slender, nervous, unsteady, womanly hands of Peter Orme as any hands could be, I thought. They were hands made for work that called for delicate strength, if such a paradox could be; hands to cling to; to gain courage from; hands that spelled power and reserve. I looked at them, fascinated, as I often had done before, and thought that I never had seen such SANE hands.
“You have done me the honor to include me in this little family conclave,” began Ernst von Gerhard. “I am going to take advantage of your trust. I shall give you some advice—a thing I usually keep for unpleasant professional occasions. Do not go back to New York.”
“But I know New York. And New York —the newspaper part of it—knows me. Where else can I go?”
“You have your book to finish. You could never finish it there, is it not so?”
I’m afraid I shrugged my shoulders. It was all so much harder than I had expected. What did they want me to do? I asked myself, bitterly.
Von Gerhard went on. “Why not go where the newspaper work will not be so nerve-racking? where you still might find time for this other work that is dear to you, and that may bring its reward in time.” He reached out and took my hand, into his great, steady clasp. “Come to the happy, healthy, German town called Milwaukee, yes? Ach, you may laugh. But newspaper work is newspaper work the world over, because men and women are just men and women the world over. But there you could live sanely, and work not too hard, and there would be spare hours for the book that is near your heart. And I—I will speak of you to Norberg, of the Post. And on Sundays, if you are good, I may take you along the marvelous lake drives in my little red runabout, yes? Aber wunderbar, those drives are! So.”
Then—“Milwaukee!” shrieked Max and Norah and I, together. “After New York—Milwaukee!”
“Laugh,” said Von Gerhard, quite composedly. “I give you until to-morrow morning to stop laughing. At the end of that time it will not seem quite so amusing. No joke is so funny after one has contemplated it for twelve hours.”
The voice of Norah, the temptress, sounded close to my ear. “Dawn dear, just think how many million miles nearer you would be to Max, and me, and home.”
“Oh, you have all gone mad! The thing is impossible. I shan’t go back to a country sheet in my old age. I suppose that in two more years I shall be editing a mothers’ column on an agricultural weekly.”
“Norberg would be delighted to get you,” mused Von Gerhard, “and it would be day work instead of night work.”
“And you would send me a weekly bulletin on Dawn’s health, wouldn’t you, Ernst?” pleaded Norah. “And you’d teach her to drink beer and she shall grow so fat that the Spalpeens won’t know their auntie.”
At last—“How much do they pay?” I asked, in desperation. And the thing that had appeared so absurd at first began to take on the shape of reality.
Von Gerhard did speak to Norberg of the Post. And I am to go to Milwaukee next week. The skeleton of the book manuscript is stowed safely away in the bottom of my trunk and Norah has filled in the remaining space with sundry flannels, and hot water bags and medicine flasks, so that I feel like a schoolgirl on her way to boarding- school, instead of like a seasoned old newspaper woman with a capital PAST and a shaky future. I wish that I were chummier with the Irish saints. I need them now.
CHAPTER VI
STEEPED IN GERMAN
I am living at a little private hotel just across from the court house square with its scarlet geraniums and its pretty fountain. The house is filled with German civil engineers, mechanical engineers, and Herr Professors from the German academy. On Sunday mornings we have Pfannkuchen with currant jelly, and the Herr Professors come down to breakfast in fearful flappy German slippers. I’m the only creature in the place that isn’t just over from Germany. Even the dog is a dachshund. It is so unbelievable that every day or two I go down to Wisconsin Street and gaze at the stars and stripes floating from the government building, in order to convince myself that this is America. It needs only a Kaiser or so, and a bit of Unter den Linden to be quite complete.
The little private hotel is kept by Herr and Frau Knapf. After one has seen them, one quite understands why the place is steeped in a German atmosphere up to its eyebrows.
I never would have found it myself. It was Doctor von Gerhard who had suggested Knapf’s, and who had paved the way for my coming here.
“You will find it quite unlike anything you have ever tried before,” he warned me. “Very German it is, and very, very clean, and most inexpensive. Also I think you will find material there—how is it you call it?—copy, yes? Well, there should be copy in plenty; and types! But you shall see.”
From the moment I rang the Knapf doorbell I saw. The dapper, cheerful Herr Knapf, wearing a disappointed Kaiser Wilhelm mustache, opened the door. I scarcely had begun to make my wishes known when he interrupted with a large wave of the hand, and an elaborate German bow.
“Ach yes! You would be the lady of whom the Herr Doktor has spoken. Gewiss! Frau Orme, not? But so a young lady I did not expect to see. A room we have saved for you—aber wunderhubsch! It makes me much pleasure to show. Folgen Sie mir, bitte.”
“You—you speak English?” I faltered, with visions of my evenings spent in expressing myself in the sign language.
“Englisch? But yes. Here in Milwaukee it gives aber mostly German. And then too, I have been only twenty years in this country. And always in Milwaukee. Here is it gemutlich—and mostly it gives German.”
I tried not to look frightened, and followed him up to the “but wonderfully beautiful” room. To my joy I found it high-ceilinged, airy, and huge, with a great vault of a clothes closet bristling with hooks, and boasting an unbelievable number of shelves. My trunk was swallowed up in it. Never in all my boarding-house experience have I seen such a room, or such a closet. The closet must have been built for a bride’s trousseau in the days of hoop- skirts and scuttle bonnets. There was a separate and distinct hook for each and every one of my most obscure garments. I tried to spread them out. I used two hooks to every petticoat, and three for my kimono, and when I had finished there were rows of hooks to spare. Tiers of shelves yawned for hat-boxes which I possessed not. Bluebeard’s wives could have held a family reunion in that closet and invited all of Solomon’s spouses. Finally, in desperation, I gathered all my poor garments together and hung them in a sociable bunch on the hooks nearest the door. How I should have loved to have shown that closet to a select circle of New York boarding-house landladies!
