"Well--it's your own fault. You went on about it till it got on my
nerves, and the anxiety was more than I could bear. The porridge
will be boiling over."
"Well?"
"Well, I can't mind porridge and my knitting at the same time."
Minnie threw herself back, pushing her chair with her feet. She rose
and trailed sulkily across to the stove. As she moved a wisp of red
hair, loosened from its coil, clung to her sallow neck. She was
slip-shod and untidy.
She removed the porridge abstractedly. "What did he say?" she asked.
"He was extremely kind and sympathetic. He treated it as a disease.
He said that in nine cases out of ten recovery is impossible."
"Well, _I_ could have told you that. Anything more?"
"He says the chances are that he won't hold out much longer; his
health must have broken up after all these years. I don't know how I
_can_ stand it, if it is. When I think of all the things that may
happen. Paralysis perhaps, or epilepsy--that's far more likely. He's
just the age."
"Is he? How awful! But, then, he'll have to go somewhere. You know
we can't have him epilepsing all over the place here."
The old lady dropped her knitting to raise her hands.
"Minnie! Minnie! Have a little Trust. He may never come at all."
"He will. Trust _him_."
"After all," said Kate reflectively, "why should he?"
"Why? Why?" The girl came forward, spreading her large red hands
before her. "Because we've paid all his debts. Because we've saved
money and got straight again. Because we're getting to know one or
two decent people, and it's taken us fifteen years to do it. Because
we're beginning to enjoy ourselves for the first time in all our
miserable lives. Because I've set my heart on staying with the
Tanquerays, and Fred Tanqueray will be there. Because"--a queer,
fierce light came into her eyes--"because I'm happy, and he means to
spoil it all, as he spoilt it all before! As if I hadn't suffered
enough."
"You? What have you suffered?" Kate's sharp face was red as she
bent over a dropped stitch. Her hands trembled. "You were too young
to feel anything."
"I wasn't too young to feel that I had a career before me, nor to
care when it was knocked on the head. If it hadn't been for him my
music wouldn't have come to an end as it did."
"Your music! If it hadn't been for him my engagement wouldn't have
been broken off--as it was."
"Oh _that_? It was the one solitary good day's work Stephen ever
did."
The old lady nodded shrewdly over her needles. "Yes, my dear, you
might be thankful for that mercy. You couldn't have married Mr.
Hooper. I'm afraid he wasn't altogether what he ought to be. You
yourself suspected that he drank."
"Like a fish," interposed Minnie.
"I know"--Kate's hands were fumbling violently over her
stitch--"but--but I could have reclaimed him."
Her eyes lost their meanness with the little momentary light of
illusion.
Minnie laughed aloud. "If that's all you wanted, why didn't you try
your hand on Stephen?"
"Don't, Minnie."
But Minnie did. "Fred Tanqueray doesn't drink; I wouldn't look at
him if he did. What's more, he's a gentleman; I couldn't stand him
if he wasn't. Catch him marrying into this family when he's seen
Stephen."
"Minnie, you are _too_ dreadful."
"Dreadful? You'd be dreadful if you'd cared as much for Charlie
Hooper as I do for Fred Tanqueray."
"And how much does Mr. Tanqueray care for you?"
A dull flush spread over Minnie's sallow face; her lips coarsened.
"I don't know; but it's a good deal more than your Hooper man ever
cared for anybody in his life; and if you weren't such a hopeless
sentimentalist you'd have seen that much. Of course I shan't know
whether he cares or not--now."
And she wept, because of the anguish of her thirty years.
Then she burst out: "I _hate_ Stephen. I don't care what you say--if
he comes into this house I'll walk out of it. Oh, how I hate him!"
Her loose mouth dropped, still quivering with its speech. Her face
was one flame with her hair.
But Kate was cool and collected.
"Don't excite yourself. If it's only to influence Fred Tanqueray, he
won't come," said Kate.
Then the red-haired woman turned on her, mad with the torture of her
frustrate passion.
"He _will_ come! He _will_ come, I tell you. I've felt him coming.
I've felt it in my bones. I've dreamt about it night after night.
I've been afraid to meet the postman lest he should bring another
letter. I've been afraid to go along the station road lest I should
meet _him_. I'm afraid now to look out of that window lest I should
see him standing there with his face against the pane."
She crossed to the window and drew down the blind. For a moment her
shadow was flung across it, monstrously agitated, the huge hands
working.
The man outside saw nothing more, but he heard his mother's voice
and he took hope again.
"For shame, Minnie, for shame, to speak of poor Steevy so. One would
think you might have a little more affection for your only brother."
"Look here, Mother" (Minnie again!), "that's all sentimental humbug.
Can you look me in the face and honestly say you'd be glad to see
your only son?"
(The son's heart yearned, straining for the answer. It came
quavering.)
"My dear, I shall not see him. I'm a poor, weak old woman, and I
know that the Lord will not send me any burden that I cannot bear."
He crept from his hiding-place out into the silent lane. He had
drawn his breath tight, but his chest still shook with the sob he
had strangled. "My God!" he muttered, "I'll take off the burden."
Then his sob broke out again, and it sounded more like a laugh than
a sob. "The dollars--they shall have them. Every blessed one of the
damned five million!"
He looked at his watch by the light of the gas-lamp in the lane. He
had just time to catch the last train down; time, too, to stop the
carrier's cart with the gifts that would have told the tale of his
returning.
So, with a quick step, he went back by the way he had come, out of
the place where the dead had buried their dead--until the Day of
Judgment.