As he rose, she glanced up, and seeing him, stood utterly still. Thus for a long moment they gazed upon each other, then, even as he hastened to her, she came to him on swift, light feet, and, flushing, tremulous, quick-breathing, gave herself into his arms.
“Oh, Hermione, my beloved!” he murmured, his voice tense and eager, “didn’t I say enough, last time? Don’t you know I love you—worship you—hunger and yearn for you? I want you with every breath I draw. When will you be my wife—oh, when will you marry me, Hermione?”
For answer she reached up her arms, sudden, passionate arms that clung about him close and strong; so they stood thus, heart beating to heart, thrilling at each other’s nearness yet drawing ever closer until, lifting her head, she gave her lips to his.
“Oh, my dear, my dear,” she whispered, “is it right to love you so, I wonder? I never thought it could be—like this. It frightens me sometimes, because my love is so great and strong and I—so powerless. Is it right? I—Oh!” she broke off breathlessly, “how can I speak if—if you—”
“Kiss you so much?” he ended, “you can’t speak, so—don’t speak, my Hermione!” But now, all at once, he started and glanced up among the leaves above them.
“Dear,” she whispered, “what is it?”
“That tapping sound,” he answered, still gazing upward.
“It’s only the woodpecker.”
“Why, of course!” he laughed. “It’s strange, but I dreamed a scene like this—yes, the great tree yonder, and you in my arms—though it seemed so impossible then, and—”
But uttering a sudden, low cry of alarm, Hermione broke from his clasp and fled from him along the leafy path while he stared after her, lost in amazement; then he ran also and caught her upon the edge of the little wood.
“What frightened you, Hermione—who was it?”
“I—I thought I saw some one crouching behind a bush—watching us!”
“Not—M’Ginnis?” he demanded, fierce-eyed.
“No—no, I’m sure it wasn’t!”
“I’ll go and look,” said Ravenslee, clenching his fists. But now, as he turned away, two round arms were about him again, soft and compelling, and she was looking up at him, all shy-eyed, passionate tenderness; and before the revelation in that look, he forgot all else in the world.
“Hermione—when will you marry me?”
Now, softened by distance, there floated to them the mellow booming of a gong.
“That means I must go!” she sighed.
“Hermione—when will you marry me?”
“Good-by—good-by—I must run!”
But his long arms only clasped her the closer.
“Hermione, when will you be my wife?”
“Oh, please, please let me go; if I’m late—”
“When, Hermione?”
“When I—come home, if—you really—want me—Oh, now my hair’s all coming down, I know. Good-by!”
Reluctantly he loosed her and stood to watch until, reaching the verandah of the house, she paused to glance back to where he stood among the leaves ere she vanished between the screen doors. Then Ravenslee turned, and remembering her sudden fright, looked sharply about him, even pausing, now and then, to peer behind bush and thicket; but this time he did not think to glance upward, and thus failed to see the round eyes that watched him from amid the leaves of the great tree.
So he came again to the dusty highway and strode along, throbbing with life and the lust of life, revelling in the glory of earth and sky and quite unconscious of the small, furtive figure that flitted after him far behind.
And it was not until he sat in the ferryboat that he remembered he had forgotten to give her the ring, after all.
CHAPTER XXVII
MRS. TRAPES UPON THE MILLENNIUM
Mulligan’s was in a ferment. Bare-armed women talked in every doorway; they talked from open windows, they talked leaning over banisters, they congregated on landings and in passageways—but everywhere they talked; while men and youths newly returned from work, lunch-can and basket in hand, listened in wide-eyed astonishment, shook incredulous heads, puffed thoughtfully at pipes or cigarettes, and questioned in guttural wonderment.
But Ravenslee, lost in his own happy thoughts, sped up the stairs all unheeding, abstractedly returning such neighbourly salutes as he happened to notice; reaching his lofty habitation in due course he let himself in, and was in the act of filling his pipe when Mrs. Trapes appeared. In one hand she grasped a meat skewer and in the other an open testament, and it was to be noted that her bright eyes, usually so keen and steady, roved here and there, from pink rug to green and yellow tablecloth, thence to the parrot-owl, and at last to her lodger. Finally she spoke.
“Mr. Geoffrey, are ye saved?” she demanded in awe-struck tones.
“Why, really, Mrs. Trapes, I—”
“Because, Mr. Geoffrey, this day it behooveth us all t’ think of our souls an’ th’ hereafter, I reckon.”
“Souls?” said Ravenslee, staring in his turn.
“Fire,” she continued, shaking portentous head, “fire I’m prepared for; a earthquake I could endoor; battle, murder, and sudden death I could abide; poverty is me lot, Mr. Geoffrey, an’ hardship is me portion, an’ for all sich am I dooly prepared, sich things bein’ nacheral; but fer this—well, there!”
“What is the matter, Mrs. Trapes?”
“Matter, Mr. Geoffrey? Well, the millenyum’s at hand, that’s all—the lion is about t’ lay down with th’ lamb, tigers has lost their taste fer blood, an’ snakes an’ serpints has shed their vennymous fangs! Mr. Geoffrey—the day is at hand—beware!”
“What in the world—” began Ravenslee, but Mrs. Trapes stayed him with uplifted skewer, and drew from the mysterious recesses of her apron a folded circular which she proceeded to spread open and from which she read in a hollow voice as follows:
NOTICE AUGUST 1, 1910.
On and after the above date, all tenants soever residing within the tenement house known as Mulligan’s are warned that all rents will be reduced by fifty per cent.
BY ORDER.
“Now what,” said Mrs. Trapes, refolding the circular very reverently and shutting it into the testament, “jest what d’ye think o’ that?”
“Quite a—er—remarkable document, Mrs. Trapes!”
“Remarkable?” snorted Mrs. Trapes.
“Yes,” said Ravenslee, beginning to fill his pipe, “extraordinary, most extraordinary—er—very much so—”
“Extraordinary? Mr. Geoffrey, is that all you got t’ say about it?” And Mrs. Trapes sniffed loudly.
“Well, what more should I say?”
“Why, ain’t it th’ wonder o’ th’ whole round world? Ain’t it th’ merrycle of all time?”
“Certainly! Not a doubt of it!” he agreed. “By the way, what do you happen to have for supper? You see I’ve been—”
“Supper?”
“I’m quite hungry—I’m always hungry lately and—”
“Hungry!” ejaculated Mrs. Trapes, rolling her eyes, “here I tell him of wonders an’ omens beyond pore huming understanding an’—he’s hungry! Lord, ain’t that jest like a man! A man’s soul, if a man has a soul, lays in his stummick. Hungry! But you shall be fed—prompt, Mr. Geoffrey. How’ll b’iled salmon an’ peas soot?”
“Splendidly! And I think—”
“‘On and after,’” said Mrs. Trapes, slowly and dreamily, “‘on and after the above date, all tenants soever residin’—I’ve learned it by heart, Mr. Geoffrey. Then it goes on to say, ‘within the tennyment house known as Mulligan’s are warned’—hum! I wonder why ‘warned’?—’are warned that all rents will be re-dooced by fifty per cent!’ Fifty per cent!” she repeated in a dreamy rapture, “which is jest half, y’ see. An’, Mr. Geoffrey, that’s jest what’s got me plumb scared—it’s all so unnacheral. I’ve heard o’ rents bein’ rose—constant, but who ever heard of ‘em bein’ took down before? Well, well! My land! Well, well!”
> With which remark Mrs. Trapes went about her household duties, leaving Ravenslee to lounge and smoke and dream blissfully of Hermione.
“Y’ see,” said Mrs. Trapes, wandering in with a plate, “it’ll make things s’ much easier for all of us; we shall begin t’ feel almost rich—some of us. ‘Are warned that all rents will be re-dooced by fifty per cent.’ Well, well!” and she wandered out again.
But presently she was back once more, this time with the tablecloth, which she proceeded to spread, though still lost in dreamy abstraction.
“At first I couldn’t an’ I wouldn’t believe it, Mr. Geoffrey—no, sir!” she continued in the same rapt voice. “But every one’s got a notice same as mine, so I guess it must be true—don’t ye think?”
“Not a doubt of it!” answered Ravenslee.
“But th’ burnin’ question as I asks myself is—who? It’s signed ‘By Order’, y’ see, well—whose? One sure thing, it ain’t Mulligan.”
“But he owns the place, doesn’t he?”
“He did, Mr. Geoffrey, an’ that’s what worries me—continual. What I demands is—who now?”
“Echo, Mrs. Trapes, methinks doth answer ‘Who?’ By the way, it was—er—salmon and green peas I think you—”
“My land, that bit o’ salmon’ll bile itself t’ rags!” and incontinent she vanished.
However, in due time Ravenslee sat down to as tasty a supper as might be and did ample justice to it, while Mrs. Trapes once more read aloud for his edification from the wondrous circular, and was again propounding the vexed and burning question of “who” when she was interrupted by a knocking without, and going to the door, presently returned with little Mrs. Bowker, in whose tired eyes shone an unusual light, and whose faded voice held a strange note of gladness.
“Good evenin’, Mr. Geoffrey!” said she, bobbing him a curtsey as he rose to greet her, “my Hazel sends you her love an’ a kiss for them last candies—an’ thank ye for all th’ medicine—but oh, Mr. Geoffrey, an’ you, Ann Trapes, you’ll never guess what’s brought me. I’ve come t’ wish ye good-by, we’re—oh, Ann, we’re goin’ at last!”
“Goin’!” exclaimed Mrs. Trapes, clutching at her elbows, “y’ never mean as you’re leavin’ Mulligan’s now the rent’s been took down—re-dooced fifty per cent.—by order?”
“That’s just what I’m tellin’ ye—oh, Ann, ain’t it just—heavenly!”
“Heavenly!” repeated Mrs. Trapes, and sank into a chair.
“Yes, heavenly t’ see th’ trees an’ flowers again—t’ live among them, Ann.”
“Samanthy Bowker—what do you mean?”
“Why, Ann, my Tom’s had a gardener’s job offered him at a gentleman’s mansion in the country. Tom went after it t’day—an’ got it. Fifteen dollars a week an’ a cottage—free, Ann! Hazel’s just crazy with joy—an’ so’m I!”
Mrs. Trapes fanned herself feebly with her apron.
“All I can say is,” said she faintly, “if the world don’t come to an end soon—I shall. A gardener’s job! A cottage in th’ country! Why, that’s what you’ve been hungerin’ for, you an’ Bowker, ever since I’ve known ye. And to-day—it’s come! An’ to-day the rent’s re-dooced itself fifty per cent. by order—oh, dear land o’ my fathers! When d’ ye go?”
“T’morrow mornin’, Ann. Hazel’ll sure grow a strong, well girl in th’ country—doctor said so last week—you heard him, Mr. Geoffrey, didn’t you?”
“I did, Mrs. Bowker.”
“And my Tom’s that excited he couldn’t eat no supper—oh, an’ have ye seen in t’night’s paper, Ann, about Mulligan’s?”
“No—what now?” enquired Mrs. Trapes, as though on the verge of collapsing.
“Well, read that—right there!” and unfolding an evening paper, Mrs. Bowker pointed to a paragraph tucked away into a corner, and, drawing a deep breath, Mrs. Trapes read aloud as follows:
It is understood that Geoffrey Ravenslee, the well-known sportsman and millionaire, winner of last year’s International Automobile race and holder of the world’s long-distance speed record, has lately paid a record price in a real estate deal. A certain tenement building off Tenth Avenue has been purchased by him, the cost of which, it is rumoured, was fabulous.
“Fab’lous!” repeated Mrs. Trapes, and sniffed. “Well, I never had no use fer millionaires, anyway—they’re generally fools or rogues—this one’s a fool sure—any one is as would give much fer a place like Mulligan’s—an’ yet, come t’ think of it again—’are warned as all rents will be re-dooced fifty per cent. by order’—yes, come t’ think of it again, what I say is—God bless this millionaire, an’ whatever he is, Ann Angelina Trapes is sure goin’ t’ mention him before th’ Throne this night.”
CHAPTER XXVIII
WHICH SHOULD HAVE RELATED DETAILS OF A WEDDING
“It’s all very, very wonderful, Ann, dear! But then—everything is so wonderful—just lately!”
“Meanin’ what, Hermy?”
Hermione was darning one of Spike’s much-mended socks, while Mrs. Trapes sat drinking tea. “Meanin’ jest what is wonderful, my dear, and—since when?” she persisted.
“Oh—everything, Ann!”
“Yes, you said everything before. S’pose you tell me jest the one thing as you find so wonderful? An’—why an’ wherefore that blush?”
“Oh, Ann—Ann, dear!” Down went sock and needle and, falling on her knees, Hermione clasped her arms about Mrs. Trapes and hid her glowing face in her lap. “Ann, dear, I’m so happy!” she sighed—her speech a little muffled by reason of the voluminous folds of Mrs. Trapes’s snowy apron.
“Happy?” said Mrs. Trapes, setting down her teacup to fondle and stroke that shapely head, “sich happiness ain’t all because of the rent bein’ re-dooced, by order, I reckon—is it?”
“Dear Ann,” said Hermione, her face still hidden, “can’t you guess?”
“No, my dear,” answered Mrs. Trapes, her harsh tones wonderfully soft, “I don’t have to—I guessed days ago. D’ ye love him, Hermy?”
“Love him!” repeated Hermione, and said no more, nor did she lift her bowed head, but feeling the quick, strong pressure of those soft, embracing arms, the quiver of that girlish body, Mrs. Trapes smiled, and stooping, kissed Hermione’s shining hair.
“When did he speak, my dear?”
“Last Monday, Ann.”
“Did he say—much?”
“He asked me to—marry him.”
“Spoke of marriage, eh? Did he happen t’ mention th’ word—wife?”
“Oh, many times, Ann.”
“Good f’r him! An’ when’s it t’ be?”
“Oh, Ann, dear, I—I’m afraid it’s—to-night!”
“T’night? My land, he’s sure some hasty!”
“And so—so masterful, Ann!”
“Well, y’ sure need a master. But t’night—land sakes!”
“He wrote and told me he would fix things so he could marry me to-night, Ann!”
“Then he’s sure out fixin’ ‘em right now. Lord, Hermy, why d’ ye tremble, girl—y’ sure love him, don’t ye?”
“So much, Ann, so very much—and yet—”
“You ain’t scared of him, are ye?”
“No—and yet, I—I think I am—a little.”
“But you’ll marry him, all the same?”
“Yes.”
“An’ t’night?”
“Yes. But Ann, dear, when he comes in I want you to keep him with you as long as you can—will you?”
“Why, sure I’ll keep him, jest as long as—he’ll let me! Lord, t’ think as my little Hermy’ll be a married woman this night!”
“And—oh, Ann, I haven’t any—trousseau—”
“Shucks! You don’t need none. You’re best as you are. You won’t need no fluffs an’ frills, I reckon.”
“But, Ann dear,” said Hermione, lifting her head and shaking it ruefully, “I have—nothing! And my best dress—I made it in such a hurry, you re
member—it needs pressing and—”
“He ain’t marryin’ you fer your clo’es, Hermy—no, sir! It’s you he wants an’—oh, shucks! What do clo’es matter t’ you, anyway? You was meant to be one o’ them nymphs an’ goddesses as went about clad—well, airy. You’d ha’ done fine with them soft arms an’ shoulders an’—”
“But I’m not a goddess, Ann, I’m only poor Hermy Chesterton—with a hole in one stocking and the lace on her petticoat torn, and her other things—well, look here!” and up whirled gown and petticoat, “see what a state they’re in—look, Ann!”
“My dear, I am!” nodded Mrs. Trapes over her teacup, “an’ what I say is, it don’t matter a row o’ pins if a stockin’ ‘s got a bit of a hole in it if that stockin’ ‘s on sich a leg as that! An’ as fer—”
“But,” sighed Hermione, “don’t you understand—”
“My dear, I do! I was a married woman once, mind. An’ I tell you ‘beauty doth lie in the eye o’ the beholder’, my dear, an’ the two eyes as is a-goin’ t’ behold you this night is goin’ t’ behold so much beauty as they won’t behold nothin’ else.”
“But—he loves dainty things, I’m sure.”
“Well, ain’t he gettin’ a dainty thing? Ain’t he gettin’ th’ daintiest, sweetest, loveliest—” Here Mrs. Trapes set down her cup again to clasp Hermione in her arms.
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