IN THE NOOK.
That afternoon was to be long remembered by all the visitors at Merry
Home. It passed pleasantly in spite of the fact that Hans insisted on
"rending a selection" on the flute and seemed rather disappointed and
downcast when they begged him not to play any more.
"Der musig haf no heart for you," he complained. "Maype you vould like a
popular song to sing to me. I vill gif you 'Efrybody Vorks Poor Vather.'
Yes? No?"
"Don't yez do it, Hans," entreated Barney. "We have suffered enough
already."
"Und id vos such a peautiful song!" moaned Dunnerwurst. "I understandt
der author uf dot song got only fife hundret dollars for writin' id."
"Waal," drawled Gallup, "maybe it was his first offense. Did he pay the
fine?"
"Fife hundret dollars vos a small amoundt," said Hans. "Still I vould
like to add it py my 'lefen dollars and seventeen cents vot I haf my
pocket in."
"How much would that make in all?" questioned Gallup. "You always was a
rippin' good mathematicker, Hans, though seems to me you did git a
little balled up in substraction. If you've gut eleven dollars and
sixteen cents in your pocket, and I should take five dollars away from
you, whaot would be the result?"
"You vould be carried avay an ambulance in," said the Dutchman promptly.
Carker had bestowed a great deal of attention on Juanita. Although she
pretended not to notice this, Mrs. Morton was waiting her opportunity,
and it came when Greg strolled away alone beneath the trees. In a few
moments she made an excuse and followed him. Finding him seated on a
rustic bench in a little nook, she uttered an exclamation of pretended
surprise over discovering him there.
"Why, Greg," she fluttered, "are you here?"
He rose at once.
"Yes, I'm here," he answered. "I beg your pardon, Mrs. Morton, if I
alarmed you. I'll not bother you if you wish to sit here."
"Oh, you foolish boy!" she laughed, placing her hands on his breast and
pushing him back on the seat. "Sit down. Isn't this a delightful place!
We're all alone here by ourselves, and nobody can see or hear us."
She placed herself at his side.
"It might be somewhat embarrassing for you if any one should discover us
here," said Greg.
"Embarrassing for me? What a foolish idea! You always were a foolish
fellow, Greg Carker."
"You've told me so before."
"And told you the truth."
"I presume you still think so. You thought me foolish because of my
socialistic beliefs. You used to make sport of me. I haven't forgotten
that."
"The trouble with you, Greg, is that you take things too seriously. You
never can see a joke. If any one plays a joke on you, you're offended,
and you try to get even. You've been getting even with me to-day."
"In what manner?"
"By the way you made eyes at that insipid creature, Juanita."
"I wouldn't call her insipid if I were in your place," he remonstrated.
"It doesn't seem nice of you, Madge--I mean Mrs. Morton."
"Oh, call me Madge. There is no reason why you should be so extremely
formal. I knew you before I met George Morton."
He shrugged his shoulders.
"I thought I knew you," he retorted, "but I discovered I was mistaken."
"Why do you say that?"
"Because it is true."
"I don't believe you ever cared for me, Greg."
"And I know you never really cared for me. If you had, you'd not have
cast me over as you did for Morton."
"But I couldn't do anything with you, Gregory. You persisted in throwing
your life away."
"In what manner?"
"In becoming a socialist. In lecturing on socialism in defiance of your
father's wishes and my entreaties. Your father threatened to cut you off
without a dollar."
"I believe he's made a will in which I am given the liberal sum of one
dollar," said Carker. "So you see he has not quite cut me off without a
dollar. The money made all the difference with you, Madge. Morton was
wealthy. I had nothing in the world, and no particular prospects. You
married Morton."
"Well, a girl has to look out for herself in these days."
"But you pretended that you loved me."
"I did," she declared earnestly. "I loved you then, Greg, and I've loved
you ever since."
Again he shrugged his shoulders, and a low laugh came from his lips.
"You don't believe me!" she exclaimed. "If you only knew how much it
hurt me to see you smiling into the eyes of that Spanish girl! Oh, I
longed to choke her!"
"How do you think I felt when you dropped me and became George Morton's
wife?"
"I'd never done that had you been sensible. Had you promised your father
that you'd give up socialism, I'd have clung to you through everything,
Gregory. You know socialism is so ridiculous! And socialists are the
skuff and rabble of humanity. All the cranks and crackbrains are
socialists."
"Every great thinker since the world began has been called a crank. I
admit that there are many undesirable persons allied with the
socialists, but because of that the great principles of the party cannot
be condemned. The theory of socialism is founded on the rock of justice
and----"
"Oh, I've heard all that before, Gregory. Don't talk it any more. How
can you blame me if I did not wish to marry a penniless man absolutely
without prospects?"
"I don't blame you," he said. "At the same time, Madge, I hate to think
that you married George Morton simply for his money. I hate to think you
deceived him in such a manner."
"Oh, George was a good fellow, and money is an absolute necessity,
Gregory. Had I possessed a fortune, it would have been different. The
mere fact that your father had cut you off would have made no difference
to me then. It makes no difference to me now."
"But it's too late now, Madge."
"Oh, no, it isn't too late."
He drew back from her, and the look she saw in his eyes brought a sudden
flush to her cheeks.
"You think me bold. You think me forward," she hastily said. "Long ago
you made me confess that I loved you. Do you think I forgot you? Oh,
no; there's been never a day since we parted that I've not longed to see
you again."
In spite of her hand on his arm, he rose to his feet.
"This won't do, Madge," he said calmly. "You're a married woman. What if
your husband should hear you speaking such words to me?"
She was on her feet also.
"My husband--why, Gregory,--don't you know--haven't you heard? I have no
husband!"
"You--have--no--husband?"
"No. I'm a widow. I've just come out of mourning. George has been dead
more than a year."
Carker seemed turned to stone. She was standing squarely in front of
him, and she placed both her hands on his arms, looking up into his
eyes.
"I supposed you knew," she murmured. "He left me in comfortable
circumstances, and there is now no reason why I should worry about the
future. If your father is unrelenting, it can make but little difference
to us. Even though we may not agree about socialism, I'll let you have
your way. Everything has come out right at last, Greg. Isn't it
splendid!"
Before he realized her intention, one of her arms slipped round his
neck.
At that moment Juanita Garcia passed the entrance to that little nook
and saw them. She did not pause, but, pale-faced and wide-eyed, hurried
silently on.