ONE AND THE SAME.
At the sight of Penelope Richard was dumbfounded.
He stifled a first impulse to spring to his feet and greet her when
he saw her stern, white and reproachful face, and sitting still tried
slyly to drop Dido’s hand.
With an almost imperceptible bow of recognition, Penelope went on after
her aunt and a gentleman who, unnoticed, had in advance passed Dick and
his companion.
“D---- it!” said Dick, warmly, in an undertone, and then he thought:
“I’m in for it now. Penelope will never believe that thinking of my
love for her made me feel a great pity for this lonely girl. She will
say I was making love to her, because I held her hand, and she will
never forgive it. What an ass I am to risk a life-time of happiness
with Penelope, just to sympathize with a girl whose life is lonely,
and yet, poor little devil--It’s all up with Penelope, I know. I can
tell by the look on her face that she will not forgive or believe me.
I’ll give up. It’s no use now trying to solve the Park mystery--no use
trying to do anything.”
Dido looked uneasy. She had seen all and she partly understood. She
said, in a little strained voice: “I am very sorry.”
“I wish some man would tramp on my toes or punch me in the ribs. I’d
just like a chance to knock the life out of somebody,” Dick said,
savagely.
Dido laughed softly at Dick’s outburst, but she delicately avoided the
subject of the lady who looked so angry.
“I forgot to tell you,” she said, at length, in an effort to change the
subject, “that it’s all arranged at last.”
“What?” asked Dick, curiously, the current of his thoughts leading him
to think it was something about Penelope.
“Why, the affair between Maggie and Martin Shanks. Why, didn’t you
know?” in great surprise. “Why, I saw it all the first night you
brought me back.”
“I didn’t notice anything in particular, but I recall plainly feeling
Mr. Shanks in the dark,” Richard replied, grimly. He always felt a
little disgust at the remembrance of his fears that night, and he
cherished a grudge against lanky Martin Shanks for waiting to be run
over in the hallway.
“Well, Maggie and Martin are in love,” exultingly.
“Possible!”
“Yes, and last night he proposed and was accepted, and Sunday they are
going to be married, and they are going down to Coney Island to spend
the first day of their honeymoon,” and Dido sighed in ecstasy.
“Lucky Martin, I’m sure; I wish I were in a like position,” Dick said,
half enviously, as the sad thought came that it was all over between
him and Penelope. “I must get a nice present for Maggie.”
“It was all so amusing,” said Dido, with a rippling laugh. “I’m half
sorry the courtship ended so soon. Martin was so faithful, so bashful,
and so desperately in love. The only time he ever showed the least
spirit was the night you took me home.”
“I remember it quite well,” Dick said, drily.
“I thought he was very insulting that night, but it’s just his way, you
know. He has liked you ever since then. You know he always stood guard
in the hall; every night I was out, I would stumble over him, yet he
couldn’t be coaxed to come in. When Maggie took Blind Gilbert out to
his stand, Martin always followed, so as to protect her coming home.
Still, if she looked at him or spoke to him, he was so embarrassed that
he couldn’t answer.”
“He gave her some flowers once, and when she thanked him, he was so
broke up that he stammered that he had found them on Broadway and
thought she might as well have them, and the great simpleton had bought
them expressly for her. Next he bought some cloth for a dress, and when
Maggie said she couldn’t take it, he said he didn’t want it, that he
couldn’t make any use of it. Just fancy Martin Shanks wearing a dress!”
Richard smiled at the picture presented to his mind of lanky Mr. Shanks
in a gown.
“His proposal was the funniest thing,” Dido continued, with a chuckle.
“There came a loud knock on the door. Maggie opened it, and there
before her was a work-basket. She picked it up and lifted the lid and
there lay a plain gold ring.”
“Martin,” she said, going out to where he was standing in the hall,
“you are too good to me. I can’t take these things.”
“I had an idee you’d let the parson, who brings us tracts, put that
there ring on yer finger, and then you’d have the right to do me
mendin’. It was an idee, maybe I’m wrong?”
“‘Then Maggie said gently, ‘Come in, Martin,’ and he replied, ‘If yu
air wid me, Maggie?’ and she blushed, and said, ‘Yes, Martin,’ and he
stepped into the room, saying, ‘I’ll come in to settle accounts.’
“When he went out again all arrangements had been made for a speedy
marriage. Martin said it was no use to waste time in being engaged, so
they are to be married Sunday. They are the happiest couple you ever
saw,” and Dido sighed enviously.
“And what is to become of you and blind Gilbert? Are you to have no
share in their Eden?” Richard asked.
“Oh, yes. Maggie says they are going to rent a flat further uptown, and
one room is to be for me and Lucille when she comes back, and Gilbert
is to stay with them also. It’s a pretty big family to begin with, but
we’ll all give what we can to pay expenses. I don’t think Gilbert will
go, though. He likes Maggie as though she was his daughter, but he’s
been so many years in that house on Mulberry Street that I don’t think
he will leave it.”
“Well, this is our last evening to search for Maggie’s sister,” Richard
said, with half regret, “and we have had no success whatever. I’m
sorry, for Maggie’s sake, though personally I feel it is just as well
for her if her sister never returns to be a burden on her.”
“I intend to see Tolman Bike before his marriage and learn from him
where the sister is. Then, if we think it advisable, we can still
persuade her to go home, but I have another important matter that will
take all my time, so I cannot do much, for a while, at least, about
Maggie’s sister, unless Bike tells me where she is when I see him, as I
intend to do to-morrow. I expect to be too busy working on an important
case to see you for a while, but I hope your good luck will still
continue, and you can congratulate Mr. Shanks and Maggie for me.”
“It is useless for me to try to thank you for your kindness and help to
me,” Dido said, brokenly.
Dick’s blue eyes beamed kindly on Dido as he replied, quickly: “There’s
a good girl, don’t let us talk about that. I’m a useless fellow, and if
I have been of the least service to any one, the gratitude is all on my
side. I am grateful to you for allowing me to imagine I have been of
service to you.”
“You have been better to me than any one on earth,” she said,
vehemently, her eyes burning into his. “You have often said there was
no gratitude in the world, so I won’t say I would like to prove my
gratitude to you, but some day--I’ll wait. The day will come when I can
show you what I feel.”
“My dear child,” he said, softly, his eyes moist, for he was much
touched by the girl’s words, “only be happy and that knowledge will
make me happier.”
Dido looked down and was silent. Presently two tears chased each
other down over her cheeks and splashed on her slender hands, folded
pathetically in her lap.
“Why, Dido, child!” Dick said, startled.
She raised her brown eyes, wet with tears, to his frank blue ones, and
her lips were quivering pitifully. He took her hands, patting them
soothingly, not daring to say a word.
“T-they _would_ come,” she faltered, her mouth bravely smiling
while her eyes were filling with tears. “I--I could not help it.”
He still said nothing, but kept on patting her hands, half embarrassed
now.
“I was so--so wretched until you found me, and I’ve been so happy
since, that--that I couldn’t quite bear--your words.”
“I hope I did not speak roughly,” poor, blind Dick said, hardly
understanding her grief. In his separation from her he was losing
nothing, but she--poor child--she was losing everything.
“No--that’s it. You are so kind,” she faltered. “Don’t, please, don’t
mind me. I am so foolish. I am always crying, don’t you think?”
She looked up at him with a sad, little smile that made his heart ache,
he hardly knew why.
“Will you promise me something, Dido?” he asked, suddenly.
“Yes,” she answered, simply.
“Promise that you will try to be happy; that you will never cherish
blue thoughts, no difference what happens. Let ill-luck frown on you
all it wishes. Laugh at it; laugh in it’s face until your laughter
makes it smile. Promise me to do this?”
“Is that what you do?” she asked, evasively.
“Well, I don’t know. But what difference! I don’t get as low in spirits
as you do. Won’t you promise?”
“You have brought me happiness. I promise if I get blue to think of
you. Will that do?” she asked, seriously.
“I don’t know,” he said, half provoked, but he urged no further.
And these two young people, whose barks had floated side by side on the
stream of life for a brief time, were drifting apart. Mentally they
were taking farewell, for they knew that, if even for a few days, they
remained yet in sight or call, still their course lay so widely apart
that they might never hope to float near each other again.
So they silently left the place where they had spent their last evening
together and went out on the street into the cool quiet night.
A few gas jets dimly lighted up Twenty-third Street, and the stores
that lined the opposite side frowned dark and gloomy upon the few
people who occasionally made their appearance as they walked from the
darkness into the light of the street lamps, and then disappeared again
into the shadows beyond.
Coming towards the young couple from Sixth Avenue was a man,
thoughtfully walking along, as if, unable to sleep, he had sought the
quiet streets to think.
Richard noticed him, and pressing Dido’s arm, he whispered:
“Look at this man.”
“Yes, yes,” she said, excitedly.
The men exchanged glances, and the stranger raised his hat stiffly in
response to Richard’s cordial greeting. After they had passed, Richard
said:
“Why do you tremble so? I merely wanted to call your attention to him.
That is Mr. Clarke, the gentleman I had the experience with in the
Hoffman House bar.”
“Mr. Clarke!” cried Dido, in amazement. “_Why that is Tolman
Bike!_”