mean!” and he pointed to the broken flask upon the floor. “If you want t’ see it in his face more an’ more, if you want t’ smell it in his breath—say ‘No!’ If you want t’ see his hands begin t’ shake, if you want t’ hear his foot come stumbling up th’ stair—say ‘No!’ I guess you remember what it’s like—you’ve seen it all before. Well, if ye want Arthur t’ grow into what his drunken father was before him—say ‘No!’”
“Go away!” she moaned, “go away!”
“Oh, I’ll go, but first I’ll tell you this—”
“I think not, Mr. Flowers—no, I’m sure you won’t!”
Ravenslee’s voice was soft and pleasant as usual, but before the burning ferocity of his eyes, the merciless line of that grim, implacable mouth, before all the hush and deadly purpose of him, the loud hectoring of M’Ginnis seemed a thing of no account. Beholding his pale, set face Hermione, sighing deeply, shrank away; even M’Ginnis blenched as, very slowly, Ravenslee approached him, speaking softly the while.
“Get out, Mr. Flowers, get out! Don’t say another word—no, not one, if only because of ‘that dog-gone fool Heine!’ Now go, or so help me God, this time—I’ll kill you!”
Hermione leaned her trembling body against the table for support. And yet—could it be fear that had waked this new glory in her eyes, had brought this glowing colour to her cheek, had made her sweet breath pant and hurry so—fear?
M’Ginnis stood rigid, watching Ravenslee advance; suddenly he tried to speak yet uttered no word; he raised a fumbling hand to his bruised and swollen throat, striving again for speech but choked instead, and, uttering a sound, hoarse and inarticulate, he swung upon his heel and strode blindly away.
Then Ravenslee turned to find Hermione sunk down beside the table, her burning face hidden between her arms, her betraying eyes fast shut.
“You are tired,” he said gently, “that damned—er—I should say Mr. Flowers and—other unpleasant things have upset you, haven’t they?”
Hermione made a motion of assent, and Ravenslee continued, softer than before:
“I wanted you to make up your mind to come away to-night, but—I can’t ask you now, can I? It—it wouldn’t be—er—the thing, would it?”
Hermione didn’t answer or lift her head and, stooping above her, he saw how she was trembling; but her eyes were still fast shut.
“You—you’re not afraid—of me, are you, Hermione?”
“No.”
“And you’re not—crying, are you?”
“No.”
“Then I’d—better go, hadn’t I? To Mrs. Trapes and supper—stewed beef, I think, with—er—carrots and onions—”
Her head was still bowed, and his tone was so light, his voice so lazy, how was she to know that his hands were quivering or see how the passion of his yearning was shaking him, fighting for utterance against his iron will? How was she to know anything of all this until, swiftly, lightly, he stooped and kissed the shining glory of her hair? In a while she raised her head, but then—she was alone.
CHAPTER XXII
TELLS OF AN EARLY MORNING VISIT AND A WARNING
Ravenslee dreamed that he was in a wood—with Hermione, of course. She came to him through the leafy twilight, all aglow with youth and love, eager to give herself to his embrace. And from her eyes love looked at him unashamed, love touched him in her soft caressing hands, came to him in the passionate caress of her scarlet mouth, love cradled him in the clasp of her white arms. And the sun, peeping down inquisitively through the leaves, showed all the beauty of her and made a rippling splendour of her hair.
But now the woodpecker began a tap-tapping soft and insistent somewhere out of sight, a small noise yet disturbing, that followed them wheresoever they went. Thus they wandered, close entwined, but ever the wood grew darker until they came at last to a mighty tree whose sombre, far-flung branches shut out the kindly sun. And lo! within this gloom the woodpecker was before them—a most persistent bird, this, tap-tapping louder than ever, whereat Hermione, seized of sudden terror, struggled in his embrace and, pointing upward, cried aloud, and was gone from him. Then, looking where she had pointed, he beheld no woodpecker, but the hated face of Bud M’Ginnis—
Ravenslee blinked drowsily at the wall where purple roses bloomed, at the fly-blown text in the tarnished frame with its notable legend:
LOVE ONE ANOTHER
and sighed. But in his waking ears was the tap of the woodpecker, loud and persistent as ever! Wherefore he started, stared, sat up suddenly and, glancing toward the window, beheld a large cap and a pair of shoulders he thought he recognised.
“Why, Spider!” he exclaimed, “what the—”
“Sufferin’ Mike!” sighed the Spider plaintively, “here I’ve been knockin’ at your all-fired winder—knockin’ an’ knockin’, an’ here you’ve been snorin’ and snorin’.”
“No, did I snore, Spider?”
“Bo, you sure are a bird for snorin’.”
“Damn it!” said Ravenslee, frowning, “I must break myself of it.”
“Thinkin’ of gettin’ married, bo?”
“Married? What the—”
“She’ll soon get useter it, I guess—they all do!” said the unabashed Spider. “Anyway, if you didn’t snore
