“The Bowkers? Why, yes—I’ve been wondering—”

“I guess you know he went t’ O’Rourke’s an’ give that M’Ginnis the thrashin’ of his dirty life?” said Mrs. Trapes rather hastily. “Nigh killed the loafer, Spider Connolly told me.”

“He’s so strong,” said Hermione softly, her eyes shining. “But, Ann, what did you mean about—about toothbrushes and socks?”

“Mean? Why, socks an’ toothbrushes, o’ course. An’ my land! here’s me guzzlin’ tea, an’ over in my kitchen th’ finest shin o’ beef you ever saw a-b’ilin’ f’r his supper. But now the question as burns is, if a married man this night, will he be here t’ eat? An’ if him—then you? An’ if man an’ wife suppin’ in my parlour—where will ye sleep?”

“I—oh, Ann—I don’t know. His letter just said that when I came home it would be our—wedding night!”

“Why, then it sure will be. An’ f’r a weddin’ supper, y’ couldn’t have nothin’ better ‘n shin o’ beef. I’ll go an’ watch over that stoo with care unfailin’, my dear; believe me, that stoo’s goin’ t’ be a stoo as is a stoo! What, half after five? Land sakes, how time flies!”

CHAPTER XXIX

IN WHICH HERMIONE MAKES A FATEFUL DECISION

When Mrs. Trapes was gone, Hermione stood a long time to look at herself in her little mirror, viewing and examining each feature of her lovely, intent face more earnestly than she had ever done before; and sometimes she smiled, and sometimes she frowned, and all her thought was:

“Shall I make him happy, I wonder? Can I be all he wants—all he thinks I am?”

So, after some while, she combed and brushed out her glorious hair, shyly glad because of its length and splendour; and, having crowned her shapely head with it, viewed the effect with cold, hypercritical eyes.

“Can I, oh, can I ever be all he wants—all he thinks I am?”

And then she proceeded to dress; the holey stockings were replaced by others that had seen less service; the worn frills and laces were changed for others less threadbare. This done, Hermione, with many supple twists, wriggled dexterously into her best dress, pausing now and then to sigh mournfully and grieve over its many deficiencies and shortcomings, defects which only feminine eyes, so coldly critical, might hope to behold.

Scarcely was all this accomplished when she heard a soft knock at the outer door, and at the sound her heart leapt; she flushed and paled and stood a moment striving to stay the quick, heavy throbbing within her bosom; then breathlessly she hastened along the passage and, opening the door with trembling hands, beheld Bud M’Ginnis. While she stared, dumb and amazed, he entered and, closing the door, leaned his broad back against it.

“Goin’ away, Hermy?” he enquired softly, looking her over with his slow gaze.

“Yes.”

“Goin’ far, Hermy?”

“I don’t know.”

“Goin’—alone, Hermy?”

“Why are you here? What do you want?”

“T’ save ye from—hell!” he answered, his voice rising loud and harsh on the last word. “Oh, I know,” he went on fiercely, “I know why you’re all dolled up in your best. I know as you mean t’ go away to-night with—him. But you ain’t goin’, girl—you ain’t.”

“To-night,” she said gently, “is my wedding night.”

M’Ginnis lifted a hand and wrenched at the silken neckerchief he wore as though it choked him.

“No!” he cried, “you ain’t a-goin’ t’ get no wedding, Hermy; he don’t mean t’ give ye a square deal. He’s foolin’ ye—foolin’ ye, girl! Oh,” said he through shut teeth, “ye thought I was safe out o’ the way, I guess. You ought t’ known better; th’ p’lice couldn’t hold me, they never will. Anyway, I’ve kept tabs on ye—I know as you’ve been meeting him—in a wood! I know,” here M’Ginnis seemed to choke again, “I know of you an’ him—kissin’ an’ cuddlin’—oh, I’ve kept tabs on ye—”

“Yes,” she said gently, “I saw your spy at work.”

“But y’ can’t deny it. Y’ don’t deny it! Say, what kind o’ girl are you?”

“The kind that doesn’t fear men like you.”

“But y’ can’t deny meetin’ him,” he repeated, his hoarse voice quivering; “you don’t deny—kissin’ him—in a wood! Only deny it, Hermy, only say you didn’t, an’ I’ll choke th’ life out of any guy as says you did—only deny it, Hermy.”

“But I don’t want to deny it. If your spy had ears he can tell you that we are going to be married. Now go.”

Once more M’Ginnis reached up to his throat and trenched off the neckerchief altogether.

“Married!” he cried, “an’ t’ him! He’s foolin’ ye, Hermy, by God he is! Girl, I’m tellin’ ye straight an’ true—he’ll never marry ye. His kind don’t marry Tenth Av’ner girls—Nooport an’ Fifth Av’ner’s a good ways from Hell’s Kitchen an’ Tenth Av’ner, an’ they can’t ever come t’gether, I reckon.”

“Ah!” sighed she, falling back a step, “what do you mean?”

“Why, I mean,” said M’Ginnis, twisting the neckerchief in his powerful hands much as if it had been the neck of some enemy, “I mean as this guy as comes here bluffin’ about bein’ down an’ out, this guy as plays at sellin’ peanuts is—Geoffrey Ravenslee, the millionaire.”

“But—he is—Arthur’s friend!”

“Friend—nothin’!” said he, wringing and wrenching at the neckerchief, “I guess you ain’t found out how th’ Kid an’ him came t’ meet, eh? Well, I’ll tell ye—listen! Your brother broke in to this millionaire’s swell house—through the winder—an’ this millionaire caught him.”

“Oh,” said she, smiling in bitter scorn, “what a clumsy liar you are, Bud M’Ginnis!”

“No,” he cried eagerly, “no, I ain’t tellin’ ye no lies; it’s God’s own truth I’m givin’ ye.”

“No, you’re just a liar, Bud M’Ginnis!” and she would have turned from him, but his savage grip stayed her.

“A liar, am I?” he cried. “Why, then, you’re sister to a crook, see! Your brother’s a thief! a crook! You ain’t got much t’ be s’ proud over—”

“Let me go!”

“Listen! Your brother got into this guy’s house t’ steal, and this millionaire guy caught him—in the act! An’ havin’ nothin’ better t’ do, he makes young Spike bring him down here—just t’ see th’ kind o’ folks as lives in Hell’s Kitchen, see? Then he meets you—you look kind o’ good t’ him, so he says t’ th’ Kid, ‘Look here,’ he says, ‘you help me game along with y’r sister, an’ we’ll call it quits—’”

Breaking from his hold, Hermione entered the little parlour, and sinking down beside the table, crouched there, hiding her face, while M’Ginnis, leaning in the doorway, watched her, his strong hands twisting and wrenching at the neckerchief.

“Ah, leave me now!” she pleaded, “you’ve done enough, so—go now—go!”

“Oh, I’ll go. I come here t’ put ye wise—an’ I have! You’re on to it all now, I guess. Nooport and Fifth Av’ner’s a good ways from Hell’s Kitchen and Tenth Av’ner, an’ they can’t never come together. I guess there’s sure some difference between this swell guy with all his millions an’ a Tenth Av’ner girl as is a—thief’s sister—”

Slowly Hermione lifted her head and looked up at him, and M’Ginnis saw that in her face which struck him mute; the neckerchief fell from his nerveless fingers and lay there all unheeded.

“Hermione,” he muttered, “I—girl, are ye—sick?”

“Go!” she whispered, “go!”

And turning about, M’Ginnis stumbled out of the place and left her alone. For a long time she sat there, motionless and crouched above the table, staring blindly before her, and in her eyes an agony beyond tears, heedless of the flight of time, conscious only of a pain sharper than flesh can know. Suddenly a key was thrust in the lock of the outer door, footsteps sounded along the passage accompanied by a merry whistling, and Spike appeared.

“Hello, Hermy, ain’t tea ready yet?” he enquired, tossing aside his straw hat and opening a newspaper he carried, “say, the Giants are sure playin’ great ball this season—what, are ye asleep?”

“No, dear!”

“Why, Hermy,” he exclaimed, dropping the paper and clasping an arm about her, “Oh, Hermy—what is it?”

“Oh, boy—dear, dear boy—you didn’t, did you?” she cried feverishly. “You are a little wild—sometimes, dear, just a little—but you are good—and honourable, aren’t you?”

“Why, yes, Hermy I—I try t’ be,” he answered uneasily; “but I don’t know what you mean.”

“You’re not a thief, are you? You’re not a burglar? You never broke into any one’s house. I know you didn’t, but—tell me you didn’t—tell me you didn’t!”

“No—no, o’ course not,” stammered Spike and, averting his head, tried to draw away, but she clung to him all the closer.

“Boy—boy dear,” she whispered breathlessly, “oh, boy, look at me!”

But seeing he kept his face still turned from her, she set a hand to his cheek and very gently forced him to meet her look. For a long moment she gazed thus—saw how his eyes quailed, saw how his cheek blanched, and as he cowered away, she rose slowly to her feet, and into her look came a growing horror; beholding which Spike covered his face and shrank away from her.

“Oh, boy—” her voice had sunk to a whisper now, “oh, boy—say you didn’t!”

“Hermy—I—can’t—”

“Can’t?”

“It’s—it’s all—true. Yes, I did! Oh, Hermy, forgive me.”

“Tell me!”

“Oh, forgive me, Hermy, forgive me!” he cried, reaching out and trying to catch her hand. “Yes, I’ll tell ye. I—I got in—through th’ winder, an’ Geoff caught me. But he let me go again—he said he’d never tell nobody if—ah, don’t look at me like that!”

“If—what?”

“If I’d bring him back here with me—Hermy, don’t! Your eyes hurt me—don’t look at me that way.”

“So it—is—all—true!”

“Oh, forgive me, forgive me!” he pleaded, throwing himself on his knees before her and writhing in the anguish of remorse. “They doped me, Hermy, I—didn’t know what I was doin’—they didn’t give me no time t’ think. Oh, forgive me, Hermy; Geoff forgave me, an’ you must—oh, God, you must, Hermy!” Again he sought to reach her hand, but now it was she who shrank away.