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!”