The days passed. McTeague had finished the operation on Trina's teeth.
She did not come any more to the “Parlors.” Matters had readjusted
themselves a little between the two during the last sittings. Trina yet
stood upon her reserve, and McTeague still felt himself shambling and
ungainly in her presence; but that constraint and embarrassment that
had followed upon McTeague's blundering declaration broke up little by
little. In spite of themselves they were gradually resuming the same
relative positions they had occupied when they had first met.
But McTeague suffered miserably for all that. He never would have
Trina, he saw that clearly. She was too good for him; too delicate, too
refined, too prettily made for him, who was so coarse, so enormous, so
stupid. She was for someone else--Marcus, no doubt--or at least for some
finer-grained man. She should have gone to some other dentist; the young
fellow on the corner, for instance, the poser, the rider of bicycles,
the courser of grey-hounds. McTeague began to loathe and to envy this
fellow. He spied upon him going in and out of his office, and noted his
salmon-pink neckties and his astonishing waistcoats.
One Sunday, a few days after Trina's last sitting, McTeague met Marcus
Schouler at his table in the car conductors' coffee-joint, next to the
harness shop.
“What you got to do this afternoon, Mac?” inquired the other, as they
ate their suet pudding.
“Nothing, nothing,” replied McTeague, shaking his head. His mouth
was full of pudding. It made him warm to eat, and little beads of
perspiration stood across the bridge of his nose. He looked forward
to an afternoon passed in his operating chair as usual. On leaving
his “Parlors” he had put ten cents into his pitcher and had left it at
Frenna's to be filled.
“What do you say we take a walk, huh?” said Marcus. “Ah, that's the
thing--a walk, a long walk, by damn! It'll be outa sight. I got to take
three or four of the dogs out for exercise, anyhow. Old Grannis thinks
they need ut. We'll walk out to the Presidio.”
Of late it had become the custom of the two friends to take long walks
from time to time. On holidays and on those Sunday afternoons when
Marcus was not absent with the Sieppes they went out together, sometimes
to the park, sometimes to the Presidio, sometimes even across the bay.
They took a great pleasure in each other's company, but silently and
with reservation, having the masculine horror of any demonstration of
friendship.
They walked for upwards of five hours that afternoon, out the length
of California Street, and across the Presidio Reservation to the Golden
Gate. Then they turned, and, following the line of the shore, brought up
at the Cliff House. Here they halted for beer, Marcus swearing that his
mouth was as dry as a hay-bin. Before starting on their walk they had
gone around to the little dog hospital, and Marcus had let out four of
the convalescents, crazed with joy at the release.
“Look at that dog,” he cried to McTeague, showing him a finely-bred
Irish setter. “That's the dog that belonged to the duck on the avenue,
the dog we called for that day. I've bought 'um. The duck thought he
had the distemper, and just threw 'um away. Nothun wrong with 'um but a
little catarrh. Ain't he a bird? Say, ain't he a bird? Look at his flag;
it's perfect; and see how he carries his tail on a line with his back.
See how stiff and white his whiskers are. Oh, by damn! you can't fool me
on a dog. That dog's a winner.”
At the Cliff House the two sat down to their beer in a quiet corner of
the billiard-room. There were but two players. Somewhere in another part
of the building a mammoth music-box was jangling out a quickstep. From
outside came the long, rhythmical rush of the surf and the sonorous
barking of the seals upon the seal rocks. The four dogs curled
themselves down upon the sanded floor.
“Here's how,” said Marcus, half emptying his glass. “Ah-h!” he added,
with a long breath, “that's good; it is, for a fact.”
For the last hour of their walk Marcus had done nearly all the talking.
McTeague merely answering him by uncertain movements of the head. For
that matter, the dentist had been silent and preoccupied throughout the
whole afternoon. At length Marcus noticed it. As he set down his glass
with a bang he suddenly exclaimed:
“What's the matter with you these days, Mac? You got a bean about
somethun, hey? Spit ut out.”
“No, no,” replied McTeague, looking about on the floor, rolling his
eyes; “nothing, no, no.”
“Ah, rats!” returned the other. McTeague kept silence. The two billiard
players departed. The huge music-box struck into a fresh tune.
“Huh!” exclaimed Marcus, with a short laugh, “guess you're in love.”
McTeague gasped, and shuffled his enormous feet under the table.
“Well, somethun's bitun you, anyhow,” pursued Marcus. “Maybe I can
help you. We're pals, you know. Better tell me what's up; guess we can
straighten ut out. Ah, go on; spit ut out.”
The situation was abominable. McTeague could not rise to it. Marcus was
his best friend, his only friend. They were “pals” and McTeague was very
fond of him. Yet they were both in love, presumably, with the same girl,
and now Marcus would try and force the secret out of him; would rush
blindly at the rock upon which the two must split, stirred by the very
best of motives, wishing only to be of service. Besides this, there was
nobody to whom McTeague would have better preferred to tell his troubles
than to Marcus, and yet about this trouble, the greatest trouble of his
life, he must keep silent; must refrain from speaking of it to Marcus
above everybody.
McTeague began dimly to feel that life was too much for him. How had it
all come about? A month ago he was perfectly content; he was calm and
peaceful, taking his little pleasures as he found them. His life had
shaped itself; was, no doubt, to continue always along these same lines.
A woman had entered his small world and instantly there was discord. The
disturbing element had appeared. Wherever the woman had put her foot a
score of distressing complications had sprung up, like the sudden growth
of strange and puzzling flowers.
“Say, Mac, go on; let's have ut straight,” urged Marcus, leaning toward
him. “Has any duck been doing you dirt?” he cried, his face crimson on
the instant.
“No,” said McTeague, helplessly.
“Come along, old man,” persisted Marcus; “let's have ut. What is the
row? I'll do all I can to help you.”
It was more than McTeague could bear. The situation had got beyond
him. Stupidly he spoke, his hands deep in his pockets, his head rolled
forward.
“It's--it's Miss Sieppe,” he said.
“Trina, my cousin? How do you mean?” inquired Marcus sharply.
“I--I--I don' know,” stammered McTeague, hopelessly confounded.
“You mean,” cried Marcus, suddenly enlightened, “that you are--that you,
too.”
McTeague stirred in his chair, looking at the walls of the room,
avoiding the other's glance. He nodded his head, then suddenly broke
out:
“I can't help it. It ain't my fault, is it?”
Marcus was struck dumb; he dropped back in his chair breathless.
Suddenly McTeague found his tongue.
“I tell you, Mark, I can't help it. I don't know how it happened. It
came on so slow that I was, that--that--that it was done before I knew
it, before I could help myself. I know we're pals, us two, and I knew
how--how you and Miss Sieppe were. I know now, I knew then; but that
wouldn't have made any difference. Before I knew it--it--it--there I
was. I can't help it. I wouldn't 'a' had ut happen for anything, if
I could 'a' stopped it, but I don' know, it's something that's just
stronger than you are, that's all. She came there--Miss Sieppe came to
the parlors there three or four times a week, and she was the first
girl I had ever known,--and you don' know! Why, I was so close to her I
touched her face every minute, and her mouth, and smelt her hair and her
breath--oh, you don't know anything about it. I can't give you any idea.
I don' know exactly myself; I only know how I'm fixed. I--I--it's
been done; it's too late, there's no going back. Why, I can't think
of anything else night and day. It's everything. It's--it's--oh, it's
everything! I--I--why, Mark, it's everything--I can't explain.” He made
a helpless movement with both hands.
Never had McTeague been so excited; never had he made so long a speech.
His arms moved in fierce, uncertain gestures, his face flushed, his
enormous jaws shut together with a sharp click at every pause. It was
like some colossal brute trapped in a delicate, invisible mesh, raging,
exasperated, powerless to extricate himself.
Marcus Schouler said nothing. There was a long silence. Marcus got up
and walked to the window and stood looking out, but seeing nothing.
“Well, who would have thought of this?” he muttered under his breath.
Here was a fix. Marcus cared for Trina. There was no doubt in his
mind about that. He looked forward eagerly to the Sunday afternoon
excursions. He liked to be with Trina. He, too, felt the charm of the
little girl--the charm of the small, pale forehead; the little chin
thrust out as if in confidence and innocence; the heavy, odorous crown
of black hair. He liked her immensely. Some day he would speak; he would
ask her to marry him. Marcus put off this matter of marriage to some
future period; it would be some time--a year, perhaps, or two. The thing
did not take definite shape in his mind. Marcus “kept company” with his
cousin Trina, but he knew plenty of other girls. For the matter of that,
he liked all girls pretty well. Just now the singleness and strength of
McTeague's passion startled him. McTeague would marry Trina that very
afternoon if she would have him; but would he--Marcus? No, he would not;
if it came to that, no, he would not. Yet he knew he liked Trina. He
could say--yes, he could say--he loved her. She was his “girl.” The
Sieppes acknowledged him as Trina's “young man.” Marcus came back to the
table and sat down sideways upon it.
“Well, what are we going to do about it, Mac?” he said.
“I don' know,” answered McTeague, in great distress. “I don' want
anything to--to come between us, Mark.”
“Well, nothun will, you bet!” vociferated the other. “No, sir; you bet
not, Mac.”
Marcus was thinking hard. He could see very clearly that McTeague loved
Trina more than he did; that in some strange way this huge, brutal
fellow was capable of a greater passion than himself, who was twice as
clever. Suddenly Marcus jumped impetuously to a resolution.
“Well, say, Mac,” he cried, striking the table with his fist, “go ahead.
I guess you--you want her pretty bad. I'll pull out; yes, I will. I'll
give her up to you, old man.”
The sense of his own magnanimity all at once overcame Marcus. He saw
himself as another man, very noble, self-sacrificing; he stood apart
and watched this second self with boundless admiration and with infinite
pity. He was so good, so magnificent, so heroic, that he almost sobbed.
Marcus made a sweeping gesture of resignation, throwing out both his
arms, crying:
“Mac, I'll give her up to you. I won't stand between you.” There were
actually tears in Marcus's eyes as he spoke. There was no doubt he
thought himself sincere. At that moment he almost believed he loved
Trina conscientiously, that he was sacrificing himself for the sake of
his friend. The two stood up and faced each other, gripping hands. It
was a great moment; even McTeague felt the drama of it. What a fine
thing was this friendship between men! the dentist treats his friend
for an ulcerated tooth and refuses payment; the friend reciprocates by
giving up his girl. This was nobility. Their mutual affection and esteem
suddenly increased enormously. It was Damon and Pythias; it was David
and Jonathan; nothing could ever estrange them. Now it was for life or
death.
“I'm much obliged,” murmured McTeague. He could think of nothing better
to say. “I'm much obliged,” he repeated; “much obliged, Mark.”
“That's all right, that's all right,” returned Marcus Schouler, bravely,
and it occurred to him to add, “You'll be happy together. Tell her
for me--tell her---tell her----” Marcus could not go on. He wrung the
dentist's hand silently.
It had not appeared to either of them that Trina might refuse McTeague.
McTeague's spirits rose at once. In Marcus's withdrawal he fancied he
saw an end to all his difficulties. Everything would come right, after
all. The strained, exalted state of Marcus's nerves ended by putting
him into fine humor as well. His grief suddenly changed to an excess of
gaiety. The afternoon was a success. They slapped each other on the back
with great blows of the open palms, and they drank each other's health
in a third round of beer.
Ten minutes after his renunciation of Trina Sieppe, Marcus astounded
McTeague with a tremendous feat.
“Looka here, Mac. I know somethun you can't do. I'll bet you two bits
I'll stump you.” They each put a quarter on the table. “Now watch me,”
cried Marcus. He caught up a billiard ball from the rack, poised it a
moment in front of his face, then with a sudden, horrifying distension
of his jaws crammed it into his mouth, and shut his lips over it.
For an instant McTeague was stupefied, his eyes bulging. Then an
enormous laugh shook him. He roared and shouted, swaying in his chair,
slapping his knee. What a josher was this Marcus! Sure, you never could
tell what he would do next. Marcus slipped the ball out, wiped it on the
tablecloth, and passed it to McTeague.
“Now let's see you do it.”
McTeague fell suddenly grave. The matter was serious. He parted his
thick mustaches and opened his enormous jaws like an anaconda. The ball
disappeared inside his mouth. Marcus applauded vociferously, shouting,
“Good work!” McTeague reached for the money and put it in his vest
pocket, nodding his head with a knowing air.
Then suddenly his face grew purple, his jaws moved convulsively, he
pawed at his cheeks with both hands. The billiard ball had slipped into
his mouth easily enough; now, however, he could not get it out again.
It was terrible. The dentist rose to his feet, stumbling about among the
dogs, his face working, his eyes starting. Try as he would, he could not
stretch his jaws wide enough to slip the ball out. Marcus lost his
wits, swearing at the top of his voice. McTeague sweated with terror;
inarticulate sounds came from his crammed mouth; he waved his arms
wildly; all the four dogs caught the excitement and began to bark. A
waiter rushed in, the two billiard players returned, a little crowd
formed. There was a veritable scene.
All at once the ball slipped out of McTeague's jaws as easily as it had
gone in. What a relief! He dropped into a chair, wiping his forehead,
gasping for breath.
On the strength of the occasion Marcus Schouler invited the entire group
to drink with him.
By the time the affair was over and the group dispersed it was after
five. Marcus and McTeague decided they would ride home on the cars.
But they soon found this impossible. The dogs would not follow. Only
Alexander, Marcus's new setter, kept his place at the rear of the car.
The other three lost their senses immediately, running wildly about
the streets with their heads in the air, or suddenly starting off at a
furious gallop directly away from the car. Marcus whistled and shouted
and lathered with rage in vain. The two friends were obliged to walk.
When they finally reached Polk Street, Marcus shut up the three dogs in
the hospital. Alexander he brought back to the flat with him.
There was a minute back yard in the rear, where Marcus had made a kennel
for Alexander out of an old water barrel. Before he thought of his own
supper Marcus put Alexander to bed and fed him a couple of dog biscuits.
McTeague had followed him to the yard to keep him company. Alexander
settled to his supper at once, chewing vigorously at the biscuit, his
head on one side.
“What you going to do about this--about that--about--about my cousin
now, Mac?” inquired Marcus.
McTeague shook his head helplessly. It was dark by now and cold. The
little back yard was grimy and full of odors. McTeague was tired with
their long walk. All his uneasiness about his affair with Trina had
returned. No, surely she was not for him. Marcus or some other man would
win her in the end. What could she ever see to desire in him--in him, a
clumsy giant, with hands like wooden mallets? She had told him once that
she would not marry him. Was that not final?
“I don' know what to do, Mark,” he said.
“Well, you must make up to her now,” answered Marcus. “Go and call on
her.”
McTeague started. He had not thought of calling on her. The idea
frightened him a little.
“Of course,” persisted Marcus, “that's the proper caper. What did you
expect? Did you think you was never going to see her again?”
“I don' know, I don' know,” responded the dentist, looking stupidly at
the dog.
“You know where they live,” continued Marcus Schouler. “Over at B Street
station, across the bay. I'll take you over there whenever you want to
go. I tell you what, we'll go over there Washington's Birthday. That's
this next Wednesday; sure, they'll be glad to see you.” It was good of
Marcus. All at once McTeague rose to an appreciation of what his friend
was doing for him. He stammered:
“Say, Mark--you're--you're all right, anyhow.”
“Why, pshaw!” said Marcus. “That's all right, old man. I'd like to see
you two fixed, that's all. We'll go over Wednesday, sure.”
They turned back to the house. Alexander left off eating and watched
them go away, first with one eye, then with the other. But he was too
self-respecting to whimper. However, by the time the two friends had
reached the second landing on the back stairs a terrible commotion was
under way in the little yard. They rushed to an open window at the end
of the hall and looked down.
A thin board fence separated the flat's back yard from that used by
the branch post-office. In the latter place lived a collie dog. He and
Alexander had smelt each other out, blowing through the cracks of the
fence at each other. Suddenly the quarrel had exploded on either side of
the fence. The dogs raged at each other, snarling and barking, frantic
with hate. Their teeth gleamed. They tore at the fence with their front
paws. They filled the whole night with their clamor.
“By damn!” cried Marcus, “they don't love each other. Just listen;
wouldn't that make a fight if the two got together? Have to try it some
day.”