No, Trina did not know. “Do I love him? Do I love him?” A thousand times
she put the question to herself during the next two or three days. At
night she hardly slept, but lay broad awake for hours in her little,
gayly painted bed, with its white netting, torturing herself with doubts
and questions. At times she remembered the scene in the station with a
veritable agony of shame, and at other times she was ashamed to recall
it with a thrill of joy. Nothing could have been more sudden, more
unexpected, than that surrender of herself. For over a year she had
thought that Marcus would some day be her husband. They would be
married, she supposed, some time in the future, she did not know exactly
when; the matter did not take definite shape in her mind. She liked
Cousin Mark very well. And then suddenly this cross-current had set
in; this blond giant had appeared, this huge, stolid fellow, with
his immense, crude strength. She had not loved him at first, that was
certain. The day he had spoken to her in his “Parlors” she had only been
terrified. If he had confined himself to merely speaking, as did Marcus,
to pleading with her, to wooing her at a distance, forestalling her
wishes, showing her little attentions, sending her boxes of candy, she
could have easily withstood him. But he had only to take her in his
arms, to crush down her struggle with his enormous strength, to subdue
her, conquer her by sheer brute force, and she gave up in an instant.
But why--why had she done so? Why did she feel the desire, the necessity
of being conquered by a superior strength? Why did it please her? Why
had it suddenly thrilled her from head to foot with a quick, terrifying
gust of passion, the like of which she had never known? Never at his
best had Marcus made her feel like that, and yet she had always thought
she cared for Cousin Mark more than for any one else.
When McTeague had all at once caught her in his huge arms, something
had leaped to life in her--something that had hitherto lain dormant,
something strong and overpowering. It frightened her now as she thought
of it, this second self that had wakened within her, and that shouted
and clamored for recognition. And yet, was it to be feared? Was it
something to be ashamed of? Was it not, after all, natural, clean,
spontaneous? Trina knew that she was a pure girl; knew that this sudden
commotion within her carried with it no suggestion of vice.
Dimly, as figures seen in a waking dream, these ideas floated through
Trina's mind. It was quite beyond her to realize them clearly; she could
not know what they meant. Until that rainy day by the shore of the bay
Trina had lived her life with as little self-consciousness as a tree.
She was frank, straightforward, a healthy, natural human being,
without sex as yet. She was almost like a boy. At once there had been a
mysterious disturbance. The woman within her suddenly awoke.
Did she love McTeague? Difficult question. Did she choose him for better
or for worse, deliberately, of her own free will, or was Trina herself
allowed even a choice in the taking of that step that was to make or mar
her life? The Woman is awakened, and, starting from her sleep, catches
blindly at what first her newly opened eyes light upon. It is a spell, a
witchery, ruled by chance alone, inexplicable--a fairy queen enamored of
a clown with ass's ears.
McTeague had awakened the Woman, and, whether she would or no, she was
his now irrevocably; struggle against it as she would, she belonged to
him, body and soul, for life or for death. She had not sought it, she
had not desired it. The spell was laid upon her. Was it a blessing? Was
it a curse? It was all one; she was his, indissolubly, for evil or for
good.
And he? The very act of submission that bound the woman to him forever
had made her seem less desirable in his eyes. Their undoing had already
begun. Yet neither of them was to blame. From the first they had not
sought each other. Chance had brought them face to face, and mysterious
instincts as ungovernable as the winds of heaven were at work knitting
their lives together. Neither of them had asked that this thing should
be--that their destinies, their very souls, should be the sport of
chance. If they could have known, they would have shunned the fearful
risk. But they were allowed no voice in the matter. Why should it all
be?
It had been on a Wednesday that the scene in the B Street station had
taken place. Throughout the rest of the week, at every hour of the day,
Trina asked herself the same question: “Do I love him? Do I really love
him? Is this what love is like?” As she recalled McTeague--recalled his
huge, square-cut head, his salient jaw, his shock of yellow hair, his
heavy, lumbering body, his slow wits--she found little to admire in him
beyond his physical strength, and at such moments she shook her head
decisively. “No, surely she did not love him.” Sunday afternoon,
however, McTeague called. Trina had prepared a little speech for him.
She was to tell him that she did not know what had been the matter with
her that Wednesday afternoon; that she had acted like a bad girl; that
she did not love him well enough to marry him; that she had told him as
much once before.
McTeague saw her alone in the little front parlor. The instant she
appeared he came straight towards her. She saw what he was bent upon
doing. “Wait a minute,” she cried, putting out her hands. “Wait. You
don't understand. I have got something to say to you.” She might as
well have talked to the wind. McTeague put aside her hands with a single
gesture, and gripped her to him in a bearlike embrace that all but
smothered her. Trina was but a reed before that giant strength. McTeague
turned her face to his and kissed her again upon the mouth. Where
was all Trina's resolve then? Where was her carefully prepared little
speech? Where was all her hesitation and torturing doubts of the last
few days? She clasped McTeague's huge red neck with both her slender
arms; she raised her adorable little chin and kissed him in return,
exclaiming: “Oh, I do love you! I do love you!” Never afterward were the
two so happy as at that moment.
A little later in that same week, when Marcus and McTeague were
taking lunch at the car conductors' coffee-joint, the former suddenly
exclaimed:
“Say, Mac, now that you've got Trina, you ought to do more for her. By
damn! you ought to, for a fact. Why don't you take her out somewhere--to
the theatre, or somewhere? You ain't on to your job.”
Naturally, McTeague had told Marcus of his success with Trina. Marcus
had taken on a grand air.
“You've got her, have you? Well, I'm glad of it, old man. I am, for a
fact. I know you'll be happy with her. I know how I would have been. I
forgive you; yes, I forgive you, freely.”
McTeague had not thought of taking Trina to the theatre.
“You think I ought to, Mark?” he inquired, hesitating. Marcus answered,
with his mouth full of suet pudding:
“Why, of course. That's the proper caper.”
“Well--well, that's so. The theatre--that's the word.”
“Take her to the variety show at the Orpheum. There's a good show there
this week; you'll have to take Mrs. Sieppe, too, of course,” he added.
Marcus was not sure of himself as regarded certain proprieties, nor, for
that matter, were any of the people of the little world of Polk Street.
The shop girls, the plumbers' apprentices, the small tradespeople, and
their like, whose social position was not clearly defined, could never
be sure how far they could go and yet preserve their “respectability.”
When they wished to be “proper,” they invariably overdid the thing.
It was not as if they belonged to the “tough” element, who had no
appearances to keep up. Polk Street rubbed elbows with the “avenue”
one block above. There were certain limits which its dwellers could not
overstep; but unfortunately for them, these limits were poorly defined.
They could never be sure of themselves. At an unguarded moment they
might be taken for “toughs,” so they generally erred in the other
direction, and were absurdly formal. No people have a keener eye for the
amenities than those whose social position is not assured.
“Oh, sure, you'll have to take her mother,” insisted Marcus. “It
wouldn't be the proper racket if you didn't.”
McTeague undertook the affair. It was an ordeal. Never in his life had
he been so perturbed, so horribly anxious. He called upon Trina the
following Wednesday and made arrangements. Mrs. Sieppe asked if little
August might be included. It would console him for the loss of his
steamboat.
“Sure, sure,” said McTeague. “August too--everybody,” he added, vaguely.
“We always have to leave so early,” complained Trina, “in order to catch
the last boat. Just when it's becoming interesting.”
At this McTeague, acting upon a suggestion of Marcus Schouler's,
insisted they should stay at the flat over night. Marcus and the dentist
would give up their rooms to them and sleep at the dog hospital. There
was a bed there in the sick ward that old Grannis sometimes occupied
when a bad case needed watching. All at once McTeague had an idea, a
veritable inspiration.
“And we'll--we'll--we'll have--what's the matter with having something
to eat afterward in my 'Parlors'?”
“Vairy goot,” commented Mrs. Sieppe. “Bier, eh? And some damales.”
“Oh, I love tamales!” exclaimed Trina, clasping her hands.
McTeague returned to the city, rehearsing his instructions over and
over. The theatre party began to assume tremendous proportions. First of
all, he was to get the seats, the third or fourth row from the front, on
the left-hand side, so as to be out of the hearing of the drums in the
orchestra; he must make arrangements about the rooms with Marcus, must
get in the beer, but not the tamales; must buy for himself a white lawn
tie--so Marcus directed; must look to it that Maria Macapa put his room
in perfect order; and, finally, must meet the Sieppes at the ferry slip
at half-past seven the following Monday night.
The real labor of the affair began with the buying of the tickets. At
the theatre McTeague got into wrong entrances; was sent from one wicket
to another; was bewildered, confused; misunderstood directions; was at
one moment suddenly convinced that he had not enough money with him,
and started to return home. Finally he found himself at the box-office
wicket.
“Is it here you buy your seats?”
“How many?”
“Is it here--”
“What night do you want 'em? Yes, sir, here's the place.”
McTeague gravely delivered himself of the formula he had been reciting
for the last dozen hours.
“I want four seats for Monday night in the fourth row from the front,
and on the right-hand side.”
“Right hand as you face the house or as you face the stage?” McTeague
was dumfounded.
“I want to be on the right-hand side,” he insisted, stolidly; adding,
“in order to be away from the drums.”
“Well, the drums are on the right of the orchestra as you face the
stage,” shouted the other impatiently; “you want to the left, then, as
you face the house.”
“I want to be on the right-hand side,” persisted the dentist.
Without a word the seller threw out four tickets with a magnificent,
supercilious gesture.
“There's four seats on the right-hand side, then, and you're right up
against the drums.”
“But I don't want to be near the drums,” protested McTeague, beginning
to perspire.
“Do you know what you want at all?” said the ticket seller with
calmness, thrusting his head at McTeague. The dentist knew that he had
hurt this young man's feelings.
“I want--I want,” he stammered. The seller slammed down a plan of the
house in front of him and began to explain excitedly. It was the one
thing lacking to complete McTeague's confusion.
“There are your seats,” finished the seller, shoving the tickets into
McTeague's hands. “They are the fourth row from the front, and away from
the drums. Now are you satisfied?”
“Are they on the right-hand side? I want on the right--no, I want on the
left. I want--I don' know, I don' know.”
The seller roared. McTeague moved slowly away, gazing stupidly at the
blue slips of pasteboard. Two girls took his place at the wicket. In
another moment McTeague came back, peering over the girls' shoulders and
calling to the seller:
“Are these for Monday night?”
The other disdained reply. McTeague retreated again timidly, thrusting
the tickets into his immense wallet. For a moment he stood thoughtful
on the steps of the entrance. Then all at once he became enraged, he
did not know exactly why; somehow he felt himself slighted. Once more he
came back to the wicket.
“You can't make small of me,” he shouted over the girls' shoulders;
“you--you can't make small of me. I'll thump you in the head, you
little--you little--you little--little--little pup.” The ticket seller
shrugged his shoulders wearily. “A dollar and a half,” he said to the
two girls.
McTeague glared at him and breathed loudly. Finally he decided to let
the matter drop. He moved away, but on the steps was once more seized
with a sense of injury and outraged dignity.
“You can't make small of me,” he called back a last time, wagging his
head and shaking his fist. “I will--I will--I will--yes, I will.” He
went off muttering.
At last Monday night came. McTeague met the Sieppes at the ferry,
dressed in a black Prince Albert coat and his best slate-blue trousers,
and wearing the made-up lawn necktie that Marcus had selected for him.
Trina was very pretty in the black dress that McTeague knew so well.
She wore a pair of new gloves. Mrs. Sieppe had on lisle-thread mits, and
carried two bananas and an orange in a net reticule. “For Owgooste,” she
confided to him. Owgooste was in a Fauntleroy “costume” very much too
small for him. Already he had been crying.
“Woult you pelief, Doktor, dot bube has torn his stockun alreatty? Walk
in der front, you; stop cryun. Where is dot berliceman?”
At the door of the theatre McTeague was suddenly seized with a panic
terror. He had lost the tickets. He tore through his pockets, ransacked
his wallet. They were nowhere to be found. All at once he remembered,
and with a gasp of relief removed his hat and took them out from beneath
the sweatband.
The party entered and took their places. It was absurdly early. The
lights were all darkened, the ushers stood under the galleries in
groups, the empty auditorium echoing with their noisy talk. Occasionally
a waiter with his tray and clean white apron sauntered up and doun
the aisle. Directly in front of them was the great iron curtain of the
stage, painted with all manner of advertisements. From behind this came
a noise of hammering and of occasional loud voices.
While waiting they studied their programmes. First was an overture by
the orchestra, after which came “The Gleasons, in their mirth-moving
musical farce, entitled 'McMonnigal's Court-ship.'” This was to be
followed by “The Lamont Sisters, Winnie and Violet, serio-comiques and
skirt dancers.” And after this came a great array of other “artists” and
“specialty performers,” musical wonders, acrobats, lightning artists,
ventriloquists, and last of all, “The feature of the evening, the
crowning scientific achievement of the nineteenth century, the
kinetoscope.” McTeague was excited, dazzled. In five years he had not
been twice to the theatre. Now he beheld himself inviting his “girl” and
her mother to accompany him. He began to feel that he was a man of the
world. He ordered a cigar.
Meanwhile the house was filling up. A few side brackets were turned on.
The ushers ran up and down the aisles, stubs of tickets between their
thumb and finger, and from every part of the auditorium could be heard
the sharp clap-clapping of the seats as the ushers flipped them down. A
buzz of talk arose. In the gallery a street gamin whistled shrilly, and
called to some friends on the other side of the house.
“Are they go-wun to begin pretty soon, ma?” whined Owgooste for the
fifth or sixth time; adding, “Say, ma, can't I have some candy?” A
cadaverous little boy had appeared in their aisle, chanting, “Candies,
French mixed candies, popcorn, peanuts and candy.” The orchestra
entered, each man crawling out from an opening under the stage, hardly
larger than the gate of a rabbit hutch. At every instant now the crowd
increased; there were but few seats that were not taken. The waiters
hurried up and down the aisles, their trays laden with beer glasses.
A smell of cigar-smoke filled the air, and soon a faint blue haze rose
from all corners of the house.
“Ma, when are they go-wun to begin?” cried Owgooste. As he spoke
the iron advertisement curtain rose, disclosing the curtain proper
underneath. This latter curtain was quite an affair. Upon it was painted
a wonderful picture. A flight of marble steps led down to a stream of
water; two white swans, their necks arched like the capital letter S,
floated about. At the head of the marble steps were two vases filled
with red and yellow flowers, while at the foot was moored a gondola.
This gondola was full of red velvet rugs that hung over the side
and trailed in the water. In the prow of the gondola a young man in
vermilion tights held a mandolin in his left hand, and gave his right to
a girl in white satin. A King Charles spaniel, dragging a leading-string
in the shape of a huge pink sash, followed the girl. Seven scarlet
roses were scattered upon the two lowest steps, and eight floated in the
water.
“Ain't that pretty, Mac?” exclaimed Trina, turning to the dentist.
“Ma, ain't they go-wun to begin now-wow?” whined Owgooste. Suddenly the
lights all over the house blazed up. “Ah!” said everybody all at once.
“Ain't ut crowdut?” murmured Mr. Sieppe. Every seat was taken; many were
even standing up.
“I always like it better when there is a crowd,” said Trina. She was in
great spirits that evening. Her round, pale face was positively pink.
The orchestra banged away at the overture, suddenly finishing with a
great flourish of violins. A short pause followed. Then the orchestra
played a quick-step strain, and the curtain rose on an interior
furnished with two red chairs and a green sofa. A girl in a short blue
dress and black stockings entered in a hurry and began to dust the
two chairs. She was in a great temper, talking very fast, disclaiming
against the “new lodger.” It appeared that this latter never paid
his rent; that he was given to late hours. Then she came down to the
footlights and began to sing in a tremendous voice, hoarse and flat,
almost like a man's. The chorus, of a feeble originality, ran:
“Oh, how happy I will be,
When my darling's face I'll see;
Oh, tell him for to meet me in the moonlight,
Down where the golden lilies bloom.”
The orchestra played the tune of this chorus a second time, with certain
variations, while the girl danced to it. She sidled to one side of the
stage and kicked, then sidled to the other and kicked again. As she
finished with the song, a man, evidently the lodger in question, came
in. Instantly McTeague exploded in a roar of laughter. The man
was intoxicated, his hat was knocked in, one end of his collar was
unfastened and stuck up into his face, his watch-chain dangled from
his pocket, and a yellow satin slipper was tied to a button-hole of his
vest; his nose was vermilion, one eye was black and blue. After a short
dialogue with the girl, a third actor appeared. He was dressed like a
little boy, the girl's younger brother. He wore an immense turned-down
collar, and was continually doing hand-springs and wonderful back
somersaults. The “act” devolved upon these three people; the lodger
making love to the girl in the short blue dress, the boy playing all
manner of tricks upon him, giving him tremendous digs in the ribs or
slaps upon the back that made him cough, pulling chairs from under him,
running on all fours between his legs and upsetting him, knocking him
over at inopportune moments. Every one of his falls was accentuated by a
bang upon the bass drum. The whole humor of the “act” seemed to consist
in the tripping up of the intoxicated lodger.
This horse-play delighted McTeague beyond measure. He roared and shouted
every time the lodger went down, slapping his knee, wagging his head.
Owgooste crowed shrilly, clapping his hands and continually
asking, “What did he say, ma? What did he say?” Mrs. Sieppe laughed
immoderately, her huge fat body shaking like a mountain of jelly. She
exclaimed from time to time, “Ach, Gott, dot fool!” Even Trina was
moved, laughing demurely, her lips closed, putting one hand with its new
glove to her mouth.
The performance went on. Now it was the “musical marvels,” two men
extravagantly made up as negro minstrels, with immense shoes and
plaid vests. They seemed to be able to wrestle a tune out of almost
anything--glass bottles, cigar-box fiddles, strings of sleigh-bells,
even graduated brass tubes, which they rubbed with resined fingers.
McTeague was stupefied with admiration.
“That's what you call musicians,” he announced gravely. “'Home, Sweet
Home,' played upon a trombone. Think of that! Art could go no farther.”
The acrobats left him breathless. They were dazzling young men with
beautifully parted hair, continually making graceful gestures to the
audience. In one of them the dentist fancied he saw a strong resemblance
to the boy who had tormented the intoxicated lodger and who had turned
such marvellous somersaults. Trina could not bear to watch their antics.
She turned away her head with a little shudder. “It always makes me
sick,” she explained.
The beautiful young lady, “The Society Contralto,” in evening dress, who
sang the sentimental songs, and carried the sheets of music at which she
never looked, pleased McTeague less. Trina, however, was captivated. She
grew pensive over
“You do not love me--no;
Bid me good-by and go;”
and split her new gloves in her enthusiasm when it was finished.
“Don't you love sad music, Mac?” she murmured.
Then came the two comedians. They talked with fearful rapidity; their
wit and repartee seemed inexhaustible.
“As I was going down the street yesterday--”
“Ah! as YOU were going down the street--all right.”
“I saw a girl at a window----”
“YOU saw a girl at a window.”
“And this girl she was a corker----”
“Ah! as YOU were going down the street yesterday YOU saw a girl at a
window, and this girl she was a corker. All right, go on.”
The other comedian went on. The joke was suddenly evolved. A certain
phrase led to a song, which was sung with lightning rapidity, each
performer making precisely the same gestures at precisely the same
instant. They were irresistible. McTeague, though he caught but a third
of the jokes, could have listened all night.
After the comedians had gone out, the iron advertisement curtain was let
down.
“What comes now?” said McTeague, bewildered.
“It's the intermission of fifteen minutes now.”
The musicians disappeared through the rabbit hutch, and the audience
stirred and stretched itself. Most of the young men left their seats.
During this intermission McTeague and his party had “refreshments.” Mrs.
Sieppe and Trina had Queen Charlottes, McTeague drank a glass of beer,
Owgooste ate the orange and one of the bananas. He begged for a glass of
lemonade, which was finally given him.
“Joost to geep um quiet,” observed Mrs. Sieppe.
But almost immediately after drinking his lemonade Owgooste was seized
with a sudden restlessness. He twisted and wriggled in his seat,
swinging his legs violently, looking about him with eyes full of a vague
distress. At length, just as the musicians were returning, he stood
up and whispered energetically in his mother's ear. Mrs. Sieppe was
exasperated at once.
“No, no,” she cried, reseating him brusquely.
The performance was resumed. A lightning artist appeared, drawing
caricatures and portraits with incredible swiftness. He even went so far
as to ask for subjects from the audience, and the names of prominent
men were shouted to him from the gallery. He drew portraits of the
President, of Grant, of Washington, of Napoleon Bonaparte, of Bismarck,
of Garibaldi, of P. T. Barnum.
And so the evening passed. The hall grew very hot, and the smoke of
innumerable cigars made the eyes smart. A thick blue mist hung low over
the heads of the audience. The air was full of varied smells--the
smell of stale cigars, of flat beer, of orange peel, of gas, of sachet
powders, and of cheap perfumery.
One “artist” after another came upon the stage. McTeague's attention
never wandered for a minute. Trina and her mother enjoyed themselves
hugely. At every moment they made comments to one another, their eyes
never leaving the stage.
“Ain't dot fool joost too funny?”
“That's a pretty song. Don't you like that kind of a song?”
“Wonderful! It's wonderful! Yes, yes, wonderful! That's the word.”
Owgooste, however, lost interest. He stood up in his place, his back to
the stage, chewing a piece of orange peel and watching a little girl in
her father's lap across the aisle, his eyes fixed in a glassy, ox-like
stare. But he was uneasy. He danced from one foot to the other, and at
intervals appealed in hoarse whispers to his mother, who disdained an
answer.
“Ma, say, ma-ah,” he whined, abstractedly chewing his orange peel,
staring at the little girl.
“Ma-ah, say, ma.” At times his monotonous plaint reached his mother's
consciousness. She suddenly realized what this was that was annoying
her.
“Owgooste, will you sit down?” She caught him up all at once, and jammed
him down into his place. “Be quiet, den; loog; listun at der yunge
girls.”
Three young women and a young man who played a zither occupied the
stage. They were dressed in Tyrolese costume; they were yodlers, and
sang in German about “mountain tops” and “bold hunters” and the like.
The yodling chorus was a marvel of flute-like modulations. The girls
were really pretty, and were not made up in the least. Their “turn” had
a great success. Mrs. Sieppe was entranced. Instantly she remembered her
girlhood and her native Swiss village.
“Ach, dot is heavunly; joost like der old country. Mein gran'mutter used
to be one of der mos' famous yodlers. When I was leedle, I haf seen dem
joost like dat.”
“Ma-ah,” began Owgooste fretfully, as soon as the yodlers had departed.
He could not keep still an instant; he twisted from side to side,
swinging his legs with incredible swiftness.
“Ma-ah, I want to go ho-ome.”
“Pehave!” exclaimed his mother, shaking him by the arm; “loog, der
leedle girl is watchun you. Dis is der last dime I take you to der blay,
you see.”
“I don't ca-are; I'm sleepy.” At length, to their great relief, he went
to sleep, his head against his mother's arm.
The kinetoscope fairly took their breaths away.
“What will they do next?” observed Trina, in amazement. “Ain't that
wonderful, Mac?”
McTeague was awe-struck.
“Look at that horse move his head,” he cried excitedly, quite carried
away. “Look at that cable car coming--and the man going across the
street. See, here comes a truck. Well, I never in all my life! What
would Marcus say to this?”
“It's all a drick!” exclaimed Mrs. Sieppe, with sudden conviction. “I
ain't no fool; dot's nothun but a drick.”
“Well, of course, mamma,” exclaimed Trina, “it's----”
But Mrs. Sieppe put her head in the air.
“I'm too old to be fooled,” she persisted. “It's a drick.” Nothing more
could be got out of her than this.
The party stayed to the very end of the show, though the kinetoscope was
the last number but one on the programme, and fully half the audience
left immediately afterward. However, while the unfortunate Irish
comedian went through his “act” to the backs of the departing people,
Mrs. Sieppe woke Owgooste, very cross and sleepy, and began getting
her “things together.” As soon as he was awake Owgooste began fidgeting
again.
“Save der brogramme, Trina,” whispered Mrs. Sieppe. “Take ut home to
popper. Where is der hat of Owgooste? Haf you got mein handkerchief,
Trina?”
But at this moment a dreadful accident happened to Owgooste; his
distress reached its climax; his fortitude collapsed. What a misery!
It was a veritable catastrophe, deplorable, lamentable, a thing beyond
words! For a moment he gazed wildly about him, helpless and petrified
with astonishment and terror. Then his grief found utterance, and the
closing strains of the orchestra were mingled with a prolonged wail of
infinite sadness.
“Owgooste, what is ut?” cried his mother eyeing him with dawning
suspicion; then suddenly, “What haf you done? You haf ruin your new
Vauntleroy gostume!” Her face blazed; without more ado she smacked him
soundly. Then it was that Owgooste touched the limit of his misery,
his unhappiness, his horrible discomfort; his utter wretchedness was
complete. He filled the air with his doleful outcries. The more he was
smacked and shaken, the louder he wept.
“What--what is the matter?” inquired McTeague.
Trina's face was scarlet. “Nothing, nothing,” she exclaimed hastily,
looking away. “Come, we must be going. It's about over.” The end of the
show and the breaking up of the audience tided over the embarrassment of
the moment.
The party filed out at the tail end of the audience. Already the lights
were being extinguished and the ushers spreading druggeting over the
upholstered seats.
McTeague and the Sieppes took an uptown car that would bring them near
Polk Street. The car was crowded; McTeague and Owgooste were obliged to
stand. The little boy fretted to be taken in his mother's lap, but Mrs.
Sieppe emphatically refused.
On their way home they discussed the performance.
“I--I like best der yodlers.”
“Ah, the soloist was the best--the lady who sang those sad songs.”
“Wasn't--wasn't that magic lantern wonderful, where the figures moved?
Wonderful--ah, wonderful! And wasn't that first act funny, where the
fellow fell down all the time? And that musical act, and the fellow with
the burnt-cork face who played 'Nearer, My God, to Thee' on the beer
bottles.”
They got off at Polk Street and walked up a block to the flat. The
street was dark and empty; opposite the flat, in the back of the
deserted market, the ducks and geese were calling persistently.
As they were buying their tamales from the half-breed Mexican at the
street corner, McTeague observed:
“Marcus ain't gone to bed yet. See, there's a light in his window.
There!” he exclaimed at once, “I forgot the doorkey. Well, Marcus can
let us in.”
Hardly had he rung the bell at the street door of the flat when the
bolt was shot back. In the hall at the top of the long, narrow staircase
there was the sound of a great scurrying. Maria Macapa stood there,
her hand upon the rope that drew the bolt; Marcus was at her side;
Old Grannis was in the background, looking over their shoulders; while
little Miss Baker leant over the banisters, a strange man in a drab
overcoat at her side. As McTeague's party stepped into the doorway a
half-dozen voices cried:
“Yes, it's them.”
“Is that you, Mac?”
“Is that you, Miss Sieppe?”
“Is your name Trina Sieppe?”
Then, shriller than all the rest, Maria Macapa screamed:
“Oh, Miss Sieppe, come up here quick. Your lottery ticket has won five
thousand dollars!”