His arms fell from her and, shivering, she sank beside the table, and the pale agony of her face smote him.
“But you love me, Hermione?” he pleaded.
“If I had only known,” she sighed, “I might not have learned to love you—quite so much! If I had only known!” Her voice was soft and low, her blue eyes wide and tearless, and because of this, he trembled.
“Hermione,” said he gently, “all this week I have been planning for you and Arthur. I have been dreaming of our life together, yours and mine, a life so big, so wonderful, so full of happiness that I trembled, sometimes, dreading it was only a dream. Dear, the gates of our paradise are open; will you shut me out? Must I go back to my loneliness?”
“I shall be lonely, too!” she murmured brokenly. “But better, oh, far better loneliness than that some day—” she paused, her lips quivering.
“Some day, Hermione?”
“You should find that you had married not only a scrubwoman but—the sister of a—thief!” Suddenly she sprang to her feet, her clinging arms held him to her bosom and, drawing down his head, she pressed her mouth to his; holding him thus, she spoke, her voice low and quick and passionate:
“Oh, my love, my love! I do love you with every thought, with every part of me—so much, so very much that my heart is breaking, I think. But, dearest, my love is such that I would be everything fair and beautiful for you, everything proud and good and noble for you if I could. But I am only Hermy Chesterton, a Tenth Avenue girl, and—my brother—So I’m going to send you away, back to your own world, back to your own kind because—because I do love you so! Ah, God, never doubt my love, but—you must go—”
“Never, Hermione, never!”
“You must! You will, I know, because your love is a big, generous love—because you are chivalrous and strong and gentle—because I beg and implore you if you have any pity for me—go—”
“But why?—Why?”
“Oh, must I tell you that—can’t you understand?”
“Why must I go, Hermione?”
“Because,” she murmured, her yearning arms close about him, her face close hidden against his breast, “because I’ll never—marry you—now—but I love you—love you so much that I’m afraid—ah, not of you. So, I must be alone—quite alone—to fight my battle. And now—now that I’ve shown you all my heart, told you all my weakness, you’ll go for my sake—just for my sake—won’t you?”
“Yes—I’ll—go!” he answered slowly.
“Away from here—to-night?”
“Yes,” he answered hoarsely, “yes!”
Then Hermione fell suddenly before him on her knees, and, before he could stay her, had caught his hands, kissing them, wetting them with her tears, and pressing them passionately to her bosom.
“I knew,” she cried, “I knew that you were strong and gentle and—good. Good-by—oh, my love—good-by!”
“Hermione,” said he, kissing her bowed head, “oh, my Hermione, I love you with a love that will die only when I do. I want you, and I’ll never lose hope of winning you—some day, never give up my determination to marry you—never, so help me God!”
Then swiftly he turned away but, reaching the door, stooped and picked up M’Ginnis’s neckerchief and, recognising it, crumpled it in fierce hand; so, with it clenched in griping fingers, he hurried away and left her there upon her knees.
CHAPTER XXX
HOW GEOFFREY RAVENSLEE DEPARTED FROM HELL’S KITCHEN
“What, back again already, Mr. Geoffrey?” exclaimed Mrs. Trapes, poking her head around the kitchen door, as Ravenslee entered the flat, “back so soon?”
“Only for a minute, Mrs. Trapes.”
“Supper’ll be ready soon—your wedding supper, eh, Mr. Geoffrey? You’ll have it here with me, you an’ Hermy, o’ course! Smells kind o’ good, don’t it?”
“Delicious, Mrs. Trapes!”
“Delicious is the word, Mr. Geoffrey—stooed beef with carrots—”
“And onions, Mrs. Trapes—onions, I’m sure?”
“Well, I’ll not deny a onion here an’ there, Mr. Geoffrey—a stoo needs ‘em.”
“Ah, I knew it!” sighed Ravenslee. “I grieve that I shan’t be able to eat it.”
“Not eat—what, you? Say, y’ ain’t sick, are you?”
“Not in body, Mrs. Trapes.”
“Then why no stoo?”
“Because I shan’t be here. I’m going, Mrs. Trapes—I’m leaving Mulligan’s now—for good—”
“Leavin’—y’ mean with Hermy?”
“No—alone. Good-by, Mrs. Trapes!”
“My land!” gasped Mrs. Trapes, “what you tellin’ me?”
“Good-by, Mrs. Trapes!”
“But why? Oh, dear Lord, what is it? Who—”
“I want to thank you—for all your kindness. Good-by!”
As one in a dream Mrs. Trapes extended a limp hand and stood wide of eye and pale of cheek to watch him go; and as he descended the stairs, her look of helpless, pained surprise went with him. Swiftly he strode across that familiar court, shoulders squared, chin outthrust, and eyes that glowed ominously in his pale face beneath fierce-scowling brows. As he turned into Tenth Avenue there met him the Spider.
“What you chasin’ this time, bo?” he enquired.
“M’Ginnis.”
“Then you’re sure chasin’ trouble.”
“That’s what I want. D’ you know where he is?”
“Sure I do, but—”
The Spider paused, drawing in his breath slowly, as with experienced gaze he viewed Ravenslee’s pale, set face—the delicate nostrils wide and quivering, the relentless mouth and burning eyes and all the repressed ferocity of him and, drawing back a step, the Spider shook his head.
“Bo,” said he, “that’s jest what I ain’t goin’ t’ tell ye.”
“Very well, I must find him.”
“Don’t!” said the Spider, walking on beside him, “if I didn’t think a whole lot o’ ye, I’d lead ye t’ him.”
“Oh—I shall find him, if it takes me all night.”
“An’ if ye do, it’ll be murder, I’m dead sure—”
“Murder?” said Ravenslee with a flash of white teeth. “Well, I shall certainly kill him—this time!”
“Is it th’ Kid again?”
“No—oh, no, it’s just for my own satisfaction—and pleasure.”
“You ain’t heeled, are ye? This ain’t goin’ t’ be no gun-play—eh?”
“No, I haven’t a gun, but I’ve brought his—neckerchief.”
“Sufferin’ Pete!” murmured the Spider in a strangely awed voice, and walked on in silence, chewing viciously.
“Bo,” said he at last, “I’m thinkin’ th’ kindest thing I could do would be t’ slip one over t’ your point while you wasn’t lookin’, an’ puttin’ you t’ sleep a bit—you want soothin’! Bud’ll be too big fer you or any other guy t’ tackle now; ye see, his stock’s rose—th’ Noo Jersey p’lice wasn’t strong enough t’ hold him—”
“That’s where I’m different—I can!” said Ravenslee, opening and shutting his right hand convulsively. “Yes, I’ll hold him till his last kick—and after!”
“My God!” exclaimed the Spider softly, and, beholding that clutching right hand, he edged away.
“Where you goin’ t’ look fer him?” he enquired after a while.
“O’Rourke’s!”
“Why not try Raynor’s first?” and he nodded to a saloon on the adjacent corner.
“Because I’m not a fool.”
“Bo, I ain’t s’ sure o’ that! O’Rourke’s’ll be full o’ tough guys t’night; all th’ bunch’ll be there, an’ if Bud tips ‘em th’ say-so, they’ll snuff your light out quicker ‘n winkin’.”
“That wouldn’t be such a hardship.”
“Oh, so that’s it, hey? You got a kiss-me-an’-let-me-die sort o’ feelin’, hey? Some nice bit o’ stuff been turnin’ ye down, bo?”
“That’ll be about e
nough!” said Ravenslee, quick and fierce; and, meeting the flash of his eye, the Spider edged away again.
“Sufferin’ Mike!” said he, “you sure ain’t doin’ the affable chat stunt t’night!”
But Ravenslee strode along in silence, and the Spider, heeding the pale, set ferocity of his expression, grew troubled.
“Say,” said he at last, “this don’t happen t’ be th’ night as you’ve fixed up t’ smash th’ gang, does it?”
“No—only M’Ginnis.”
“S’posin’ he ain’t at O’Rourke’s?”
“He’ll be somewhere else.”
“Bo, if I was your ma, I should be prayin’ you don’t find Bud, yes, sir! An’ I should pray—dam’ hard!”
By this time they had reached Eleventh Avenue and were close upon the saloon when Ravenslee halted suddenly, for, beneath a lamp on the opposite sidewalk, he saw M’Ginnis in talk with two other men.
Drawing the neckerchief from his pocket, Ravenslee crossed over and tapped M’Ginnis on the arm, who, turning about, stared into a pallid face within a foot of his own.
“What th’ hell—” he began, but Ravenslee cut him short.
“You left this behind you,” said he, thrusting forward the neckerchief, “so I’ve brought it to twist around that foul throat of yours. Now, M’Ginnis—fight!”
Thrusting the neckerchief into his pocket, Ravenslee clenched his fists, and, saying no more, they closed and fought—not as men, but rather as brute beasts eager to maim and rend.
M’Ginnis’s companions, dumbfounded by the sudden ferocity of it all, stood awhile inactive, staring at those two forms that lurched and swayed, that strove and panted, grimly speechless. Then, closing in, they waited an opportunity to smite down M’Ginnis’s foe from behind. But the Spider was watching, and, before either of them could kick or strike, his fists thudded home—twice—hard blows aimed with scientific precision; after which, having dragged the fallen away from those fierce-trampling feet, he stood, quivering and tense, to watch that desperate encounter.
Once Ravenslee staggered back from a vicious flush-hit, and once M’Ginnis spun around to fall upon hands and knees; then they clenched, and coming to the ground together, fought there, rolling to and fro and hideously twisted together. But slowly Ravenslee’s clean living began to tell, and M’Ginnis, wriggling beneath a merciless grip, uttered inarticulate cries and groaned aloud. And now the deadly neckerchief was about his gasping throat and in his ears his conqueror’s fierce laugh—lost all at once in a roar of voices, a rush of trampling feet.
Wrenched at by fierce hands, smitten by unseen fists, Ravenslee was beaten down—was dimly aware of the Spider’s long legs bestriding him, and staggering up through a tempest of blows, hurled himself among his crowding assailants, felled one with his right, stopped another with his left, and, as the press broke to the mad fury of his onslaught, felt his hand wrenched from a man’s windpipe and heard a frantic voice that panted:
“Leg it, bo, leg it. Hully Chee! ain’t ye had enough?” So, mechanically, he set off at a run, with his arm still gripped by the Spider. “Leg it, bo—leg it good, or here’s where we snuff it sure! This way—round th’ corner; only keep goin’, bo, keep goin’.”
Very fleetly they ran with their pursuers close on their heels, across open lots, over fences, along tortuous alleys, until the rush and patter of the many feet died away, and the Spider, pulling up at the corner of a dismal, narrow street hard by the river, stood awhile to listen.
“Jiminy Christmas! but you’re some hot stuff at the swattin’ business—you’re a glutton, you are, bo. I been in one or two scraps meself, but I never seen a guy so hungry for—”
“Where are we?”
“Thirteenth an’ Twentieth.”
“Are we safe?”
“F’ th’ time, I reckon. But all Hell’s Kitchen’ll be out after us t’night, sure. So I guess it’s us for th’ immediate hike—”
“Us? Will they be after you, too?”
“Well,” said the Spider, smiling down grimly at his damaged, knuckles, “I guess yes! Hell’s Kitchen an’ Tenth Av’ner’s got t’ get along without me from now on, I reckon. They ain’t losin’ much, an’ I ain’t leavin’ much, but—”
“Why the devil had you got to follow me to-night?” demanded Ravenslee, scowling.
“Bo,” said the Spider as they went on again, “there’s times when my likin’ f’r you gets a pain; there’s times when y’r talk gives me th’ earache, an’ y’r lovin’ looks the willies. I ain’t lookin’ f’r no gratitood, nor yet a gold dinner-set an’ loominated address, but, not ownin’ a hide like a sole-leather Saratoga, I’ll jest get on me way—S’ long!”
“Where are you going?”
“I dunno, but—I’m goin’ there, right now.”
But as the Spider turned away, his hand was caught and gripped, and Ravenslee was smiling; his features looked a bit battered, but his smile was pleasant as ever.
“Forgive my cursed temper, Spider. I owe you my life again and—I ought to be grateful, I suppose. Forgive me, I’m—not quite myself to-night.”
“Sure thing!” said the Spider, returning his grasp, “but, bo, I’m kind o’ wonderin’ in me little mind what Bud’s feelin’ like! You sure swatted him good an’ heavy. I never seen cleaner footwork, an’ them left jabs o’ yours—”
“The question is, how do you feel, Spider, and what are you going to do?”
The pugilist scratched his rough chin. “Well, that’s what gets my goat; I dunno quite, bo. Y’ see, I shan’t be able t’ get no more fights here in the East now, not wi’ Bud ‘n’ his old man against me—y’ see, Bud’s old man’s about the biggest—”
“I wonder if you’d care to come with me?”
“Whaffor?”
“Well, for one thing, I need another chauffeur and—”
“A—what?” The Spider halted under a lamp-post to stare at Ravenslee a little anxiously. “Say, now, take a holt of ye’self an’ jest put that one over th’ plate again—you need a—what?”
“Another chauffeur.”
“Another shuvver—another? Bo, y’ didn’t happen t’ get a soak on th’ bean just now, did ye?”
“No.”
“Well, then, I guess you’re some shook up; what you want’s food, right now!”
“Why, yes, now you mention it, I’m devilish hungry,” agreed Ravenslee.
“Leave it t’ me, bo—I know a chewin’-joint close by—soup, joint, sweets, an’ coffee an’ only a quarter a throw—some feed, bo! Shin right along, I’ll—”
“No, you shall come home and dine with me.”
“Home?” repeated the Spider, halting to stare again; “you’re sure talkin’ ramblin’—”
“We can discuss the chauffeur’s job then—”
“Shuvver?” said the Spider uneasily. “But what’s a guy like you want with a shuvver?”
“Well, to drive my car—and—”
“Car?” said the Spider, his uneasiness growing, “got a car now, have ye, bo?”
“I rather think I’ve got six.”
“Sufferin’ Sam!” The Spider scratched his chin while his keen eyes roved over Ravenslee’s exterior apprehensively. “Say, bo, you quite sure none o’ th’ bunch booted you on th’ dome—eh?”
“Quite sure.”
“An’ yet you got six auter-mobiles. I say—you think so.”
“Now I think again, they’re seven with the newest racer.”
“Say, now, jest holt still a minute! Now, swaller twice, think dam’ hard, an’ tell me again! You got how many?”
“Seven!”
“Got anythin’ else?”
“Oh, yes, a few things.”
“Tell us jest one.”
“Well, a yacht.”
“Oh, a yacht?”
“A yacht.”
“‘S ‘nuff, bo, ‘s ‘nuff! But go on—go on, get it all off if you’ll feel better after. Anythin’ more?”
�
�Why, yes, about twenty or thirty houses and castles and palaces and things—”
“That settles it sure!” sighed the Spider. “You’re comin’ t’ see a doctor, that’s what! Your dome’s sure got bent in with a boot or somethin’.”
“No, Spider, I just happen to be born the son of a millionaire, that’s all.”
“Think o’ that, now!” nodded the Spider, “a millionaire now—how nice! An’ what do they call ye at home?”
“Geoffrey Ravenslee.”
“How much?” exclaimed the Spider, falling back a step. “The guy as went ten rounds with Dick Dunoon at th’ ‘National?’ The guy as won th’ Auter-mobile Race? Th’ guy as bought up Mulligan’s—you?”
“Why, yes. By the way, I sat in the front row and watched you lick Larry McKinnon at ‘Frisco; I was afraid you were going to recognise me, once or twice.”
“Then, you—you have got a yacht, th’ big one as lays off Twenty-third Street?”
“Also seven cars; that’s why I want you for a chauffeur.”
“Ho-ly Gee!” murmured the dazed Spider. “Well, say, you sure have got me goin’! A millionaire! A peanut cart! A yacht! Well, say, I—I guess it’s time I got on me way. S’ long!”
“No you don’t, my Spider; you’re coming home with me.”
“What—me? Not much I ain’t—no, sir! I ain’t no giddy gink t’ go dinin’ with millionaires in open-faced clo’es—not me!”
“But you’re coming to have dinner with that same peanut man who learned to respect you because you were a real, white man, Spider Connolly. And that’s another reason why I want you for my chauffeur.”
“But—say, I—I can’t shuv.”
“Joe shall teach you.”
“Joe? Y’ mean—Joe Madden?”
“He’ll be chauffeur number one—and there’s a cross-town car! Come on, Spider! Now—in with you!”
CHAPTER XXXI
IN WHICH SOAPY TAKES A HAND
O’Rourke’s was full: its long bar, shaped something like the letter J, supported many lounging arms and elbows; its burnished foot-rail was scraped by boots of many shapes and sizes; its heavy air, thick with cigarette smoke, hummed with many voices. In one corner, a remote corner where few ventured to penetrate, Soapy leaned, as pallid and noncommittal as ever, while Spike poured out to him the story of his woes.
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