SUITE FOUR.
SUITE FOUR.
SUITE FOUR.
H. C. Pearson.
{Illustrations by E. V. Spooner.}
drop-cap
TedTracy sat in his little back room, gazed out of the window, and sighed. The sighing was not consequential upon the gazing, though it might well have been, for four walls of windows about a roofed-in court, with a grey sky sullenly peering in three stories higher, does not form a remarkably cheerful spectacle; not even when compared with a ten-by-twelve room containingas its sole ornaments a folding bed, a commode, three chairs, and a mirror. But Ted’s usually buoyant soul would have risen above these surroundings, as easily as the curls of his cigarette smoke; something much more depressing squeezed out that sigh.
Six months before, this young graduate of a fresh-water college had come to Boston and entered upon the twin pursuits of journalism and agriculture. As a newspaper man, he had so far succeeded in earning the munificent salary of $6 per week, which almost paid for his room, his laundry, and his cigarettes. As a farmer, he had sown with signal success one of the finestlines of wild oats in the city, and was now finding some difficulty in their gathering. His only relative—the rich old uncle common to all fairy tales—had hitherto settled the periodical deficits in his accounts with unfailing good humor and abundant generosity; but now he had suddenly thrown up his role of good genius, objecting, perhaps, to being used as a patent reaper.
Man looking down
So Ted sat and gazed and sighed; sometimes, to vary the monotony, he swore. The French dancers from the “Black Crook,” whoroomed next door, were screeching some Parisian street song as grotesque and inharmonious as their acrobatics. The parrots and macaws in the bird store down stairs answered them back with scarcely more discordance; and between them Ted felt sure his environment would drive him to suicide or drink.
Before he had time to grasp either horn of the dilemma, however, a knock at the door ushered in one of his few welcome visitors. The little dark chorus girl in “Venus,” who roomed with her mother two doors beyond, was pretty enough to attract Ted’s attention the first time they met, and modest and womanly enough in a sweet, old-fashionedway to retain, not only his earnest admiration, but his hearty respect. This afternoon she was bubbling over with happiness, so much so that she never noticed Ted’s lugubrious expression.
“Oh! Mr. Tracy,” she began at once, “I’m to have a part to-night. Mr. Rice and Miss Tinnie have had a row, and I’m to do Absurdaria. You know I’ve understudied it all the season; and, Mr. Tracy, mother wants to see it so much, but she can’t go alone very well; and could you—would you—be her escort? I’ve the tickets; and it will be so kind of you.”
“With the greatest pleasure,” said Ted, as she stopped for breath. “Ishould never have forgiven you if you had not allowed me to share in your first night’s triumph.”
“Oh, nonsense!” replied the girl, with a charming blush. “But I must not, will not, fail with mother there. And I should like to please you, too,” she added shyly.
Woman looking left
So Ted put on his dress suit, spent the evening in an orchestra stall at the Park, by the side of dear little old Mrs. Burnham, and was as proud and happy as she at “her Eva’s” success, for although the Princess Absurdaria is not the most attractive part in a “comicopera” that has many superiors, still the newcomer in the cast was so pretty and graceful and young that the crowded house noticed the change at once, and manifested its approval many times. So great was her success, indeed, that the mighty Poom condescended to crack a joke about it, and the shapely star herself took a thorough mental inventory of the new favorite.
When the performance was over Ted and Mrs. Burnham waited for Eva at the stage door, and they all walked home together in the clear, crisp November night. After his congratulations had been gracefully tendered and prettily accepted, Ted was silent, trying a plan for a littlesupper for his companions; but Mrs. Burnham relieved his perplexity.
“You must stop in for a bit of lunch with us, Mr. Tracy,” said she. “I’ve gotten up a little surprise for Eva, and we both want you to share it, too.”
A dainty little supper it was, more cosy and homelike and wholesome than anything Ted had experienced for years. Alone with these simple friends, his foolish conceits melted away, and the good side of his nature was revealed as it had never been before in Boston. They were all very chatty and confidential. Ted told his troubles, and was tenderly pitied by Eva and wisely advised by her mother. Then the latter,in spite of her daughter’s remonstrances, told their story—how her husband had died when she herself was ill three years before, and how Eva, finding the burden upon her shoulders, had pluckily taken it up and supported her mother in comfort by her wages as a chorus girl.
“It’s been hard sometimes, dearie,” said Mrs. Burnham, as she stroked her daughter’s wavy hair, “but the worst is over now; and, thank God, you are as true and pure a girl as the first night you saw the foot-lights.”
Ted went back to his little room with a lighter, braver heart than he would have thought possible six hours before. The next day andfor many succeeding days he went at his work with a dash and vim that could not help bringing success. And when, as often he was, tempted to go back to his old ways, a pair of clear brown eyes seemed to look out of a piquant, merry face straight into his, and to make him refuse with almost rude abruptness.
In the spare moments, that before he would have more than wasted, he wrote out with tender reverence the life-story Mrs. Burnham had told him. His heart was in his work, and the result was a touching and really well-written little tale. A great New York editor thought it was so good, in fact, that he promptly mailed Ted a check for $25 andpromised his effort immediate publication. When it did appear the author read it to the principal characters, who listened with tear-wet eyes, and immediately decided that Ted was without doubt the American Dickens.
Its further effect was apparent a few days later, when a gruff but kindly letter was received from Uncle John. One of its paragraphs was as follows:
“I was much pleased with your story in theCosmopolitan. The heroine is, I suspect, a flesh and blood girl of your acquaintance. If she will marry you, I will settle $2,000 a year on her and change my will again.”
Ted repeated the words to Eva just as they reached her door, after the walk home from the theatre one night.
“Can we live on $2,000 a year?” he asked with a smile, but gravely.
The girl grew pale and trembled; but when she looked up shyly and sweetly into his ardent eyes there was no need for words. With a happy sigh she threw her arms around his neck, and their lips met for the first time.
No one was ever so near heaven before as the happy pair which New Year’s found in dingy, stuffy old Suite Four.