Sunday-school scholar nor I ain’t never won no prizes at any Purity League conference, but there’s some guys too rotten even f’r me!”
“But I—I—saved his life, didn’t I?”
“That ain’t nothin’ t’ blow about after what you did in that wood. Oh, wake up an’ see just how dirty an’ rotten you are!”
Spike rose and stood, his hands tight-clenched, and though he tried to frown, he couldn’t hide the pitiful twitching of his lips nor the quaver in his voice.
“I guess you mean you’re goin’ t’ give me th’ throw-down?”
“Well,” answered the Spider, scowling at the sponge in his hand, “there’s jest two or three things as I ain’t got no use for, an’ one of ‘em’s—murder!”
Hereupon Spike shrank away, and the Old Un, reaching out stealthily, opened the door of the limousine while the Spider fell to work again, splashing more than ever. Thus as Spike crept away with head a-droop, the Old Un, all unnoticed, stole after him, his old eyes very bright and birdlike, and, as he followed, keeping in the shade of hedge and tree as much as possible, he whispered a word to himself over and over again:
“Lorgorramighty!”
But Spike went on with dragging feet, ignorant that any one followed, lost in a sudden sense of shame such as he had never known before—a shame that was an agony: for though his bodily eyes were blinded with bitter tears, the eyes of his mind were opened wide at last, and he saw himself foul and dirty, even as the Spider had said. So on stumbling feet Spike reached a shady, grassy corner remote from all chance of observation and, throwing himself down there, he lay with his face hidden, wetting the grass with the tears of his abasement.
When at last he raised his head, he beheld a little old man leaning patiently against a tree near by and watching him with a pair of baleful eyes.
“Hello!” said Spike wearily. “Who are you?”
“I’m Fate, I am!” nodded the Old Un. “Persooin’ Fate, that’s me.”
“What yer here for, anyway?” enquired the lad, humble in his abasement.
“I’m here to persoo!”
“Say, now, what’s your game; what yer want?”
“I want you, me lad.”
“Well, say—beat it, please—I want t’ be alone.”
“Not much, me lad. I’m Fate, I am, an’ when Fate comes up agin murder, Fate ain’t t’ be shook off.”
“Murder!” gasped Spike. “Oh, my God! I—I ain’t—”
The lad sprang to his feet and was running on the instant, but turning to glance back, tripped over some obstacle and fell. Swaying he rose and stumbled on, but slower now by reason of the pain in his wounded arm. Thus, when at last he came out upon the road, the Old Un was still close behind him.
CHAPTER XLVI
IN WHICH GEOFFREY RAVENSLEE OBTAINS HIS OBJECT
Mrs. Trapes glanced sadly around her cosy housekeeper’s room and sighed regretfully; she was alone, and upon the table ready to hand lay her neat bonnet, her umbrella, and a pair of white cotton gloves, beholding which articles her lips set more resolutely, her bony arms folded themselves more tightly, and she nodded in grim determination.
“The labourer is worthy of his hire!” she sighed, apparently addressing the bonnet, “but, if so be the labourer ain’t worthy, why then, the sooner he quits—”
A sound of quick, light feet upon the stair and a voice that laughed gaily, a laugh so full of happiness that even Mrs. Trapes’s iron features relaxed, and her grim mouth curved in her rare smile. At that moment the door opened and Hermione appeared, a radiant Hermione who clasped Mrs. Trapes in her arms and tangled her up in her long motor veil and laughed again.
“Oh, Ann, such a day!” she exclaimed, laying aside her long dust-coat. “New York is a paradise—when you’re rich! No more bargain days and clawing matches over the remnant counter, Ann! Oh, it’s wonderful to be able to buy anything I want—anything! Think of it, Ann, isn’t it just a dream of joy? And I’ve shopped and shopped, and he was so dear and patient! I bought Arthur a complete outfit—”
“Arthur!” said Mrs. Trapes, and groaned.
“And you, Ann, you dear thing, I bought you—guess what? But you never could! I bought you a gold watch, the very best I could find, and he bought you a chain for it, a long one to go around your dear neck, set with diamonds and rubies, I mean the chain is—it’s the cutest thing, Ann! You remember you used to dream of a gold chain set with real diamonds, some day? Well, ‘some day’s‘ to-day, Ann.”
“But—oh, Hermy, I—I—”
“He wants to give it you himself, because he says you’re the best friend he ever had and—oh, here he is! You did say so, didn’t you, Geoffrey?”
“And I surely mean it!” answered Ravenslee, tossing his driving gauntlets into a chair, “though you certainly threw cold water upon my peanut barrow, didn’t you, Mrs. Trapes?”
“Oh, Geoffrey, dear, do give her that precious package; I’m dying to see her open it!”
So Ravenslee drew the jeweller’s neat parcel from his pocket and put it into Mrs. Trapes’s toil-worn hand. For a moment her bony fingers clutched it, then she sighed tremulously and, placing it on the table, rose and stood staring down at it. When at last she spoke, her voice was harsher than usual.
“Hermy, dear—I mean Mrs. Ravenslee, ma’am, I—can’t—take ‘em!”
“But, dear—why not?”
