BERTHA MAKES A PROMISE
As for Marshall Haney, as he went about New York and Brooklyn in search
of his relations, he was astounded at the translation of the Irish
laborer into something else. "In my time, when I left Troy, all the work
in the streets was done by 'micks,' as they called 'em. Now they're
gone--whisked away as ye'd sweep away a swarm of red ants, and here's
these black Dagos in their places. Where's the Irishman gone--up or
down? That's what's eatin' me. Is he dead or translated to a higher
speer? 'Tis a mysterious dispensation, and troubles me much."
He found a good many Donahues in Brooklyn, and plenty of them
barkeepers; and after he'd pulled up half a dozen times at these
"joints" Bertha began to pout. She didn't like such places; and as they
were riding in a showy auto-car (the grandest Lucius could secure), they
were pretty middling noticeable. At last she said, more sharply than she
had ever spoken to him before: "Mart, I don't want any more of this. If
you want to visit all the saloons in Brooklyn, I don't. Here's where I
get out."
He was instantly remorseful. "I was thinkin' of that myself, Bertie.
Lucius and I will go on alone. We'll send you back to the hotel in the
'mobile whilst we take a hack."
Half doubting, half glad, she consented to this arrangement, and was
soon whirling back towards the ferry, her guilty feeling giving place to
a sense of relief, as if a huge weight had been lifted from her
shoulders--for a moment. She began to understand that half the pleasure
she had taken in her hours with Moss and Humiston lay in the freedom
from her husband's over-shadowing presence. He was not a man to be
ignored, as she had seen wives ignore and put aside their meek partners.
Marshall Haney even yet was a dominating personality, even though his
family affairs were so insistent and so difficult to manage or explain.
If the father came her joy in her home would be gone, and yet she had no
right to refuse him shelter.
At the same time she was less sure of her place in the world, now that
she was alone. She had the feeling that if anything were to happen--if
the motorman should demand his pay at the door, or the hotel-keeper
refuse to go her bond, she would be helpless. The Captain, for all his
shortcomings and physical disability, was master of every situation. He
had been schooled by stern powers, and his capabilities of defence were
still equal to almost any need.
On the ferry-boat she found herself surrounded by the swarms of people
who are forever calculating expenditures, who never desert a garment,
and who finger a nickel lovingly; and she caught them looking at her as
upon one of those who enjoy without earning it the product of their
toil. They made way for her, as she got down and walked to the railing,
as they would have done for a millionaire's daughter, a little surlily,
and she divined without understanding this enmity, but was too exalted
by the glittering bay, with its romance of ship and sea and shore and
town, to very much mind what her threadbare fellow-passengers thought of
her. These dark-hulled, ocean-going vessels, these alien flags, widened
her horizon--deepened her sense of the earth's wonder and the wide-flung
nerves of national interest. From this sea-level she looked up in fancy
to her brother's ranch near Sibley as at a cabin on a mountain-side. How
still and faint and far it seemed at the moment!
At the word of the chauffeur she climbed back into her car, returning to
the isolation which money now provided for her. And so, girt about with
velvet and costly wood and gilding, she rode up through the tearing
throngs of the wharf, whirling past cars and trucks, outspeeding cabs
and carriages, protected by a gambler's name, royally isolated and
defensible by his money. As she spun through Fifth Avenue, so smooth of
pave, so crowded, so sparkling, so far-reaching in its suggestions of
security and power, the girl's soul entered upon a new and fierce phase
of its struggle.
It was a larger and more absorbing fairy story than any in the _Arabian
Nights_. Without Marshall Haney, without the gold he brought, she could
never have even looked upon this scene. She would at this moment have
been standing inside her little counter at the Golden Eagle, selling
cigars to some brakeman or cowboy. Ed Winchell would be coming to ask
her, as usual, to marry him, and her mother would still be toiling in
the hot kitchen or be at rest in her grave. Did ever Aladdin's lamp
translate its owner farther or lift him higher? Was not her refusal to
be Marshall Haney's wife the basest ingratitude?
Not merely so, but the girl felt in herself potentialities not yet drawn
upon, unlimited capabilities leading towards the accomplishment of good.
Money had not merely the magic of exalting, educating, refining, and
ennobling the individual (herself); it had radiating, transforming power
for others. It could diffuse warmth like a flame, and send forth joy
like a bell. "With it I am safe, strong: I can help the poor. Without it
I am only a struggling girl, like millions of others, with no chance and
no power to aid those who suffer." But at this point her love re-entered
and her sense of right was confused. After all the heart ruled.
At the hotel entrance the head porter was waiting to help her out, and
the chauffeur, without a word or look of reminder, puffed away, secure
in the reputation Lucius had given to Haney. As she went to her room the
maid met her with gentle solicitude, and, after attending to her needs,
considerately withdrew, leaving her deep-sunk in troubled musing.
Up to the coming of Ben Fordyce she had accepted all that Haney gave her
as from one good friend to another. Once having satisfied herself that
the money was clean of any taint from gambling-hall and saloon, she had
not hesitated to use it. But now something was rising within her which
changed the current of her purpose. Haney was no longer before the bar
of her conscience; the soul under question was her own. Dimly, yet with
ever-growing definiteness, she saw the moment of decision approach. She
must soon decide whether to continue on the smooth, broad highway with
Haney, or to return to the mountain-trail from which he had taken her.
While still she sat sombrely looking out over the city's roofs,
Humiston's card was brought to her, and at the moment, in her loneliness
and doubt, he seemed like an old friend. "Tell him to come up," she
said, with instant cordiality, and her face shone with innocent pleasure
when she met him. "I'm mighty glad to see you," she frankly said, in
greeting.
He misconceived her feeling, and took advantage of it to retain her
hand. "I assure you I am delighted to find _you_ again."
"I thought you'd forgot us."
His eyes expressed a bold admiration as he answered: "I have done
nothing but remember you. I've been in Pittsburg (only got back to town
yesterday), and here I am." He looked about. "Where is the Captain?"
She withdrew her hand. "He's out looking for his father. He'll return
soon. He's liable to look in any minute now."
"You are lovelier than ever. How is the Captain?"
"Pretty well. He gets tired fairly easy, but he feels better than he
did."
His look of eager intensity embarrassed her. After a little pause, he
remarked: "I am holding you to your promise. Can't you come over to my
studio this afternoon?"
"No, not to-day. I must be here when the Captain comes. He may bring the
old father along, and he'd feel lost if I should be gone. Maybe I could
come to-morrow."
"Don't bring the Captain unless you have to--he'll be bored," he said,
in the hope that she would get his full meaning. "I want to introduce
you to some friends of mine."
"Oh, don't do that!" she protested. "I'm afraid of your friends--they're
all so way-wised while I am hardly bridle-broke."
"You need not fear," he replied; "you are most to be envied. No one can
have more than health, wealth, and youth and beauty. I would not
hesitate to introduce you anywhere." His admiration was so outspoken, so
choicely worded, that she could not distrust him, though Mrs. Moss had
more than once hinted to her that he was not to be entirely honored. "He
isn't a man to be careless with," she had once said, and yet he seemed
so high-minded, so profoundly concerned with the beautiful world of art.
How could a single-hearted Western girl believe ill of him? He could
not be evil in the ways in which men were wicked in Sibley. His
sensitive face was too weary and his eyes too sad.
He was adroit enough to make his call short, and withdrew, leaving a
very pleasant impression in her mind. She felt distinctly less lonely,
now that she knew he was in the city, and she was still at the window
musing about him when Haney returned, bringing his father with him.
The elder Haney interested and amused her in spite of her
perplexities--he was so quaintly of the old type of Irishman and so
absurdly small to be the father of a giant. He carried a shrewd and
kindly face, withered and toothless, yet not without a certain charm of
line. Mart's fine profile was like his sire's, only larger, bolder, and
calmer.
With a chuckle he introduced him. "Bertie, this is me worthless old
dad." And Patrick, though he was sidling and side-stepping with the
awkwardness of a cat on wet ice, still retained his Celtic
self-possession.
"Lave Mart to slander the soorce av aal his good qualities," he
retorted. "He was iver an uncivil divil to me--after the day he first
thrun me down, the big gawk."
Mart took the little man by the collar and twirled him about. "Luk at
'im! Did he ever feel the like of such cloes in his life?"
Patrick grinned a wide, silent, mirthful grimace. "Sure me heart is
warmed wid 'em. I feel as well trussed as me lady's footman."
It was plain that every thread on the old man was new. Mart explained.
"I stripped him to the buff and built him up plumb to his necktie, which
is green--the wan thing he would have to his own taste. To-morrow we go
to the tooth-factory."
"'Tis a waste of good money," interjected Patrick. "I ate soup."
"Soup be damned! Ye've many a steak to eat with me, ye contrary little
baboon. 'Tis a pity if I can't do as I like with me own. Do as I say,
and be gay."
Patrick cackled again, and his little twinkling eyes were half hid. "Ye
may load me with jewels and goold, me lad, but divil a once do I allow a
man wid a feet-lathe boring-machine to enter me head."
"Ye have nothing to bore, ye old jackass! Divil a rock is left to
prospect in--so don't fuss."
Bertha interjected a question. "Where did you find him?"
"Marking up in a pool-room. Nice place for the father of Captain Haney!
'Come out o' that,' I says, 'or fight me.' And the old fox showed gooms
at me, and says he: 'I notice ye're crippled, Mart. I think I'll jest
take what ye owe me out of yer hide.'" They both chuckled at the
recollection of it. Then Mart went on: "I'll not disgrace me wife by
telling what the old tramp had on. I tuck him by the shoulder and I
said: 'Have ye anny Sunday clothes?' I said. 'Narry a thread,' says he.
'Come along with me,' I says. 'You can't visit my wife in the hotel till
every thread on yer corpus is changed,' for Donahue keeps a dirty place.
So here he is--scrubbed, fumigated, barbered, and tailored; and when he
gets his cellulide teeth he'll make as slick a little Irishman as ever
left the old sod." Here his face became sadly tender. "I wish the mother
was alive, too; I'd make her rustle in silks, so I would. Heaven rest
her!"
The father's face grew suddenly accusing in line. "Ye waited too long,
ye vagabond. Yer change of heart comes too late."
"I know it--I know it! But I could never find time till a man with a
shotgun pointed the way to it. Now I have all the time there is, and
she's gone."
In this moment of passing shadow Bertha caught a glimpse of the
significance of the scene--of the wonder, almost alarm, which filled the
old man's heart as he stood there scared of the flaming splendor of the
room into which the sunlight fell, exaggerating its gold and pink and
green, but bringing out the excellence of the furnishing, the richness
of the silk tapestry.
The old man touched a gilded chair tenderly, and Mart cried out: "Lay
hold, man, 'twill not rub off! Sit down and look about ye! Out with your
new pipe and smoke up!"
He took a seat with forced confidence, and looked about him. "I wish
Donahue and Kate could see this."
Mart turned a quietly humorous eye on Bertha. "Not this trip. I couldn't
manage Kate," he explained. "She looks like Fan--only more so; and she
has a litter o' young Donahues would make ye wonder could the world have
room for them all."
Haney the elder had something more than the bog-trotter in him, for as
he grew towards a little more assurance that Mart would not be thrown
out of his hotel for non-payment of bills, he settled down to enjoy his
glass of rare whiskey and a costly cigar with an assumption of ease that
almost deceived the maid, though Lucius, being in the secret, watched
him anxiously for fear he might expectorate on the rug.
Mart had some "p'otographs" of his house in the Springs, and showed them
to Patrick. "Do ye see yerself smokin' a pipe on that porch?"
"I do not," the father energetically replied. "I see meself goin' the
rounds of that garden with a waterin'-pot and a pair of shears."
"I thought ye was a bricklayer, or is it a billiard-marker?" asked Mart,
with quizzical look.
"I can turn me hand to anny honest work," he replied, with dignity. "An'
can ye say as much?"
"I cannot," confessed Mart. "Had ye put a club to me back and foorced me
to a trade, sure I'd be layin' brick in Troy this day."
This retort fairly blinded the sturdy little father. The charge was
false, and yet here sat Mart--a gentleman. While still he puzzled over
the dangerous acknowledgment involved in his son's accusation, Mart
turned to Bertha. "Do ye mind the old man's spendin' the rest of his
days with us, darlin'?"
"You're the doctor, Mart. It's your house, not mine."
He felt the change in her. "Oh no, it isn't; it's _our_ house. I never
would have had it only for you." He paused a moment. "The dad is a
well-meaning old rascal, and I'll go bail he don't do mischief."
Patrick took this up. "He is so, and he means to kape to his own way of
life. If I go West, me b'y, 'tis on wages as a gardener--and, bedad,
I'll draw 'em reg'ler, too. I'd like well to go West ('twould rejice me
to see Fan and McArdle), and I don't object to spendin' a year with you
in Coloraydo, but don't think Patrick Haney is to be pinsioner on anny
one, not even his son."
Bertha's heart vibrated in sympathy with this note of independence, and
she heartily said: "I hope you will come, Mr. Haney. The Captain is
alone a good deal, and you'd be a comfort to him."
"I'll consider," the old man said. "I must have time to rea-lize it," he
quaintly added. "I must smoke me pipe in me own garret once more, and
talk it all over with Kate and the Donahues." He refused to stay to
dinner with them (which was a relief to Lucius), and went away jaunty as
a bucko from County Clare.
He was no sooner gone from the room than Bertha turned to her husband,
and said: "Mart, I want to talk things over with you."
Something in her voice, as well as in the words, made him turn quickly
and regard her anxiously.
"What about? What is it, darlin'?"
"I have something on my mind, and I've got to spit it out before I can
rest to-night. I've just about decided to leave you. I don't feel right
livin' with you."
He looked at her steadily, but a gray pallor began to show on his face.
He asked, quietly: "Do ye mean to go fer good?"
Her heart was beating fast, but she bravely faced him. "Yes, Mart, I
don't feel right living with you, and spending your money the way I've
been doing."
"Why not? It isn't mine--it's yours. Ye airn every cent ye spend."
"No, I don't!" she cried, passionately. "Now that you're getting better
and Lucius has come, I'm not even a nurse."
"I'll send him away."
"No, no; he's worth more than I am."
"I'll not listen to such talk, Bertie. Ye well know you're the thing
most precious to me. I can't live without ye." His voice thickened. "For
God A'mighty's sake, don't say such things; they make me heart shake! Me
teeth are chatterin' this minute! Ye're jokin'; say you don't mean it."
"But I do. Don't you see that I can't stay and let you do things for me
like this"--she indicated their apartment--"when I do so little to earn
it all? Mart, I've got to be honest about it. I can't let you spend any
more money on me. Help your own people, and let me go. I do nothing to
pay for what you do for me. It's better for me to go."
She could not bring herself to be as explicit as she should have been,
but he was not far from understanding her real meaning, as he brokenly
replied: "I've been afraid of this, my girl. I've thought of it all. The
money I spend fer ye is but a small part of my debt. You say you do
nothing for me. Why, darlin', every time you come into the room or smile
at me you do much for me! I'm a selfish old wolf, but I'm not so bad as
you think I am. If anny nice young felly comes along--a good square
man--I'll get off the track; but I want you to let me stay near you as
long as I live." His voice was hoarse with pleading. "Ye're all I have
in the world; all I live for now is to make you happy. Don't pull away
now, when me old heart has grown all round ye. I can't live and I
daren't die without ye--now that's the eternal truth. Darlin', promise
ye won't go--yet awhile."
Wordless, as full of pain as he, she sat silently weeping, unable to
carry out her resolution--unable to express the change which had come
into her life.
He went on. "I mark the difference between us. I see ye goin' up while I
am goin' down. My heart is big with pride in ye. You belong with people
like the Congdons and the Mosses--whilst I am only an old broken-down
skate. I'm worse than you know. I went down to Sibley first with hell in
me heart towards you, but that soon passed away--I loved ye as a man
should love the girl he marries--and I love ye now as I love the saints.
I wouldn't mar your young life fer anything in this world--'tis me wish
to lave you as beautiful and fresh as I found you, and to give you all I
have besides--so stay with me, if you can, till the other man comes."
Here a new thought intruded. "Has he come now? Tell me if he has. Did ye
find him in Chicago? Be honest, darlin'."
"No, no!" she answered. "It isn't that. It's just because--because it
don't seem right."
"Then ye must stay with me," he said, "and don't worry about not doing
things for me. You do things for me every minute--just by being in the
world. If I can see ye or hear ye I'm satisfied. An' don't cut me off
from spending money for ye, for that's half me fun. How else can I pay
ye for your help to me? I've been troubled by your face ever since we
left home. You don't smile as ye used to do. Don't ye like it here? If
ye don't we'll go back. Shall we do that?"
She, overwhelmed by his generosity, could only nod.
His face cleared. "Very well, the procession will head west whenever you
say the word. I hope you don't object to the old father. If ye do--"
"Oh no; I like him."
"Then we'll take him; but, remember, I'll let no one come into our home
that will trouble you. I'd as soon have a cinder in me eye as a man I
don't like sitting beside me fire; and if the old man is a burden to ye,
out he goes." He rose, and came painfully to where she sat, and in a
voice of humble sorrow, slowly said: "I don't ask ye to love
me--now--I'm not worth it; and once I thought I'd like a son to bear my
name, but 'tis better not. I'll never lay that burden upon ye. All I ask
is the touch of yer hand now and then, and your presence when I come to
die--I'm scared to die alone. 'Twill be a dark, long journey for old
Mart, and he wants your face to remember when he sets forth."