"Why, Mr. Geoffrey!" said Mrs. Trapes.
"Mrs. Trapes," said Ravenslee, laying aside the book he had been reading and letting his glance wander across smooth lawns and clipped yew hedges, "Mrs. Trapes, what about that stewed shin of beef with carrots and onions you prepared for—our wedding supper?"
"Which," said Mrs. Trapes, glancing up from her everlasting knitting, "which you never stopped to eat."
"Which omission I will now haste to rectify. Mrs. Trapes, pray go and get it ready—I'm ravenous!"
"Good f'r you!" said Mrs. Trapes; "in about half an hour you shall have a nice cup of beef tea to raven at—"
"Confounded slops!" growled Ravenslee.
"Doctor's orders!" nodded Mrs. Trapes, clicking her knitting needles.
"Can't I have something to chew at?"
"Sure. How'll a cracker soaked in milk soot?"
"Cracker!" snarled Ravenslee.
"Doctor's orders!"
Ravenslee muttered and took up his book.
"Helen who, did you say?" enquired Mrs. Trapes, glancing up. "Mr. Geoffrey—I mean Ravenslee, I'm surprised at you—swearin' ain't good for a invalid; your temperature'll be rose if you swear."
"But, my dear Mrs. Trapes, I'm hungry, very hungry—darned hungry!"
"Which is a sign as you're improvin' rapid. Beef tea'll be here soon."
"I won't drink the stuff!"
"Oh, but you will, when Hermy brings it."
"Hermione!" said Ravenslee, his voice grown gentle, and laying down his book again. "Mrs. Trapes, have you noticed any change in her lately?"
"A bit handsomer, p'r'aps—"
"Yes, but I don't mean that; it's something that puzzles me. She seems to have grown more—more reserved and shy—"
"Well, she was married to you before she knew it kind of, almost."
"Do you suppose that's it?"
"Sure! What you got t' do, Mr. Geoffrey, is—woo her! Woo her all you know how. The best woman can't be wooed too hard nor too frequent—so you start in an' woo."
"But sometimes it has almost seemed that she—avoided me."
"Well, don't let her."
"Do you suppose she's grieving for Spike?"
"Well, he ain't exactly a j'y t' her. There he is going straight to the devil along o' that Bud M'Ginnis!"
"I must go and fetch him as soon as I can get about again."
"If he'll come."
"Oh, he'll come," said Ravenslee grimly. "I've decided to send him to college—"
"If he'll go!"
"Oh, he'll go—there's quite a lot of good in him, Mrs. Trapes."
"Only it's mighty hard to find, Mr. Geoffrey! If that b'y wants t' go t' th' devil, to th' devil he'll go. What you got t' do is t' make her forget him—if you can. Oh, drat him, anyway!" and squaring her elbows, Mrs. Trapes knitted so angrily that her knitting needles clashed like weapons fiercely opposed.
"Yes, but suppose she is grieving for him, Mrs. Trapes?"
"Why then," said Mrs. Trapes, "why then—oh, shucks—I guess I'll go an' see after that beef tea."
When she had gone, Ravenslee sat plunged in gloomy thought until roused by the sound of approaching feet with a creak of shoes, a loud, arrogant creak there was no mistaking, and the Old Un appeared followed by Joe and the Spider, the latter looking very smart in his new livery.
"Guv," said the Old Un, "best respex! 'Ere we be, come to say 'ow glad we are t' see you come up smilin' an' ready for more after Fate ketchin' ye a perishin' wallop as we all thought 'ad doubled ye up till the day o' doom. 'Ere you are, on your pins again, an' 'ere 's us come t' give ye greetin's doo an' j'y o' your marriage—shut up, Joe!"
"Why, I wasn't speakin'!" growled Joe.
"No, but you meant to—you're always meanin' to, you are. Guv," continued the Old Un, "folks is allus a-givin' an' takin' in marriage in this 'ere world, such bein' their natur'—they can't 'elp it! But never in this world nor no other was there ever sich a weddin' as yours. There was 'er so young an' fair an' full o' life, an' there was you so pale an' nigh to death—one leg in the grave—an' there was me s' full o' years an' wisdom an' sorrer for ye both—oh, my pore old bowels was fair yearnin' over ye-"
"Lord, Old Un," expostulated Joe, "you keep them bowels o' yours out of it—"
"Shut up, Joe, in your ignorance; bowels is in the Bible, an' bowels I abide by now and forever, amen! Well, there we all were, Guv, bendin' o'er your couch o' care very silent an' solemn,
"an' there was you s' pale an' nigh t' death—"
"You said all that afore, Old Un!" growled Joe.
"You leave me alone, Joe," said the Old Un, scowling and flourishing a trembling fist, "you lemme be, or you'll be pale an' nigh t' death next. Well, there was you, Guv, an' all s' pale an' still when: ''Oo giveth this woman?' says the parson-cove very solemn. 'That's me!' says I, quick an' ready. An' so, me 'avin' 'elped t' marry you, I've brought Joe an' Spider t' wish you 'ealth an' 'appiness an' a j'y continual. Now, Joe, it's your round—speak up!"
"Sir," said Joe heavily, "I—we—I mean—Lord, sir, I am that glad—ah, glad as—as never was—"
"That'll do for you, Joe!" snapped the Old Un. "Spider's round."
Hereupon the Spider lurched forward, hunched his wide shoulders, took off his smart cap, and stared at it very hard.
"Bo," said he, chewing vigorously, "I mean boss—er—no, that ain't right either—this is sure a bum start I'm makin'—"
"Bo' will do, Spider," said Ravenslee, "let it go at that."
"Why then, bo, I ain't one as is ever goin' t' win any gold-mounted testimonials at any talk-fest or heart-throbbin' spiel-act, but what I wanter tell you is this—an' I guess you know I ain't only breathin' out puffs o' hot air—I want yer t' know as I feel about you like—like Joe an' the Old Un does—an' then some more. Y' see, bo, though I ain't never held a straight flush agin four aces an' don't expect to, though I shan't ever be a world's champion like Joe here—I guess I know to-day what it feels like, because you ain't goin' t' snuff it, after all—an' now I guess you're on." Saying which, the Spider dexterously shifted his wad to the other cheek and chewed faster than ever.
"I am, Spider, and I want you to know I'm grateful to you, all three. Also I want to thank you all for keeping this affair out of the papers, though how you managed it beats me."
"Guv," cried the Old Un, tremulous and eager, "oh, Guv, we're fair sleuth-hounds, we are—specially me. There ain't a 'tective nor secret-service cove nor bloomin' bobby fit to black our shoes—specially mine! Y' see, Guv, I know who done it; Joe thinks he knows; an' Spider don't think at all!"
"Oh?" said Ravenslee, and looking around, caught the Spider watching him wide-eyed, his jaws grimly tense and immobile; but meeting his glance, the Spider lowered his eyes, shifted his smartly-gaitered legs, and chewed viciously.
"So, Guv," piped the Old Un cheerily, "we're out for the criminal's gore—specially me. We're goin' to track the perisher to 'is 'orrible doom—
"And you think you know who it was?"
"I do, Guv, I do!" nodded the Old Un. "I knows as 'twas a enemy as done it; Joe thinks it was one o' them gang fellers, an' Spider don't say who he thinks done it."
Once again Ravenslee caught the Spider's eye watching him furtively, and once again he noticed that the Spider's jaws were clamped hard, while he was twisting his natty chauffeur's cap in fingers strangely agitated.
"Sir," said Joe, "me an' the Spider searched that wood, an' we found a coat—"
"Shut up, Joe," snarled the Old Un, "you're tellin' it all wrong. Guv, Joe an' the Spider went a-seekin' an' a-searchin' that wood, an' they found a—cloo—"
"Oh?" said Ravenslee.
"A cloo as is a-goin' t' 'ang somebody yet—a cloo, Guv, as ain't t' be ekalled for blood-guilt an' mystery. Joe," said the Old Un, sinking his voice to a hoarse whisper, "the hour is come—perjooce the cloo!"
Hereupon Joe produced a pocketbook and took thence a highly ornate coat button whereto a shred of cloth was attached.
"I found this, sir," said he, "close by where you was a-lyin'." So Ravenslee took the button upon his palm, and, as he eyed it, the Spider saw his black brows twitch suddenly together, then—he yawned.
"And you found this in the wood, Joe?" he enquired sleepily.
"I did, sir. With that to help 'em, the perlice would have the murdering cove in no time, and more than once I've been going to hand it over to 'em. But then I thought I'd better wait a bit; if you died was time enough, an' if you didn't I'd keep it for you—so, sir, there it is."
"You did quite right, Joe. Yes, you did very right indeed!"
For a long moment Ravenslee sat languidly twisting the button in thin white fingers, then flicked it far out over the balustrade down among the dense evergreens in the garden below. The Old Un gasped, Joe gaped, and the Spider sighed audibly.
"Lorgorramighty! Oh, Guv, Guv—" quavered the old man, "you've throwed away our cloo—our blood-cloo—th' p'lice—you've lost our evidence—"
"Old Un, of course I have! You see, I don't like clews, or blood, or the police. You have all been clever enough, wise enough to keep this confounded business quiet, and so will I—"
"But, oh, Guv, arter somebody tryin' t' kill ye like a dog—ain't there goin' t' be no vengeance, no gallers-tree, no 'lectric chair nor nothin'—"
"Nothing!" answered Ravenslee gently. "Somebody tried to kill me, but somebody didn't kill me; here I am, getting stronger every day, so we'll let it go at that."
"Why then—I'm done!" said the Old Un, rising.
"Guv, you're crool an' stony-'carted! 'Ere 's me, a pore old cove as has been dreamin' an' dreamin' o' gallers-trees an' 'lectric chairs, and 'ere 's you been an' took 'em off me! Guv, I'm disapp'inted wi' ye. Oh, ingratitood, thou art the Guv!" So saying, the Old Un clapped on his hat and creaked indignantly away.
"Crumbs!" exclaimed Joe, "what a bloodthirsty old cove he is, with his gallers-trees! This means jam, this does."
"Jam?" repeated Ravenslee wonderingly.
"Sir, whenever the Old Un's put out, 'e flies to jam same as some chaps do to drink; makes a fair old beast of hisself, he do. If you'll excuse us, sir, Spider an' me'll just keep a eye on him to see as he don't go upsettin' his old innards again."
Ravenslee nodded, and smiling, watched them hurry after the little old man; but gradually his amusement waned, and he became lost in frowning thought. So deeply abstracted was he that he started to find Mrs. Trapes regarding him with her sharp, bright eyes.
"Mr. Geoffrey, here's a cup o' beef tea as I've prepared with my own hand—"
"But where's—"
"She's gone t' bed. Here's a cup o' beef tea as is stiff with nourishment, so get it into your system good an' quick."
"Gone to bed—"
"She says it's a headache, o' course—drink it down while it's hot—but I reckon it's more 'n a headache—yes, sir. A while back I says t' you—'woo her,' I says, Mr. Geoffrey. I now says—let her alone awhile. The poor child's all wore out—it's nerves as is the matter with her, I reckon. So, Mr. Ravenslee, be patient, this ain't no wooin' time; it's rest she needs an' change of air—"
"Why, then, Mrs. Trapes, she shall have them!"
Mr. Brimberly, having dined well as was his custom, lay at his ease in a luxurious lounge chair in the shade of the piazza; the day was hot, wherefore on a table at his elbow was a syphon, a bottle, and a long glass in which ice tinkled alluringly; between his plump fingers was a large cigar and across his plump knees was an open paper over which he yawned and puffed and sipped in turn. Nevertheless Mr. Brimberly was bored and dropping the paper, languidly cherished a languorous whisker, staring dull-eyed across stately terraces and wide, neat lawns to where, beyond winding yew walks and noble trees, the distant river flowed.
Presently as he sat he was aware of a small girl in a white pinafore approaching along one of these walks—a small being who hopped along by means of a little crutch and sang to herself in a soft, happy voice.
Mr. Brimberly blinked.
Heedless of the eyes that watched her, the child turned into the rose garden, pausing now and then to inhale the scent of some great bloom that filled the air with its sweetness.
Mr. Brimberly sat up, for he permitted few to enter the rose garden.
All at once the child, singing still, reached up and broke off a great scarlet bloom.
Mr. Brimberly arose.
"Little girl!" he called, in voice round and sonorous, "little girl, come you 'ere and come immediate!"
The child started, turned, and after a moment's hesitation hobbled forward, her little face as white as her pinafore. At the foot of the broad steps leading up to the piazza she paused, looking up at him with great, pleading eyes.
Mr. Brimberly beckoned with portentous finger.
"Little girl, come 'ere!" he repeated. "Come up 'ere and come immediate!"
The small crutch tapped laboriously up the steps, and she stood before Mr. Brimberly's imposing figure mute, breathless, and trembling a little.
"Little girl," he demanded, threatening of whisker, "'oo are you and—what?"
"Please, I'm Hazel."
"Oh, indeed," nodded Mr. Brimberly, pulling at his waistcoat. "'Azel 'oo, 'Azel what—and say 'sir' next time, if you please."
"Hazel Bowker, sir," and she dropped him a little curtsey, spoiled somewhat by agitation and her crutch.
"Bowker—Bowker?" mused Mr. Brimberly. "I've 'eard the name—I don't like the name, but I've 'eard it."
"My daddy works here, sir," said Hazel timidly.
"Bowker—Bowker!" repeated Mr. Brimberly. "Ah, to be sure—one of the hunder gardeners as I put on three or four weeks ago."
"Yes, please, sir."
"Little girl, what are you a-doin' in that garden? Why are you wandering in the vicinity of this mansion?"
"Please, I'm looking for Hermy."
"'Ermy?" repeated Mr. Brimberly, "'Ermy? Wot kind of creater may that be? Is it a dog? Is it a cat? Wot is it?"
"It's only my Princess Nobody, sir!"
"Oh, a friend of yours—ha! Persons of that class do not pervade these regions! And wot do I be'old grasped in your 'and?"
Hazel looked down at the rose she held and trembled anew.
"Little girl—wot is it?" demanded the inexorable voice.
"A rose, sir."
"Was it—your rose?"
"N-no, sir."
"Don't you know as it's a wicked hact to take what ain't yours? Don't you know as it's thieving and robbery, and that thieving and robbery leads to prison bars and shackle-chains?"
"Oh, sir, I—I didn't mean—" the little voice was choked with sobs.
"Well, let this be a warning to you to thieve no more, or next time I shall 'ave to become angry. Now—go 'ence!"
Dropping the rose the child turned and hobbled away as fast as her crutch would allow, and Mr. Brimberly, having watched her out of sight, emptied his glass and took up his cigar, but, finding it had gone out, flung it away. Then he sighed and, sinking back among his cushions, closed his eyes, and was soon snoring blissfully.
But by and by Mr. Brimberly began to dream, a very evil dream wherein it seemed that for many desperate deeds and crime abominable he was chained and shackled in a dock, and the judge, donning the black cap, sentenced him to be shorn of those adornments, his whiskers. In his dream it seemed that there and then the executioner advanced to his fell work—a bony hand grasped his right whisker, the deadly razor flashed, and Mr. Brimberly awoke gurgling—awoke to catch a glimpse of a hand so hastily withdrawn that it seemed to vanish into thin air.
"'Eavens and earth!" he gasped, and clapping hand to cheek was relieved to find his whisker yet intact, but for a long moment sat clutching that handful of soft and fleecy hair, staring before him in puzzled wonder, for the hand had seemed so very real he could almost feel it there yet. Presently, bethinking him to glance over his shoulder, Mr. Brimberly gasped and goggled, for leaning over the back of his chair was a little, old man, very slender, very upright, and very smart as to attire, who fanned himself with a jaunty straw hat banded in vivid crimson; an old man whose bright, youthful eyes looked out from a face wizened with age, while up from his bald crown rose a few wisps of white and straggling hair.
"'Oly 'eavens!" murmured Mr. Brimberly in a faint voice.
The visitor, settling his bony elbows more comfortably, fanned himself until his sparse locks waved gently to and fro, and, nodding, spoke these words:
Mr. Brimberly stared; Mr. Brimberly's mouth opened, and eventually Mr. Brimberly rose and surveyed the intruder slowly, up from glittering shoes to the dome of his head and down again; and Mr. Brimberly's ample bosom surged, his eye kindled, and his whiskers—!
"Cheer-o!" nodded the Old Un.
Mr. Brimberly blinked and pulled down his waistcoat.
"Me good man," said he, "you'll find the tradesmen's entrance round the corner. Go away, if you please, and go immediate—I'm prehoccupied."
"No, you ain't; you're the butler, you are, I lay my oath—
"that's your job, ain't it, chum?"
"Chum!" said Mr. Brimberly in tones of horror. "Chum!" he repeated, grasping a handful of indignant whisker. "Oh, outragious! Oh, very hobscene! 'Ow dare you, sir? 'Oo are you, sir, eh, sir—answer me, an' answer—prompt!"
"Leave them cobwebs alone, an' I'll tell you, matey."
"Matey!" groaned Mr. Brimberly, turning up his eyes.
"I'm the Guv's familiar friend and personal pal, I am. I'm 'is adviser, confeedential, matreemonial, circumstantial, an' architect'ral. I'm 'is trainer, advance agent, manager, an' sparrin' partner—that's who I am. An' now, mate, 'avin' 'elped to marry 'im, I've jest took a run down 'ere to see as all things is fit an' proper for 'is 'oneymoon!"
"My word, this is a mad feller, this is!" murmured Mr. Brimberly, "or else 'e 's drunk!"
"Drunk?" exclaimed the Old Un, clapping on his hat very much over one eye and glaring, "wot—me?"
"I repeat," said Mr. Brimberly, addressing the universe in general, "I repeats as 'e is a narsty, drunken little person!"
"Person?" cried the Old Un, scowling, "why, you perishin'—"
"Old!" said Mr. Brimberly, "'old, I beg! Enough 'as been said—go 'ence! 'Oo you are I do not know, wot you are I do not care, but in these regions you do not remain; your langwidge forbids and—"
"Langwidge?" snorted the Old Un. "Why, I ain't begun yet, you blinkin', fat-faced, owl-eyed piece o' sooet—"
"Your speech, sir," continued Mr. Brimberly with calm austerity and making the most of whiskers and waistcoat, "your speech is redolent of slums and back halleys. I don't know you. I don't want to know you! You are a feller! Go away, feller!"
"Feller?" snarled the Old Un, "why you—"
"I repeat," said Mr. Brimberly with dignified deliberation, "I repeat as you are a very low, vulgar little feller!"
The Old Un clenched his fists.
"Right-o!" he nodded cheerily. "That's done it! F' that I'm a-goin' t' punch ye in th' perishin' eye-'ole!" And he advanced upon the points of his toes, shoulders hunched, and head viciously outthrust.
"My word!" exclaimed Mr. Brimberly, retreating rather precipitately, "this is very discomposing, this is! I shall have to call the perlice."
"Perlice!" snarled the Old Un, fiercer than ever, "you won't have nothing t' call with when I've done wi' ye. I'm goin' t' jab ye on th' beak t' begin with, then I'll 'ook my left t' your kidneys an' swing my right to your p'int an' crumple ye up with a jolt on your perishin' solar plexus as 'll stiffen you till th' day o' doom!"
"'Oly angels!" murmured Mr. Brimberly, glancing hastily about.
"Then while you lay bathed in 'orrible gore, I'm goin' t' twist them whiskers into a 'angman's knot!"
"This is most distressing!" sighed Mr. Brimberly.
"Then," continued the Old Un, grinding his remaining teeth, "I'm a-goin' t' tread your face in an' dance on y'r blighted stummick. Arter that—"
"Oh, dear me!" exclaimed Mr. Brimberly, retreating before the oncoming peril and mopping perspiring brow. But suddenly his wandering eye was arrested by velvet and gold braid, and lifting up his voice he called:
"William! James! Come 'ere—and come sharp!"
Two vast and splendid shapes loomed upon the scene, supermen whose silken calves quivered with unaccustomed haste; at a sign from Mr. Brimberly they seized upon the Old Un and, despite ghoulish threats, solemnly bore him off.
Down the broad sweep of drive they went, the Old Un pouring forth fluent curses with every step, until they came to a powerful automobile from beneath which a pair of neatly gaitered legs protruded.
"Joe!" cried the Old Un, apostrophising these legs, "Joe, stop bein' a crawlin' worm—come out an' bash these perishers for me, like a good lad!" But even while he spoke, the footmen hauled him along, so that when Joe eventually wriggled from under the car the three were close against the great gates.
The Old Un was earnestly explaining to his captors exactly what he thought of them, of their fathers and mothers, their kith and kin, and the supermen were heeding him not the least, when a thunderbolt seemed to smite them asunder, and Joe was glancing mild-eyed from one splendid, supine form to the other.
"Hullo, Old Un!" said he, "what's the matter now, you old book o' bad language, you?"
But Mr. Brimberly, somewhat shaken with his late interview and feeling the need of a stimulant, had just refilled the long glass when, hearing a rustle behind him, he turned and beheld a tall woman, elderly and angular, especially as to chin and elbows, which last obtruded themselves quite unpleasantly; at least, as he eyed them there was manifest disapprobation in every hair of his whiskers.
"Now I wonder," he sighed plaintively, "I wonder what under the blue expandment of 'oly 'eaven you might be, because if you 'appen to be the washing—"
"I—am—not!"
"Or the cannybal missions—"
"No—sech—thing!"
"Oh!" said Mr. Brimberly, and his gaze wandered to the elbows. "Why, then, let me hinform you—"
"Ann Angelina Trapes is me name."
"Why then, ma'am, you've took the wrong turning. 'Owbeit an' notwithstanding, 'ooever you are and nevertheless, you will find the tradespeople's entra—"
"You're the gentleman as is so obligin' as to be Mr. Ravenslee's butler, ain't you?"
"Sich is my perfession," Mr. Brimberly admitted. "I am in sole charge of these premises and so being will ask you to withdraw 'ence immediate. I will ask—"
"An' I'll ask you, very p'inted, what you reckon you're doin' in that chair?"
"Doing?"
"I'll ask you, very p'inted, why you're loafin' around wastin' your master's time?"
"Loafing?" cried Mr. Brimberly, very red in the face. "Loaf—"
"I also ask you, very p'inted, wherefore an' why you loaf, guzzlin' an' swillin' your master's good liquor?"
"Guzzling!" gasped Mr. Brimberly. "Oh, 'eavens, this is a outrage, this is! I'll—"
"It sure is! An' so are you, winebibber!"
"Winebib—" Mr. Brimberly choked, his round face grew purple, and he flourished pudgy fists while Mrs. Trapes folded her cotton-gloved hands and watched him.
"Winebibber!" she nodded. "An' the wine as you now bib is your master's, consequently it was stole, an' bein' stole you're a thief, an' bein' a thief—"
"Thief!" gurgled Mr. Brimberly. "Ha, thief's a hepithet, thief is, and a hepithet 's hactionable! I'll 'ave you indented for perjoorious expressions—"
"Winebibber!" she sighed. "Snake an' plunderer!"
"Never," cried Mr. Brimberly, "never in all my days did I ever 'earken to such contoomacious contoomacity! 'Oo are you an' wot—"
"Hand over that bottle and what you've left o' them cigars!"
"Woman, begone!" he cried hoarsely. "Woman, if you don't go 'ence this very moment, I'll have you persecuted with the hutmost vigour o' the law for a incorrigible—female!"
"Female!" repeated Mrs. Trapes; and clasping herself in her long, bony arms she shuddered and smiled, though her eyes glared more stonily, and her elbows suggested rapier points, daggers, and other deadly weapons of offence.
"Female it were, I think?" she enquired with another grim and smiling shudder. "Now, sir, to you I sez, debased creecher, I sez, vulgar an' dishonest loafer, I sez, sly an' subtle serpent, I sez, return to the back scullery wherefrom you sprang lest I seize you by the hair of your cheeks an' bounce your silly head against the wall—frequent, I sez!" and very slowly, Mrs. Trapes moved toward him.
Mr. Brimberly hesitated, but before those deadly elbows he blenched, his whiskers wilted all at once, and he retreated backwards; across the spacious drawing room, along the hall and down the stairs he went, his pace ever accelerating, until, in full flight, he reached the sanctuary of his pantry, where, having locked himself securely in, he sank panting into a chair to mop beaded brow.
"My word!" said Mr. Brimberly.
Soapy was alone, which in itself was no new thing, for Soapy was a solitary soul at all times; but just now he sat close against the rotting fence which skirted that desolation behind O'Rourke's saloon. Moreover, it was night, and solitude profound was his. He sat on a battered and disused pail that chanced to be handy, a smouldering cigarette dangling from his thin-lipped mouth, his long hands pendulous between his knees, his pallid eyelids sleepily a-droop; but his eyes, quick and watchful, scanned the deeper gloom of fence and dismal outbuilding, and he sat there very patient and very still. At last he stirred slightly, the cigarette quivered and was motionless again, for, amid the shadows, he had seen a dim shape that flitted swiftly toward him; on it came, creeping swift and silent beside the fence, nearer and nearer until it resolved itself into a slender form. Then Soapy spoke.
"Hello, Kid!"
Ensued a moment of tense silence, then Spike answered, his voice unnaturally thin and high-pitched.
"That—that you, Soapy?"
"'S right, Kid!"
"What you—doin' around—here?"
"Who, me? Y' see, I'm kind o' yearnin' for that gun you got there—"
"Gun? I—I ain't got—no gun—"
"Well, Kid, I know Heine's all kinds of a liar, but he tells me he's loaned you one of his, an' so—" Soapy's long arm shot out in the gloom and seizing Spike's right arm he drew it near. "Why, Kid," said he, "it kind o' looks like Heine told the truth for once by accident, don't it?"
"You leggo my wrist!"
"Right-o, Kid, right-o! Don't get peeved—"
"Well, leggo then!"
"Sure! Only this artillery ain't goin' t' be no good t' you t'night—ye see, Bud—ain't here! 'S rough on ye, Kid, 's rough, but he ain't!"
"W—what—d' ye mean?" stammered the boy.
"I mean as you comin' here t' plug holes in Bud's carcase it's kind o' rough on you as there ain't goin' t' be no carcase here to plug. Y' see, Bud's took his carcase up-town with him t'night—"
"You're a liar, Soapy, a liar! Bud's inside, I know he is. Leggo my arm, you can't con me!"
"'S right, Kid, I ain't tryin'. Only I'm tellin' you Bud's left me an' Lefty t' run things here t'night. Bud's up-town at his old man's place. I know because—I sent him, see?"
"You sent him—you? Ah, come off! You couldn't!"
"'S right, Kid; I got him away by a fake telegram."
The boy ventured a long, quivering sigh, his whole frame relaxed, and in that instant Soapy wrenched the weapon from his loosened hold and rose. Choking with passion, Spike sprang at him, but Soapy fended him off with a long arm.
"Gimme that gun!"
"Behave, Kid, behave, else I'll have t' dot ye one! Be good an' chase off home; this ain't no place for you t'night—nor no other time."
"Gimme that gun!"
"No!"
Spike ceased the useless struggle and leaned against the fence, panting, while Soapy reseated himself upon the battered pail.
"What you got t' come buttin' in for?" demanded the boy, "this ain't your show, an' I guess you ain't so mighty fond o' Bud either—"
"'S right, too," nodded Soapy, "no, I ain't exactly fond of him, Kid; leastways I don't run t' help him if he falls nor kiss th' place t' make it well—no, Kid! But I kind o' feel that Bud's too good t' snuff it this way, or snuff it—yet!"
"Good?" said the lad bitterly, "good—hell! He's ruined me, Soapy, he's done me in! He's come between me an'—an' Hermy. He tried t' make me think dirt of her, an' now—now I—I'm all alone; I ain't got nobody left—oh, my God!" and huddling to the fence, Spike broke out into a fierce and anguished sobbing, while Soapy, spinning the revolver dexterously on his finger, watched him under drooping lids.
"She was mighty good t' ye, Hermy was!" said he thoughtfully.
"Don't—ah, don't!" gasped Spike.
"An' when he spoke dirt of her, you—believed him, Kid!"
"I didn't."
"You did, else you'd have been with her now. She was always good t' you, Hermy was, but you—well, you preferred Bud!"
"I didn't, Soapy; God knows I didn't—only—I thought Bud would make me a champion—"
"By gettin' ye soused, Kid!"
"Oh, I know—I know now he's only been stringin' me all along—I know now it's too late—that's why I'm goin' t' kill him."
"Kill him!" mused Soapy. "Kid, there's good killings an' bad killin's, an' I reckon this 'ud be a good killin', maybe. But this ain't your job."
"Why—why ain't it?"
"Well, you got a sister f'r one thing, an' besides, you ain't a killer."
"You gimme that gun an' see!" cried the lad, reaching out a hand tremulous and eager.
"When the time came, Kid, 'stead o' shootin', you'd drop your gun like that time in th' wood."
"Th' wood!" Spike's voice dropped to a strangled whisper and he shrank back against the fence. "You—my God, you—saw—!"
"'S right, Kid, I was there! An' I'm kind o' glad y' couldn't do it, glad for your sister's sake. But what I'm thinkin' is that maybe she thinks it was you—eh, Kid?"
Spike writhed and groaned.
"Eh, Kid?"
"Yes!"
"Why, then, if I was you, I'd skin off right now an' put her wise; it may mean a whole lot t' her. Y' know where she is—go an' tell her, Kid."
"I can't! I can't—she don't want me no more, she's done wi' me, I guess. I'm—oh, I'm too low-down an' rotten!"
"Sure!" nodded Soapy. "But she's good, an' she's a woman; an' good women are only made t' forgive, I reckon."
"But there's Geoff! I—I couldn't face Geoff."
"That's because you think a heap too much about a low-down rotten guy called Spike. I guess it's about time you began t' think about your sister f' a change. Well, s' long, Kid, I guess I'll be movin'; this pail comes a bit sharp after an hour of it."
So saying, Soapy rose, nodded, and strolled away, still twirling the revolver upon that long and dexterous finger. For a moment Spike stood looking after him, then, chin on breast, turned and went his solitary way across the desolate waste. But now it was Soapy who, pausing, turned to watch him safe out of sight. Scarcely had the sound of Spike's departure died away than a door opened and closed hard by, and heavy steps approached, halted suddenly, and a hoarse voice demanded:
"Who's there?"
"Why, this is me, Bud."
"What th' hell are ye hangin' around out here for?" questioned M'Ginnis suspiciously.
"Countin' th' stars, Bud, an' doin' th' Providence act—midst of life we are in death' gag—"
"Aw, cut out that slush an' hike along t' Rayner's wi' me; I got a job for you an' Heine—"
Side by side they crossed the gloomy, open lot until they were come beneath a lamp at a certain bleak street corner. Here Soapy paused and held out his hand, open to the light.
"This don't happen t' be your ring, Bud?" he enquired lazily.
M'Ginnis glanced at the ring upon that narrow palm, a ring wrought into the semblance of two hands that clasped each other, looked closer, drew in his breath suddenly, then straightened his shoulders and threw back his head.
"No!" he answered, frowning into Soapy's imperturbable face, "what th' hell made you think it was?"
"Why, ye see, Bud, it happens t' have your name scratched inside it, that's all. But if it ain't yours, it ain't!" And speaking, Soapy tossed the ring back over his shoulder far out into the open lot.
For a long moment M'Ginnis stood motionless, staring back at that desolate plot of ground; when at last he glanced toward his companion, Soapy was lighting a fresh cigarette.
In the rose garden was an arbour smothered in riotous bloom, and in the arbour was a divan, wide and low and voluptuously soft, meet for the repose of an invalid on a languorous afternoon, or indeed any other time. But just now the invalid reposed not at all but sat, elbow on knee and square chin on fist, very lonely and therefore very grim.
All about him roses bloomed, filling the air with their sweetness, but he had no eyes for their beauty; upon the table within reach of his hand were books and magazines, but he was in no mood for reading; clasped between strong white teeth he held his favourite pipe unlighted and cold, for tobacco had for him no savour. So he sat and scowled at the universe in general, and in particular at a robin that had boldly ventured near and was regarding him with a very round, bright eye.
"She's avoiding me!" said Ravenslee bitterly, teeth clenched upon his pipestem, "there's no doubt about it, damn it; she's avoiding me! And she's not happy here either!"
The robin turned his head to regard the speaker with his other eye, then fluttered his wings and flew away as the lazy quiet of the afternoon was broken by the squeak of shoe leather, and glancing up, Ravenslee beheld the Old Un.
"What cheer, Guv," said he, "greetin's doo and how's the invalid?"
"Invalid!" repeated Ravenslee, scowling again, "I'm no invalid!"
"Spoke like a true-bred gamecock, s' help me!"
"I'm as right as rain physically, Old Un, but—"
"Talkin' o' physic, Guv," said the old man, seating himself and nodding brightly, "talkin' o' physic, the physic as set you on your pins again was love, Guv, love!"
"But it so happens—"
"Wait a bit, I ain't done, Guv! 'Ere 's me, a old cove as 'as lived 'ears an' 'ears an' 'ears an' 'ears longer 'n you, so nacherally I'm a powerful lot fuller o' th' wisdom o' life than you, specially in matters o' th' 'eart, Guv. Now me, 'avin' 'elped you into th' matrimonial ring, as you might say, 'ave took your 'appiness under my wing, an', Guv, I don't like the way you're shapin'—"
"But you see—"
"'Old 'ard, Guv, let a pore old cove get a word in for a change. Now there's you an' 'er, your fair young spouse, both up to each other's weight, sound in wind an' limb an' meant for j'y—what I want is t' see you come to a clinch! This ain't no time for sparrin' an' out-fightin'—yet 'ere you are a-feintin' at each other from opposite corners—"
"But—"
"'Arf a mo', Guv, 'arf a mo'—gimme a chance for a occasional word! An' don't frown, Guv, don't frown at a pore old cove; y' see, there's jest three blokes in this 'ard world as my old 'eart warms to, an' one on 'em 's Joe, an' t' other un 's you, an' t' other un 's 'er—which ain't a bloke. Lord, Guv, what a soft armful o' beauty! 'Ow warm an' cuddlesome! Oh, Guv, what a waist! What lips! What—"
"Old Un, for heaven's sake, shut up! D' you think I'm blind? D' you think—"
"Guv, I dunno wot t' think! 'Ere 's you with your 'ead in your 'ands, an' there's 'er sighin' an' sighin'—"
"Sighing? Where? When? Why—"
"Sighin' an' sighin', Guv, so soft an' pretty—I 'eard 'er! Also she wep'—I seen 'er."
"Where?"
"An' 'er tears, Guv, them pearly tears went t' my 'eart—an' nobody t' put a arm round that waist, nor kiss them sweet lips, nor soothe them tears away—
"So, Guv, I ax you, man to man, why, oh, why are ye neglectin' your fair young spouse? An', Guv, I only ax because your 'appiness an' 'ers is mine—s' 'elp me!"
"How if it's the other way about, Old Un? Suppose she avoids me?"
"Why lumme, Guv! 'T is a sure sign she needs persoot. Remember this:
"An', Guv, I've only took th' liberty o' sayin' this because my pore old bowels yearns to ye—both on ye. Persoot's the word, Guv, per-soot!"
The Old Un nodded, rose, and creaked away, and Ravenslee, looking after him, scowled no longer, but rising, sauntered across the trim garden to where there was a lily pool and, leaning over the marble rim, stared down into the placid water.
Now as the Old Un went his way, there met him a little girl, very neat and tidy, who sang to herself in a small happy voice and tapped along on a crutch; but beholding the Old Un, his dazzling shoes, his rakish hat, she stood silent all at once, glancing up wistfully into that fierce, battered old face.
"Lumme—crutches!" he exclaimed.
"No, please—only one, sir!" she answered, dropping him a little, old-fashioned curtsey.
"Crikey!" said he, staring, "so young, so tender, an'—a game leg! A little angel wi' a broke wing—lumme!"
So Age and Youth stared at each other and she, being a child, was quick to heed that the eyes so bright beneath their hoary brows were kindly eyes, and the smile upon the grim old mouth was very reassuring, wherefore she smiled also.
"Only one crutch, sir," she repeated. "An' the doctor says as I won't want it much longer, sir." Here, dropping another curtsey, she held up for his acceptance a bunch of wild flowers.
"What—f' me, little maid?" he enquired.
"Yes, please, sir."
"Why bless—bless your lovin' little 'eart!" quavered the old man, and stooped to touch her rosy cheek with a hand gnarled and scarred with much hard punching, yet a very gentle hand indeed. "God bless that little game leg, but pretty flowers 'ud be wasted on a old bloke like me. You take 'em to th' Guv, see—over there—that tall chap leanin' over th' pool. But first gimme a—a kiss instead, will ye, little lass?"
"I'd like to, sir."
And when the Old Un had kissed and been kissed right heartily, he pointed to Ravenslee's distant, lounging figure, winked, nodded, and squeaked away.
Thus it was that Ravenslee, absorbed in thought, was presently roused by the quick light tapping of the little crutch and glanced up.
"Oh!" she cried softly; the flowers fell and lay neglected as, clasping her hands, she stared up at him in radiant-eyed wonder.
"Welcome, Highness!" said he and bowed.
"Oh, it's the Prince—my dear Prince! Oh, Goody!" and she hastened toward him, then stopped all at once, puzzled and abashed because of his elegant attire. Perceiving which he reached out and drew her down by him on the marble seat beside the pool.
"Why this sudden change of demeanour, Princess?" he enquired. "What's the matter?"
"You're—you're so different, sir—so different an' grand in all them cute clo'es, sir."
"Am I, dear? But I'm just the same inside, you know. And, for heaven's sake, Princess, do not call me 'sir.'"
"But the big gentleman that belongs here an' has all these lovely flowers an' everything—he says as I must always say 'sir.'"
"Big gentleman?"
"Yes, the big, soft gentleman with the cute little curls on his cheeks."
"Oh—him!" said Ravenslee, laughing suddenly. "Indeed a very just description, Princess. But you don't have to worry about him any more; he's gone."
"Gone? For good?"
"For very good indeed!"
"Doesn't all this beautiful, beautiful place belong t' him any more?"
"Never any more."
"Have you come here 'stead of him? Come t' stay?"
"Yes."
"An' can I pick a rose t' kiss sometimes?"
"As many as you like."
"Oh!" sighed the child rapturously, nestling within his arm, "isn't that just—fine! I guess this sure is the Beautiful City of Perhaps, after all!"
"I wonder?"
"Oh, but I'm sure it is—now th' gentleman's gone I just know it is!"
"What makes you so sure?"
"Everything! 'Cause you see, Prince, my daddy don't have t' be away all day any more. An' mumsey don't have t' sew late, nights, any more. An' when we came into the cute little house where we live—there was the doll that says 'mamma' jest waitin' f' me. An' there was a big box o' candies, an' a doll carriage with real rubber on th' wheels—jest like we used to talk about. So you see this must be Perhaps at last, an' I'm so—so happy—only—" Hazel sighed.
"Only what?"
"I do wish Hermy could find her way here too; she used t' be so tired sometimes."
"You mean that you would like to find Princess Nobody, I guess."
"Oh, but I can't! I used to look an' look for her every day 'til th' gentleman said she wasn't here, an' told me never t' come near th' big house any more."
"But he's gone, and you never had me to help you."
"Oh, will you—will you help me right now?" she pleaded.
"Surest thing you know!" he nodded, "your hand, Princess."
So hand in hand he led her, suiting his long legs to hers, along shady walks, up terrace steps, across smooth lawns, and so to the great house. Hazel paused to question him further concerning "the gentleman", but Ravenslee laughed and, seating her upon his shoulder, bore her into the house.
In her housekeeper's room, surrounded by many dusty bill files and stacks of account books, they presently found Mrs. Trapes, whose hawk's-eye viewed bills and tradesmen's books while she frowned and muttered such comments as "Rogues!" "Thieves!" "Scand'lous!" "Wicked!" Until glancing up, her sharp features softened, and she smiled up into the child's happy face.
"So Hazel's found ye, has she, Mr. Geoffrey. An' talkin' o' her, you've sure made the Bowkers a happy fam'ly. But, my land, Mr. Ravenslee, the scand'lous prices as th' tradespeople has been allowed t' charge you these last six months! Here's th' butcher—listen t' this—"
"Heaven forbid, Mrs. Trapes! Rather let that butcher listen to you, miserable wretch!"
"An' there's the milkman—that milkman's cows ought t' blush at th' sound o' your name! Here's his accounts for the last six months, an' I've found—"
"Have you, Mrs. Trapes? We're trying to find Hermione—where is she?"
"Oh, she's in her room—laying down, I guess."
"Not," enquired Ravenslee, "not—er—in bed, is she?"
"Mr. Geoffrey, I don't know; I'm busy. Go an' see for yourself—she's your wife, ain't she?"
"Why, since you ask, I—er—hardly know," he answered a little ruefully, "anyway, found she shall be."
With the child perched upon his shoulder he strode up-stairs and along wide corridors whose deep carpets gave forth no sound, and so reached a certain door. Here he hesitated a moment, then knocked with imperious hand.
"Come in!" called that voice whose soft inflection had always thrilled him, but never as it did now as, turning the handle, he entered his wife's chamber.
Hermione was standing before a long mirror, and she neither turned nor looked from the radiant vision it reflected; her eyes, her attention, all the feminine soul of her being just then fixed and centered upon the tea gown she was trying on; such a garment as she had gloated over in the store windows, yearned for, but never thought to possess.
"Ann," she sighed, "oh, Ann, isn't it exquisite! Isn't it a perfect dream! Of course it needs a wee bit of alteration here and there, but I can do that. Isn't it good of him to have bought it without saying a word! And there are heaps of dresses and robes and—and everything! A complete trousseau, Ann, dear—think of it! I wonder how he knew my size—"
"Oh, I just guessed it, my dear," answered Ravenslee in the voice of a much experienced husband.
Hermione gasped, and turning, stared at him wide-eyed, seeing only him, conscious only of him. Lifting Hazel to the floor, he seated himself upon her bed and, crossing his legs, eyed her flushed loveliness with a matter-of-fact air. "Really," he continued, "I don't see that it needs any alteration; perhaps the sleeves might be a trifle shorter—show a little more arm. But those flounces and things are perfect! I hope all the other things fit as well?"
Hermione flushed deeper still and caught her breath.
"Oh, Hermy," said a soft, pleading little voice, "won't you see me, please?"
Hermione started, her long lashes drooped suddenly, and then—then, forgetful of costly lace, of dainty ruffles and ribbons, she was on her knees and had the child close in her arms. And beholding the clasp of those round, white arms, the lovely, down-bent head, and all the tender, craving, inborn motherhood of her, Ravenslee held his breath, and into his eyes came a light of reverent adoration.
Presently he rose and left them together, but as he went, the light was in his eyes still.
"And so," said Hermione, as she waved good-by to Hazel, who stood in the cottage doorway with Mrs. Bowker—a Mrs. Bowker no longer faded, "you didn't forget even the doll that says 'Mamma'?"
"It was such a little thing!" he answered.
"What a—man you are!" she said softly.
"Just that, Hermione," he answered, "and—frightfully human!" She was silent. "Do you know what I mean?" he demanded, glancing at her averted face.
"Yes!" she answered, without looking around. So they walked for awhile in silence. Suddenly he seized her hand and drew it through his arm.
"Hermione," he said gently, "I want my wife."
She still kept her head averted, but he could feel how she was trembling.
"And you think—" she began softly.
"That I have been patient long enough. I have waited and hoped because—"
"Because you are so generous, so kind—such a man!" she said softly and with head still averted.
"And yet since I have been well again, you have kept me at arm's length. Dear, you—love me still, don't you?"
"Love you?" she repeated, "love you?" For a moment she turned and looked up at him then drew her arm from his and walked on with head averted once more. So they entered the rose garden and coming to the lily pool leaned there side by side.
"Hermione," said he, staring down into the water, "if you really love me, why do you hate to kiss me? Why do you hardly suffer me to touch you? And you've never even called me by my name, that I remember!"
"Geoffrey!" she breathed; "and I—love you to touch me! And I don't hate to kiss you, Geoffrey dear."
"Then why do you keep me at arm's length?"
"Do I?" she questioned softly, gazing down at the lily pads.
"You know you do. Why?"
"Well—because."
"Because what?"
"Oh, well, just—because."
"Hermione—tell me."
"Well, everything is so strange—so unreal! This great house, the servants, all the beautiful clothes you bought me! To have so very much of everything after having to do with so very little—it's all so wonderful and—dreadful!"
"Dreadful?"
"You are so—dreadfully rich!"
"Is that the reason you keep me at such a distance? Is that why you avoid me?"
"Avoid you?"
"Yes, dear. You've done it very sweetly and delicately, but you have avoided me lately. Why?"
Hermione didn't answer.
"And you haven't touched any of the monthly allowance I make you," he went on, frowning a little, "not one cent. Why, Hermione?"
Hermione was silent.
"Tell me!"
Still she was silent, only she bent lower above the pool and drew further from him, whereat his pale cheek flushed, and his frown grew blacker.
And presently, as he scowled down into the water, she stole a look at him, and when she spoke, though the words were light, the quiver in her voice belied them.
"Invalid, dear, if you want to be angry with me, wait—till you're a little stronger."
Ravenslee stooped and picked up a handful of small pebbles that chanced to lie loose.
"Wife, dear," said he, "I'm as well and strong as ever I was. But I've asked you several questions which I mean you to answer, so I am going to give you until I have pitched all these pebbles into the water, and then—" Hermione glanced up swiftly.
"Then?" she questioned.
"Why then, if you haven't answered, I shall—take matters into my own hands. One!" and a pebble splashed into the pool.
"What do you want to know?"
"Two! Why haven't you condescended to take your allowance?"
"Dear, I—I didn't need it, and even if I had, I—oh, I couldn't take it—yet!"
"Three! Why not?"
"Because you have given me so much already, and I—have given you—nothing."
"Four! Why—haven't you?"
"Oh—well—because!"
"Five! What does 'because' mean, this time?"
"It means—just—because!"
"Six! Seven! Eight! Why have you avoided me lately?"
Hermione was silent, watching him with troubled eyes while he slowly pitched the pebbles into the pool, counting as they fell.
"Nine! Ten! Eleven! Twelve! Why do you keep me at arm's length?"
"I don't—I—I—you won't let me—" she said a little breathlessly, while one by one he let the pebbles fall into the pool, counting inexorably as they fell.
"Thirteen! Fourteen, fifteen—and that's the last!" As he spoke he turned toward her, and she, reading something of his purpose in his eyes, turned to flee, felt his long arms about her, felt herself swung up and up and so lay crushed and submissive in his fierce embrace as he turned and began to bear her across the garden. Then, being helpless, she began to plead with him.
"Ah, don't, don't—dear! Geoffrey! Put me down! Where are you taking me? If any one sees us—"
"Let them!" he muttered grimly; "you're my wife!"
So he bore her across the garden into the arbour and laying her upon the divan, sank beside it on his knees, panting a little.
"A little weak—still!" said he, "but not so bad—you're no scraggy sylph, thank heaven! Hermione—look at me!" But she turned and hid her face against him, for his clasp was close about her still. So he stooped and kissed her hair, her glowing cheek, her soft white neck, and, in that instant—wonder of wonders—her arms were around him, strong, passionate arms that clung and drew him close—then strove wildly to hold him away.
"Loose me!" she cried, "let me go! Geoffrey—husband, be generous and let me go!" But he lifted her head, back and back across his arm until beneath her long lashes her eyes looked into his.
"Hermione, when will you—be my wife?"
Against him he could feel the sweet hurry of her breathing, and stooping he spoke again, lip to lip:
"Hermione, when will you be my wife?"
But, even while he kissed her, between those quivering, parted lips came a murmur of passionate prayer and pleading.
"Oh, my love, wait—wait! Let me tell you—ah, loose me and let me tell you."
Slowly his hold relaxed, and, twisting in his arms, she slipped upon her knees beside him, and, crouching close, hid her face against him.
"Beloved," she whispered quickly, breathlessly, "oh, dear man that I love so—there is something between us, a shadow of shame and horror that is with me day and night and always must be. While you lay sick it was there, torturing me with every moan and sigh you uttered. It is with me wherever I go—it is between us now—yes, now—even while I strain you in my arms like this. I have watched you grow strong and well again, I've seen the love in your eyes, and I've yearned to be to you—all you would have me, but because of this shadow I—dare not. Ah, God, how can I be wife to you when—let this answer for me." And she placed in Ravenslee's hand a coat button whereto a piece of cloth adhered. "Dear love, I saw you throw it away," she explained, "and I searched and searched until I found it."
"Why?"
"Because I knew you would soon ask me—this question, and I have kept it for my answer. Ah, God! how can I be wife to you when my brother would have killed you—murdered you!"
Ravenslee hurled the button far away, then lifting Hermione's bowed head, spoke very tenderly.
"How does all this affect our love, Hermione, except to show me you are even sweeter and nobler than I had thought. And as for the shadow, it is—only a shadow after all."
"But it is my shame!" she answered. "You might have had for wife the sister of a thief, but not—oh, God! not the sister of a would-be murderer. If—if I came to you now, I should come in shame—Ah, Geoffrey, don't—shame me!"
"God forbid!" he muttered.
Close, close she clasped him, hiding her face against him, kissing and kissing the rough cloth of his coat.
"Oh, Geoffrey," she murmured, "how we do love each other!"
"So much, Hermione, that I will never—claim you until you are ready to come to me of your own will. But, dear, I am only a man—how long must I wait?"
"Give me time," she pleaded, "with time the horror may grow less. Let me go away for awhile—a little while. Let me find Arthur—"
"No," he answered, frowning, "you shan't do that; there will be no need—to-morrow I go to fetch him."
"To bring him—here?"
"Why, of course. You see, I intend him to go to college."
Hermione rose and coming to the entrance of the arbour leaned there.
"Why, Hermione—dear love—you're crying! What is it?"
"Nothing," she answered, bowing her face upon her arm, "only—I think—if you ask me again—I can't—keep you—waiting—very long!"