IV

Now it happened that Miss Cigale, although she had said she hadn’t a

penny in the world, really did have sixty-five dollars. Considered as

the savings of a lifetime, it might pretty well be called nothing, and

in her careless way she had so thought of it; but now she saw it in a

quite different light.

She had kept that ticket when she had picked up the others, for her idea

was to get back the watch for her nephew and make him happy. And to make

him, perhaps, a little fond of her. She had thought it possible last

night; had thought that if she brought him his watch, and told him that

she was going to take a position, he would see she wouldn’t be simply an

extra person to feed, but a friend and a helper; that he would like her,

and they would all three live together in that dear little house, in

that sweet, dear garden, in the jolliest way. She didn’t expect any of

that now, though.

“No,” she said to herself. “I irritate and annoy him. I can see that.

I’m afraid he belongs to the ants, and he can’t endure grasshoppers. Oh,

I’m sorry! He’s such a dear boy!”

She didn’t cry, for her tears were far more apt to be brought by joy

than by pain; but she was certainly unhappy, all by herself there in the

daisy field. To tell the truth, Miss Cigale was very tired, and had of

late been haunted by specters. Wan failure she knew and didn’t mind, but

when loneliness and uselessness came out hand in hand, she trembled.

“I’ll get the watch,” she decided. “I’ll do that, anyhow. But I shan’t

come back. He doesn’t want me here, and--he’s a dear boy, but I don’t

think I want to come.”

It was characteristic of her that she didn’t tell her sister she would

not return. If she had to do anything unpleasant, well, then, she did

it, as gallantly as she could; but if unpleasant things could be

avoided, right gladly would she sheer off. So she only said that she had

to “run into town,” and hugged and kissed her rather unresponsive

sister, and off she went, leaving behind her those heavy bags which

contained all the clothes and books and ridiculous, sentimental rubbish

she had in the world.

“I can send for them,” she thought, “when I decide where I’m going.” And

she troubled her head no more about them. What did trouble her was a

memory. It was a memory of a girl--a tall, slender, fair-haired girl, a

music student in New York, living on an allowance from home. And living

all too carelessly on it, so that one day she found herself penniless,

and very hungry, and with four days to wait before the allowance could

arrive. And this girl--in the persistent memory--had taken a little gold

locket and a silver watch to the pawnbroker. She had thought it rather a

joke, until she had got there.

“It’s silly to feel like that,” she said to herself this morning. “Very

silly. There’s nothing dishonorable or disgraceful in--in being

temporarily short of money. The most important business men have to get

loans. Heads of trusts and--every one. People go to their banks to get

loans, and they’re not ashamed of it. Well, this is exactly the same

thing. I simply walk in, repay the loan, take the watch, and go. Exactly

like paying a note at the bank.”

Was it, though? Exactly like a bank--this queer, dark little shop, with

barred windows--and the man behind the counter was exactly like the

cashier her father used to bring home to dinner. She handed the ticket

across the counter, with the money; but the man pushed the money back to

her.

“Wait a moment!” said he, with a curious glance at her.

Then he disappeared, and Miss Cigale stood there, trying desperately

hard not to feel like a criminal, an outlaw, a highly suspicious

character. If she had been a man she would certainly have whistled; but,

as it was, she stared about her with the most casual, offhand air.

Oh, but it was pitiful! To think that there were people so hard pressed

that they must bring here a cotton quilt, or a dingy umbrella, or, worst

of all, a child’s pair of rubber boots. Hanging on a line from the

ceiling were guitars and banjos and mandolins and ukeleles--music sold

into bondage.

“Is this your own ticket, madam?” asked a voice, and, turning, she saw a

severe little elderly man looking at her through his spectacles. The

question dismayed her. He appeared so very much displeased; perhaps it

was a wrong sort of ticket, which Geordie shouldn’t have had.

“Yes. Oh, yes!” she answered, with a very poor attempt at sprightliness.

“It’s mine.”

“You didn’t buy it--or find it?” he asked.

“Oh, no!” Miss Cigale replied, quite certain now that there was

something wrong. “It’s my own!”

The elderly man looked at her steadily for a moment.

“Wait a minute, please!” he said. “Be seated, madam!”

So Miss Cigale sat down on a chair in a black corner, where a fur

neckpiece, smelling terribly of moth balls, brushed her shoulder, and

waited and waited. A little girl came in, gave up a ticket, and while

she, too, waited, stared at Miss Cigale, and diligently chewed gum.

Such a queer little girl, with wispy hair, and a pale, drawn little

face, and so very nonchalant an air. At last she was given a small gas

stove, and went off with it. A young man came in with a traveling bag to

dispose of; a stout woman came and drove a hard bargain over a ring.

Nobody else had to wait, only Miss Cigale.

“Something is wrong!” she thought. “Oh, what has the poor boy done?”

Her hands and feet were very cold, her thin cheeks flushed and hot; she

wished now that she had taken a cup of coffee. For she was very far away

now from any such consolations as daisy fields. A burly man, with a

straw hat at the back of his head, entered the shop; he spied her, and,

to her horror, came directly over to her.

“You, the one with this here ticket; what’s the number?” he asked.

“I don’t remember the number,” said Miss Cigale faintly. He went over to

the counter and spoke to the elderly man in a voice too low for her to

hear. Then he sat down beside her, tipping his chair, and lit a cigar.

The smoke blew into her face, and his boot, crossed on his knee, brushed

her skirt.

“I can’t stand this,” thought she. “I’ll take the ticket, and come back

later. I can’t bear this.” And she got up to go to the counter and ask

for the ticket.

“Here!” said the man beside her. “Where you goin’?”

Miss Cigale didn’t trouble to answer, but, to her amazement, he sprang

up and barred her way.

“Go away!” she cried, in a trembling voice, but with a jerk of the thumb

he turned back his coat lapel and revealed a badge.

Miss Cigale sank back into her chair again, in the dark corner. The man

was speaking to her, but she did not hear him.

“What has he done?” she thought. “A detective! If I can only make them

think it was me. But, oh! How can I bear this?”

Because, for all her failures, Miss Cigale had never before encountered

disgrace. She had suffered the crudest disappointments, she had been

hungry, cold, shabby, sleepless with anxiety, and all this she had

endured gallantly. But to be arrested by a detective in a pawnshop!

Her idea of what was going to be done to her might have been laughable

if there could be found on earth any one able to laugh at the stricken,

heartsick creature. She thought that she would presently be taken before

a judge, and that, if she kept silent, as she intended to do, she would

be put into prison for whatever unimaginable offense the real owner of

the ticket had committed.

“I can’t be brave about it!” she said to herself. “I can’t; I’m--I’m

frightened.”

Why must she sit here so long? Why didn’t they take her away? It would

be almost better to be in prison than here, where the door opened and

closed, and people came in and out, and every one had a glance, casual

or curious, at her corner. The detective was writing in a notebook.

_What_ was he waiting for?

“Handcuffs!” thought Miss Cigale. “Or--or a--warrant.” Imagination

carried her very far; she would not have been surprised by the entrance

of a file of soldiers, or white-coated doctors with a strait-jacket. The

most astounding images of things read or heard of filled her mind; she

lost track of time and space; what she suffered was a timeless,

universal thing, such as had been suffered these thousands of years by

how many dazed and trembling victims. The law--The Law!

“Here she is!” said the detective to some one who had just entered.

“Claims it’s her own ticket.”

“Oh--good--Lord!” cried a voice which reached Miss Cigale from very far

away.

“Well, come along!” said the detective. “Come over to the station an’

you can make your charge.”

Miss Cigale did not understand; all she knew was that Geordie was here,

and in danger.

“I--I don’t know that man,” she said, faintly.

“Never mind!” the detective retorted, laughing. “You will, soon enough!”

“No! Look here! It’s--it’s a mistake!” said Geordie. “It’s--I’ll drop

it.”

Miss Cigale moved nearer to him.

“Pretend you don’t know me!” she whispered. “I’ll--”

V

That was the end of Miss Cigale’s struggle; at the critical moment she

failed again, most shamefully. She fainted. That is what comes of

preferring daisies to breakfast; of carrying romantic Victorian

sentiments over into modern life. She fainted.

As long as she had failed, she thought she might as well do it

thoroughly. She could have come to before she did; she could have opened

her eyes before she did, only that there was nothing she cared to see.

She could hear, too. She heard her nephew calling “Aunt Louisa!” but his

low, furious tones did not make her in a hurry to answer. No; better to

lie here, like this, for as long a time as she could.

“Aunt Louisa!” he said again, and this time his voice was quite

desperate. She opened her eyes.

“If you’d only pretended,” she whispered chidingly.

“Can you walk?” demanded the young man. “As far as a taxi?”

“But--” she began, and, raising her head, looked about her. The man

behind the counter was writing in a book, the shop was empty. “The--the

detective?” she asked.

He didn’t even answer; but, helping her to rise, and holding her very

firmly by the arm, led her out into the street. No one molested them.

“But--Geordie!” she said. “Is it--postponed?”

“I don’t know what you mean,” he replied, curtly. “I’ve arranged the

thing, anyhow, so that there’ll be no trouble for you. But if you wanted

that watch--why didn’t you _tell_ me? I’d have done anything, rather

than have this happen.”

“George!” cried Miss Cigale. “Is it possible? No; it can’t be! You can’t

think that I--” She stopped short, looking into his stern face, and with

an expression on her own that somehow troubled him.

Out here, in the bright sun, she seemed so different. It was hard to

think of her as a muddle-headed, desperate creature, trying, very

clumsily, to get possession of a watch that didn’t belong to her. No;

there was something about her that was--rather impressive. She didn’t

look ridiculous now, or pathetic.

“I see!” she said. “You thought I wanted the thing for myself. Well,

that was quite a natural thing to think, George.” She spoke without the

slightest trace of rancor, simply admitting that it was natural--to some

human beings--to think as he did, and she could not blame him.

“Well!” said he, surprised. “You see, when I couldn’t find the ticket, I

telephoned to the pawnbroker, and to the police. I thought it had been

stolen, and I said that if any one brought it in, to let me know.”

“Yes,” said Miss Cigale. “It was a perfectly natural way for you to

think, my dear boy. And I was frightfully stupid to try to do it that

way. I meant to help you a little bit, but--” She smiled. “Anyhow, it’s

all over and done with now, and I hope we’ll part good friends.”

“Part!” said he. “But aren’t you coming back?”

“I’d rather not.”

There they stood, on the street corner, all idea of a taxi forgotten.

“But, look here!” said Geordie. “You did that for me--and I behaved--I

behaved--like a--” His voice broke. “I didn’t know,” he went on,

unsteadily. “Because, you see--I didn’t think any one could--any one in

the world.”

“Oh, there are lots of people like me!” Miss Cigale assured him. “Lots

of grasshoppers. They dance the summer away, and then, when the winter

comes, they’re a horrible nuisance to the ants, but they’re inclined to

be pretty sympathetic toward any one else who has grasshopperish

troubles. Not that I think _you’re_ the least bit of a grasshopper, my

dear boy! I’m quite sure you’re far too intelligent and sensible for

that!”

“No!” said Geordie, vehemently. “I am a grasshopper! Nobody knows what a

grasshopper--and a fool--I am!”

“I’m sure it was just a temporary difficulty.”

“I’ve been doing my best, for nearly a year, to make it permanent,” he

said, grimly. “You see, there’s a girl.”

“I’m so glad!” cried Miss Cigale.

“Glad? But I can’t afford to think about girls.”

“I don’t care! As soon as I saw you, I hoped there was a girl,” Miss

Cigale went on. “Because you’re such a dear, obstinate, helpless,

splendid boy, and I hoped there was some one to see all that. She does,

doesn’t she?”

Geordie had grown very red.

“She sees the obstinacy, anyhow,” he answered. “You see, she’s a

secretary, and--” His jaw set doggedly. “She won’t give up her job!” he

said. “And I won’t get married unless she does.”

“Too many won’ts!” said Miss Cigale.

“Well, all of them together make a pretty big can’t,” said he. “We can’t

get married, that’s all. I’ve tried to make her see that we could

manage, but she says we can’t. Those--those tickets, you know. I bought

her a ring, and a--” He had to stop for a moment. “A little inlaid

writing desk for our home. Only--it’s nearly a year, and she won’t see

that we can manage without her salary, and I won’t--”

“Oh, Geordie!” protested Miss Cigale.

“I won’t!” said he. “I won’t!” And a more mulish expression was never

seen on a young man before.

“Do get a taxi!” Miss Cigale suggested.