Andy Donovan had his dinner each
evening in the house on Second
Avenue where he
lived in a furnished room. One
evening at dinner he met a new
guest, a young lady, Miss
Conway.
Miss Conway was small and quiet.
She was wearing a plain brown
dress. She seemed interested in
very little except her dinner,
and her dinner did not interest
her very much.
She looked up at Mr. Donovan and
spoke his name, and then began
to eat again. Mr. Donovan had a
smile that everyone liked. He
smiled at her and then thought
no more about her.
Two weeks later, Andy was
sitting outside the house
enjoying the cool evening. He
heard a movement behind him. He
turned his head, and-and could
not turn it back again.
Coming out of the door was Miss
Conway. She was wearing a
night-black dress of soft, thin
cloth. Her hat was black. She
was putting black
gloves
on her hand. There was no white
and no color anywhere about her.
All black. Someone in her family
had died. Mr. Donovan was
certain about that.
Her rich golden hair lay soft
and thick at the back of her
neck. Her face
was not really pretty, but her
large gray eyes made it almost
beautiful. She looked up into
the sky with an expression of
sadness.
All black, readers. Think of
her. All black, and that golden
hair, and looking sadly far
away.
Mr. Donovan suddenly decided to
think about Miss Conway. He
stood up.
“It’s a fine, clear evening,
Miss Conway,” he said.
“It is to them with the heart to
enjoy it, Mr. Donovan,” said
Miss Conway. She took a deep
slow breath.
“I
hope no one—no one of your
family—has died?”
“Death has taken,” said Miss
Conway, “not one of my family,
but one who—I must not speak of
my troubles to you, Mr.
Donovan.”
“Why not, Miss Conway? Perhaps I
could understand.”
Miss Conway smiled a little. And
oh, her face was sadder than
when she was not smiling.
“Laugh and the world laughs with
you,” she said. “But the world
is not interested in sadness. I
have learned that, Mr. Donovan.
I have no friends in this city.
But you have been kind to me.
Thank you for it.”
He
had done nothing except offer
her the salt at dinner.
“It’s not easy to be alone in
New York,” said Mr. Donovan.
“But when New York is friendly,
it’s very friendly. Shall we
take a little walk in the
park? It might
be good for you.”
“Thanks, Mr. Donovan. I would
enjoy it. But I don’t want my
sadness to make you sad.”
They went through the open gates
of the park and found a quiet
seat.
“We were going to be married
soon,” said Miss Conway. “He was
a real
Count.
He had land and a big house in
Italy. Count Fernando Mazzini
was his name. My father didn’t
want me to marry him. Once we
ran away to get married, and my
father followed and took me
home. I was afraid they were
going to fight.
“But then my father agreed.
Fernando went to Italy to make
everything ready for me. My
father’s very proud. Fernando
wanted to give me several
thousand dollars for new
clothes, and my father said no.
When Fernando went away, I came
to the city. I work in a
shop.
“Three days ago I had a letter
from Italy. It said that
Fernando had been killed.
“That’s why I’m wearing black.
My heart has died, Mr. Donovan,
with Fernando. I cannot take
interest in anyone. I should not
keep you from your friends who
can smile and enjoy things with
you. Shall we walk back to the
house?”
Now, readers, if a girl tells a
man her heart has died, he wants
to make it live again.
“I’m very sorry,” said Mr.
Donovan. “No, we won’t walk back
to the house yet. And don’t say
you have no friends in this
city, Miss Conway. I’m your
friend, and I want you to
believe that.”
“I
have his picture here,” said
Miss Conway. “I wear it on a
chain around my
neck. I never showed it to
anyone, but I will show it to
you, Mr. Donovan. I believe you
to be a true friend.”
Mr. Donovan looked for a long
time and with much interest at
the picture. The face of Count
Mazzini commanded interest. It
was wise, bright—the face of a
strong, happy man who could be a
leader of other men.
“I
have a larger picture in my
room,” said Miss Conway. “When
we return, I will show you that.
I have nothing more to help me
remember Fernando. But he will
always live in my heart. I am
sure of that.”
Mr. Donovan decided that he
wanted to take the Count’s place
in Miss Conway’s heart. He did
not seem to think he could fail.
He would be friendly. He would
keep smiling.
When they returned to the house,
she ran to her room and brought
down the larger picture of the
Count. Mr. Donovan looked at it.
No one could have
guessed what he was
thinking.
“He gave me this on the night he
left for Italy,” said Miss
Conway. “A fine-looking man,”
said Mr. Donovan warmly. “Miss
Conway, will you go to Coney
Island with me next Sunday
afternoon?”
A
month later they told the other
guests in the house on Second
Avenue that they were going to
be married. Miss Conway
continued to wear black.
A
week later the two sat on the
same seat in the park. Donovan
had had a sad face all day. He
was so quiet tonight that Miss
Conway had to ask him why.
“What’s wrong tonight, Andy?”
“Nothing, Maggie.”
“You never were like this
before. What is it?”
“It’s nothing much, Maggie.”
“Yes, it is; and I want to know.
Is it some other girl? Why don’t
you go to her, if you want her?
Take your arm away.”
“I
will tell you then,” said Andy,
wisely. “But you will not
understand. Have you heard about
Mike Sullivan? Everyone calls
him ‘Big Mike’ Sullivan.”
“I’ve never heard about him,”
said Maggie. “Who is he?”
“He is the most important man in
New York. He is a mile high and
as broad as the East River. If
you say anything bad about Big
Mike, a million men will be
ready to fight you.
“Big Mike is a friend of mine. I
am only a little man. But Mike
is as good a friend to a little
man as he is to a big man. I met
him today by chance, and what do
you think he did? He came up to
me to shake my hand. I told him
I was going to be married in two
weeks. ‘Andy,’ says he, ‘I will
come to the
wedding.’
That is what he said to me, and
he always does what he says.
“You don’t understand it,
Maggie, but I want to have Big
Mike Sullivan at our wedding. It
would make me very proud.”
“Then why don’t you ask him to
come?” said Maggie.
“There’s a reason why I can’t,”
said Andy, sadly. “Don’t ask me
the reason, for I can’t tell
you.”
“But can’t you smile at me?”
said Maggie.
“Maggie,” said Andy, after a few
minutes, “do you love me as much
as you loved Count Mazzini?”
He
waited a long time, but Maggie
did not reply.
And then, suddenly, she put her
head against his shoulder and
began to cry. She held his arm,
and her tears wet the black
dress.
“Maggie, Maggie,” said Andy,
forgetting his own trouble.
“Tell me about it.”
“Andy,” said Maggie. “What I
told you was not true, and there
never was any Count. There never
was a man in love with me. All
the other girls had men in love
with them. And Andy, I look good
in black—you know I do. So I
went to a shop where I could buy
that picture. And that story
about the Count—none of it was
true. I said he had died because
I wanted to wear black. And no
one can love me, because I
didn’t tell the truth. I never
liked anyone but you. And that’s
all.”
But Andy did not move away.
Instead, his arm pulled her
nearer to him. She looked up and
saw that he was smiling.
“Do you—do you still love me,
Andy?”
“Sure,” said Andy. “You have
made everything fine, Maggie. I
hoped you would do it, before
the wedding day. Good girl!”
“Andy,” said Maggie, after a
little time, “did you believe
all that story about the Count?”
“No, not very much,” said Andy.
“Because that is Big Mike
Sullivan’s picture that you are
wearing on the chain around your
neck
.