“No—no,” returned the old Englishman. “Don’t go, don’t go. I’ve been so lonely tonight—and last night too—all this year—all my life,” he suddenly cried.
“I—I—I’ve forgotten the sugar.”
“But I never take sugar in my tea.”
“But it’s rather cold, and I’ve spilled it—almost all of it.”
“I’ll drink it from the saucer.” Old Grannis had drawn up his armchair for her.
“Oh, I shouldn’t. This is—this is so—You must think ill of me.” Suddenly she sat down, and resting her elbows on the table, hid her face in her hands.
“Think ill of you?” cried Old Grannis, “think ill of you? Why, you don’t know—you have no idea—all these years—living so close to you, I—I—” he paused suddenly. It seemed to him as if the beating of his heart was choking him.
“I thought you were binding your books tonight,” said Miss Baker, suddenly, “and you looked tired. I thought you looked tired when I last saw you, and a cup of tea, you know, it—that—that does you so much good when you’re tired. But you weren’t binding books.”
“No, no,” returned Old Grannis, drawing up a chair and sitting down. “No, I—the fact is, I’ve sold my apparatus; a firm of booksellers has bought the rights of it.”
“And aren’t you going to bind books any more?” exclaimed the little dressmaker, a shade of disappointment in her manner. “I thought you always did about four o’clock. I used to hear you when I was making tea.”
It hardly seemed possible to Miss Baker that she was actually talking to Old Grannis, that the two were really chatting together, face to face, and without the dreadful embarrassment that used to overwhelm them both when they met on the stairs. She had often dreamed of this, but had always put it off to some far-distant day. It was to come gradually, little by little, instead of, as now, abruptly and with no preparation. That she should permit herself the indiscretion of actually intruding herself into his room had never so much as occurred to her. Yet here she was, in his room, and they were talking together, and little by little her embarrassment was wearing away.
“Yes, yes, I always heard you when you were making tea,” returned the old Englishman; “I heard the tea things. Then I used to draw my chair and my worktable close to the wall on my side, and sit there and work while you drank your tea just on the other side; and I used to feel very near to you then. I used to pass the whole evening that way.”
“And, yes—yes—I did too,” she answered. “I used to make tea just at that time and sit there for a whole hour.”
“And didn’t you sit close to the partition on your side? Sometimes I was sure of it. I could even fancy that I could hear your dress brushing against the wallpaper close beside me. Didn’t you sit close to the partition?”
“I—I don’t know where I sat.”
Old Grannis shyly put out his hand and took hers as it lay upon her lap.
“Didn’t you sit close to the partition on your side?” he insisted.
“No—I don’t know—perhaps—sometimes. Oh, yes,” she exclaimed, with a little gasp, “Oh, yes, I often did.”
Then Old Grannis put his arm about her, and kissed her faded cheek, that flushed to pink upon the instant.
After that they spoke but little. The day lapsed slowly into twilight, and the two old people sat there in the gray evening, quietly, quietly, their hands in each other’s hands, “keeping company,” but now with nothing to separate them. It had come at last. After all these years they were together; they understood each other. They stood at length in a little Elysium of their own creating. They walked hand in hand in a delicious garden where it was always autumn. Far from the world and together they entered upon the long retarded romance of their commonplace and uneventful lives.
XVIII
That same night McTeague was awakened by a shrill scream, and woke to find Trina’s arms around his neck. She was trembling so that the bedsprings creaked.
“Huh?” cried the dentist, sitting up in bed, raising his clinched fists. “Huh? What? What? What is it? What is it?”
“Oh, Mac,” gasped his wife, “I had such an awful dream. I dreamed about Maria. I thought she was chasing me, and I couldn’t run, and her throat was—Oh, she was all covered with blood. Oh-h, I am so frightened!”
Trina had borne up very well for the first day or so after the affair, and had given her testimony to the coroner with far greater calmness than Heise. It was only a week later that the horror of the thing came upon her again. She was so nervous that she hardly dared to be alone in the daytime, and almost every night woke with a cry of terror, trembling with the recollection of some dreadful nightmare. The dentist was irritated beyond all expression by her nervousness, and especially was he exasperated when her cries woke him suddenly in the middle of the night. He would sit up in bed, rolling his eyes wildly, throwing out his huge fists—at what, he did not know—exclaiming, “What what—” bewildered and hopelessly confused. Then when he realized that it was only Trina, his anger kindled abruptly.
“Oh, you and your dreams! You go to sleep, or I’ll give you a dressing down.” Sometimes he would hit her a great thwack with his open palm, or catch her hand and bite the tips of her fingers. Trina would lie awake for hours afterward, crying softly to herself. Then, by and by, “Mac,” she would say timidly.
“Huh?”
“Mac, do you love me?”
“Huh? What? Go to sleep.”
“Don’t you love me any more, Mac?”
“Oh, go to sleep. Don’t bother me.”
“Well, do you love me, Mac?”
“I guess so.”
“Oh, Mac, I’ve only you now, and if you don’t love me, what is going to become of me?”
“Shut up, an’ let me go to sleep.”
“Well,
