oh, come!” I hurried to the door, Peleas, who did not understand, following closely, with many questions. In the doorway we ■net Niehola. k •Where is she, Niehola?” I asked.

•‘The little book agent? The old gentleman gave me this for her, and I forgot.” Nichola, who had removed my bonnet, passed me unconcernedly, and went on rolling up her sleeves. “She’s gone,” she said, briefly. “Gone!” we both echoed. "Yes,” said Nichola, “and glad enough to be away with both books, and neither of ’em dropped plum down in the snow, as might have happened.” “But Nichola!”! cried, “we must find her! We must give her this! Why, this is money enough to buy the invalid’s chair and the red wrapper, too.” Nichola picked up a biscuit eutter, and went on cutting the biscuits from the dough that she had rolled out on the board before she had missed us. She said nothing. “Nichola!” cried Peleas and I together. Nichola began to lay the biscuits in a tin. Then she suddenly waved the biscuit eutter over her head. "I’ve never liad such stones for biscuits,” she cried, “since I left Capri! And no wonder—leaving them here to dry up while I chase the streets!” Then I caught her boldly by the arm, though Peleas, in fear, besought me to be careful. "You’re a hard-hearted old woman, Nichola',” I cried furiously, “and I hope your biscuits will burn up!” Nichola shook herself free and turned toward us with one hand full of dough. "The woman,” she said, “is coming back to-night, to get a basket of eooked things. And you needn't worry about the red wrapper. Her sister’s got mine. Now, for the love of heaven, get out of my kitchen and let me bake in peace!” Peleas and I left the room with some broken works to Nichola, and we climbed the stairs in silence, and went in the parlous, I think,” I said, slowly, “that this is about all that we are good for, Peleas.” Peleas smiled again—that old, radiant, wonderful smile, whose home is in mv heart. J “If only I am good enough for this,” he said, tenderly, “that is enough.” And though it sounds all very well written down so, you cannot think how wonderful that was to hear!