“Do you think he’ll—understand, Ann?”
“He’ll be a fool if he doesn’t!”
“And make allowances? He knows how poor we are and how busy I have to be.”
“He does so, my dear. But, if it’s goin’ t’ comfort you any, there’s that corset cover you made me last Christmas. I ain’t never wore it; I ain’t dared to with all them trimmin’s an’ lace insertion, an’ me s’ bony here an’ there. You can have it an’ willin’, my dear, an’ then there’s them—”
“Ann, you dear thing, as if I would!”
“Why not? That corset cover’s a dream! An’ then there’s them—”
“Dear, I couldn’t—I wouldn’t! No, I’ll go to him just as I am—he shall marry me just like I am—”
“An’ that’s a goddess!” nodded Mrs. Trapes, “yes, a young goddess—only, with more clo’es on, o’ course. I’m glad as he’s quit peanuts; peanut men don’t kind o’ jibe in with goddesses.”
“Ann,” said Hermione, sitting back on her heels, “I think of him a great deal, of course, and—just lately—I’ve begun to wonder—”
“My dear,” said Mrs. Trapes, blowing her tea, “so do I! I been wonderin’ ever since he walked into my flat, cool as I don’t know what, an’, my dear, when I sets me mind t’ wonderment, conclusions arrive—constant! I’ll tell ye what I think. First, he ain’t s’ poor as he seems—he wears silk socks, my dear. Second, he’s been nurtured tender—he cleans them white teeth night an’ morn. Third, he ain’t done no toil-an’-spinnin’ act—take heed t’ his hands, my dear. He’s soft-spoke but he’s masterful. He’s young, but he’s seen a lot. He ain’t easy t’ rile, but when he is—my land! He don’t say a lot, an’ he don’t seem t’ do much, an’ yet—he don’t seem t’ starve none. Result—he may be anything!”
“Anything? Ann, dear!”
“Anything!” repeated Mrs. Trapes. “An’ havin’ studied him good an’ heeded him careful, I now conclood he’s jest the thing you need, my dear.”
“Then you like him, Ann—you trust him?”
“I sure do.”
“Oh, you dear—dear—dear thing!” And once again Mrs. Trapes was clasped in those vigorous young arms and kissed with every “dear.”
“Though, mind you,” said Mrs. Trapes, pushing cup and saucer out of harm’s way, “though, mind you, he’s a mystery I ain’t found out—yet. D’ ye s’pose he made any money out o’ them blessed peanuts—not him! Mrs. Smalley, as lives down along ‘Leventh, she told me as she’s seen him givin’ ‘em away by the bagful t’ all the children down her way—repeated!”
“How sweet of him!” said Hermione, her red mouth all tender curves.
“Yes, but how did he live? How does he? How will he?”
“I don’t know, dear; I only know I would trust him always—always!” And sitting back, chin in hand, Hermione fell again to happy thought.
“When he give up the nuts,” pursued Mrs. Trapes, draining the teapot and sighing, “he tells me some fool tale of makin’ a deal in real estate, an’ I—ha, real estate!” Mrs. Trapes put down the teapot with a jerk. “A deal in real estate!” she repeated, and thereafter fell to such unintelligible mutterings as “Record price! Fab’lous! No, it couldn’t be! An’ yet—silk socks! ‘On an’ after above date all tenants soever residin’—will be re-dooced by fifty per cent!’” Suddenly Mrs. Trapes sat bolt upright. “My land!” she ejaculated, “oh, dear land o’ my fathers—if sech could be!”
“Why, Ann,” exclaimed Hermione, roused from her reverie, “whatever is the matter?”
“My dear,” said Mrs. Trapes, laying gentle hand on Hermione’s blooming cheek, “nothin’—nothin’ ‘t all! I’m jest goin’ over in my mind sich small matters as silk socks an’ toothbrushes, that’s all.”
“But you do mean something—you always do.”
“Well—if I do this time, my dear, I’m crazy—but the Bowkers have gone, mind that! An’ him s’ fond o’ little Hazel!” Here Mrs. Trapes nodded almost triumphantly.
“The Bowkers? Why, yes—I’ve been wondering—”
“I guess you know he went t’ O’Rourke’s an’ give that M’Ginnis the thrashin’ of his dirty life?” said Mrs. Trapes rather hastily. “Nigh killed the loafer, Spider Connolly told me.”
“He’s so strong,” said Hermione softly, her eyes shining. “But, Ann, what did you mean about—about toothbrushes and socks?”
“Mean? Why, socks an’ toothbrushes, o’ course. An’ my land! here’s me guzzlin’ tea, an’ over in my kitchen th’ finest shin o’ beef you ever saw a-b’ilin’ f’r his supper. But now the question as burns is, if a married man this night, will he be here t’ eat? An’ if him—then you? An’ if man an’ wife suppin’ in my parlour—where will ye sleep?”
“I—oh, Ann—I don’t know. His letter just said that when I came home it would be our—wedding night!”
“Why, then it sure will be. An’ f’r a weddin’ supper, y’ couldn’t have nothin’ better ‘n shin o’ beef. I’ll go an’ watch over that stoo with care unfailin’, my dear; believe me, that stoo’s goin’ t’ be a stoo as is a stoo! What, half after five? Land sakes, how time flies!”
CHAPTER XXIX
IN WHICH HERMIONE MAKES A FATEFUL DECISION
When Mrs. Trapes was gone, Hermione stood a long time to look at herself in her little mirror, viewing and examining each feature of her lovely, intent face more earnestly than she had ever done before; and sometimes she smiled, and sometimes she frowned, and all her thought was:
“Shall I make him happy, I wonder? Can I be all he wants—all he thinks I am?”
So, after some while, she combed and brushed out her glorious hair, shyly glad because of its length and splendour; and, having crowned her shapely head with it, viewed the effect with cold, hypercritical eyes.
“Can I, oh, can I ever be all he wants—all he thinks I am?”
And then she proceeded to dress; the holey stockings were replaced by others that had seen less service; the worn frills and laces were changed for others less threadbare. This done, Hermione, with many supple twists, wriggled dexterously into her best dress, pausing now and then to sigh mournfully and grieve over its many deficiencies and shortcomings, defects which only feminine eyes, so coldly critical, might hope to behold.
Scarcely was all this accomplished when she heard a soft knock at the outer door, and at the sound her heart leapt; she flushed and paled and stood a moment striving to stay the quick, heavy throbbing within her bosom; then breathlessly she hastened along the passage and, opening the door with trembling hands, beheld Bud M’Ginnis. While she stared, dumb and amazed, he entered and, closing the door, leaned his broad back against it.
“Goin’ away, Hermy?” he enquired softly, looking her over with his slow gaze.
“Yes.”
“Goin’ far, Hermy?”
“I don’t know.”
“Goin’—alone, Hermy?”
“Why are you here? What do you want?”
“T’ save ye from—hell!” he answered, his voice rising loud and harsh on the last word. “Oh, I know,” he went on fiercely, “I know why you’re all dolled up in your best. I know as you mean t’ go away to-night with—him. But you ain’t goin’, girl—you ain’t.”
“To-night,” she said gently, “is my wedding night.”
M’Ginnis lifted a hand and wrenched at the silken neckerchief he wore as though it choked him.
“No!” he cried, “you ain’t a-goin’ t’ get no wedding, Hermy; he don’t mean t’ give ye a square deal. He’s foolin’ ye—foolin’ ye, girl! Oh,” said he through shut teeth, “ye thought I was safe out o’ the way, I guess. You ought t’ known better; th’ p’lice couldn’t hold me, they never will. Anyway, I’ve kept tabs on ye—I know as you’ve been meeting him—in a wood! I know,” here M’Ginnis seemed to choke again, “I know of you an’ him—kissin’ an’ cuddlin’—oh, I’ve kept tabs on ye—”
“Yes,” she said gentl
y, “I saw your spy at work.”
“But y’ can’t deny it. Y’ don’t deny it! Say, what kind o’ girl are you?”
“The kind that doesn’t fear men like you.”
“But y’ can’t deny meetin’ him,” he repeated, his hoarse voice quivering; “you don’t deny—kissin’ him—in a wood! Only deny it, Hermy, only say you didn’t, an’ I’ll choke th’ life out of any guy as says you did—only deny it, Hermy.”
“But I don’t want to deny it. If your spy had ears he can tell you that we are going to be married. Now go.”
Once more M’Ginnis reached up to his throat and trenched off the neckerchief altogether.
“Married!” he cried, “an’ t’ him! He’s foolin’ ye, Hermy, by God he is! Girl, I’m tellin’ ye straight an’ true—he’ll never marry ye. His kind don’t marry Tenth Av’ner girls—Nooport an’ Fifth Av’ner’s a good ways from Hell’s Kitchen an’ Tenth Av’ner, an’ they can’t ever come t’gether, I reckon.”
“Ah!” sighed she, falling back a step, “what do you mean?”
“Why, I mean,” said M’Ginnis, twisting the neckerchief in his powerful hands much as if it had been the neck of some enemy, “I mean as this guy as comes here bluffin’ about bein’ down an’ out, this guy as plays at sellin’ peanuts is—Geoffrey Ravenslee, the millionaire.”
“But—he is—Arthur’s friend!”
“Friend—nothin’!” said he, wringing and wrenching at the neckerchief, “I guess you ain’t found out how th’ Kid an’ him came t’ meet, eh? Well, I’ll tell ye—listen! Your brother broke in to this millionaire’s swell house—through the winder—an’ this millionaire caught him.”
“Oh,” said she, smiling in bitter scorn, “what a clumsy liar you are, Bud M’Ginnis!”
“No,” he cried eagerly, “no, I ain’t tellin’ ye no lies; it’s God’s own truth I’m givin’ ye.”
“No, you’re just a liar, Bud M’Ginnis!” and she would have turned from him, but his savage grip stayed her.
“A liar, am I?” he cried. “Why, then, you’re sister to a crook, see! Your brother’s a thief! a crook! You ain’t got much t’ be s’ proud over—”
“Let me go!”
“Listen! Your brother got into this guy’s house t’ steal, and this millionaire guy caught him—in the act! An’ havin’ nothin’ better t’ do, he makes young Spike bring him down here—just t’ see th’ kind o’ folks as lives in Hell’s Kitchen, see? Then he meets you—you look kind o’ good t’ him, so he says t’ th’ Kid, ‘Look here,’ he says, ‘you help me game along with y’r sister, an’ we’ll call it quits—’”
Breaking from his hold, Hermione entered the little parlour, and sinking down beside the table, crouched there, hiding her face, while M’Ginnis, leaning in the doorway, watched her, his strong hands twisting and wrenching at the neckerchief.
“Ah, leave me now!” she pleaded, “you’ve done enough, so—go now—go!”
“Oh, I’ll go. I come here t’ put ye wise—an’ I have! You’re on to it all now, I guess. Nooport and Fifth Av’ner’s a good ways from Hell’s Kitchen and Tenth Av’ner, an’ they can’t never come together. I guess there’s sure some difference between this swell guy with all his millions an’ a Tenth Av’ner girl as is a—thief’s sister—”
Slowly Hermione lifted her head and looked up at him, and M’Ginnis saw that in her face which struck him mute; the neckerchief fell from his nerveless fingers and lay there all unheeded.
“Hermione,” he muttered, “I—girl, are ye—sick?”
“Go!” she whispered, “go!”
And turning about, M’Ginnis stumbled out of the place and left her alone. For a long time she sat there, motionless and crouched above the table, staring blindly before her, and in her eyes an agony beyond tears, heedless of the flight of time, conscious only of a pain sharper than flesh can know. Suddenly a key was thrust in the lock of the outer door, footsteps sounded along the passage accompanied by a merry whistling, and Spike appeared.
“Hello, Hermy, ain’t tea ready yet?” he enquired, tossing aside his straw hat and opening a newspaper he carried, “say, the Giants are sure playin’ great ball this season—what, are ye asleep?”
“No, dear!”
“Why, Hermy,” he exclaimed, dropping the paper and clasping an arm about her, “Oh, Hermy—what is it?”
“Oh, boy—dear, dear boy—you didn’t, did you?” she cried feverishly. “You are a little wild—sometimes, dear, just a little—but you are good—and honourable, aren’t you?”
“Why, yes, Hermy I—I try t’ be,” he answered uneasily; “but I don’t know what you mean.”
“You’re not a thief, are you? You’re not a burglar? You never broke into any one’s house. I know you didn’t, but—tell me you didn’t—tell me you didn’t!”
“No—no, o’ course not,” stammered Spike and, averting his head, tried to draw away, but she clung to him all the closer.
“Boy—boy dear,” she whispered breathlessly, “oh, boy, look at me!”
But seeing he kept his face still turned from her, she set a hand to his cheek and very gently forced him to meet her look. For a long moment she gazed thus—saw how his eyes quailed, saw how his cheek blanched, and as he cowered away, she rose slowly to her feet, and into her look came a growing horror; beholding which Spike covered his face and shrank away from her.
“Oh, boy—” her voice had sunk to a whisper now, “oh, boy—say you didn’t!”
“Hermy—I—can’t—”
“Can’t?”
“It’s—it’s all—true. Yes, I did! Oh, Hermy, forgive me.”
“Tell me!”
“Oh, forgive me, Hermy, forgive me!” he cried, reaching out and trying to catch her hand. “Yes, I’ll tell ye. I—I got in—through th’ winder, an’ Geoff caught me. But he let me go again—he said he’d never tell nobody if—ah, don’t look at me like that!”
“If—what?”
“If I’d bring him back here with me—Hermy, don’t! Your eyes hurt me—don’t look at me that way.”
“So it—is—all—true!”
“Oh, forgive me, forgive me!” he pleaded, throwing himself on his knees before her and writhing in the anguish of remorse. “They doped me, Hermy, I—didn’t know what I was doin’—they didn’t give me no time t’ think. Oh, forgive me, Hermy; Geoff forgave me, an’ you must—oh, God, you must, Hermy!” Again he sought to reach her hand, but now it was she who shrank away.
“I loved you so—I—loved—you so!” she said dully.
“Hermy,” he cried, catching hold of her dress, “forgive me—just this once, for God’s sake! I ain’t got nobody in the world but you—forgive me!” And now his pleading was broken by fierce sobs, and he sought to hide his tear-stained face in the folds of her dress, but she drew it quickly from him, shrinking away almost as if she feared him.
“A thief!” she whispered, “oh, God—my brother a thief! I don’t seem—able to—think. Go away—go away, I—must be—alone!”
“Hermy, dear, I swear—oh, I swear I’ll—”
“Go away!”
“Oh, Hermy, I didn’t think you’d ever—turn away—from me.”
“Go away!”
“Oh, Hermy—won’t you listen?”
“I can’t! Not now. Go away.”
Sobbing, the boy got to his feet, and taking his hat, crossed slow-footed to the door; there he paused to look back at her, but her staring eyes gazed through him and, turning hopelessly away, he brushed his sleeve across his cheek and, treading slow and heavily along the passage, was gone.
Dry-eyed she stood awhile, then sank again beside the table and crouched there with face bowed between outstretched arms, and hands tight clenched. Evening began to fall, but still she sat huddled there, motionless, and uttering no sound, and still her eyes were tearless. At last she stirred, conscious of a quick, firm step near by, and, thrilling to that sound, rose and stood with her back to the fading light as Rav
enslee entered.
“Dear,” said he, tender and eager, “I found the door open—did you leave it for me? Why, Hermione—oh, my love, what is it?” and he would have caught her to him, but she held him away and questioned him, quick-breathing:
“You are—Geoffrey Ravenslee—the millionaire—aren’t you?”
“Why—er—I—I’m afraid I am,” he stammered. “I’m sorry you found it out so soon, dearest; I wanted to tell you after we—”
“Oh, why didn’t you tell me before—why didn’t you? No—please wait! You—you caught my—brother, didn’t you?” she went on breathlessly; “he had broken in—was burgling your house, wasn’t he—wasn’t he?”
“How in the world,” began Ravenslee, flinching, “who told—”
“He broke into your house to—steal, didn’t he—didn’t he?”
“But, good heavens—that was all forgotten and done with long ago! They’d made the poor chap drunk—he didn’t know what he was doing—it’s all forgotten long ago! Dear heart, why are you so pale? God, Hermione—nothing can alter our love!”
“No, nothing can alter our love,” she repeated in the same dull tones. “Oh, no, nothing can ever alter that; even though you deceived me I shall always love you, I can’t help it. And just because I do love you so, and because I am a thief’s sister, I—oh, I can never be your wife—I couldn’t, could I?”
“By God, Hermione, but you shall!” As he spoke he caught her in his arms, passionate arms that drew and held her close. Very still and unresisting she lay in his embrace, uttering no word; and stooping, he kissed her fiercely—her lips, her eyes, her white throat, her hair, and, silent still, she yielded herself to his caresses.
“You are mine, Hermione, mine always and forever! You are the one woman I long for—the wife nature intended for me! You are mine, Hermione!”
Very softly she answered, her eyes closed:
“I felt at the first there was a gulf dividing us—and now—this gulf is wider—so wide it can never be crossed by either of us. Your world is not my world, after all—you are Geoffrey Ravenslee and I am only—what I am. Newport and Fifth Avenue are a long way from Hell’s Kitchen and Tenth Avenue, and they can never—never come together. And I—am a thief’s sister, so please, please loose me—oh, have mercy and—let me go.”
The Definite Object Page 19
