|CLAIRE'S footsteps, ascending the stairs, died away. John Bruce
returned to his chair. His eyes were still on the old chauffeur.
Hawkins was no longer twisting his shapeless hat nervously in his
fingers; instead, he held it now in one clenched hand, while with the
other he closed the door behind him as he stepped forward across the
threshold, and with squared shoulders advanced toward John Bruce. And
then, quite as suddenly again, as though alarmed at his own temerity,
the old man paused, and the question on his lips, aggressively enough
framed, became irresolute in tone.
“What--what's the matter with Claire?” he stammered. “What's this mean?”
It was a moment before John Bruce answered, while he eyed the other from
head to foot. Hawkins was not the least interesting by any means of the
queer characters that came and went and centered around this one-time
pawn-shop of Paul Veniza; but Hawkins, of them all, was the one he
was least able, from what he had seen of the man, to fathom. And yet,
somehow, he liked Hawkins.
“That's exactly what I want to know,” he said a little brusquely.
“And”--he eyed Hawkins once more with cool appraisal--“I think you are
the man best able to supply the information.”
Hawkins began to fumble with his hat again.
“I--I--why do you say that?” he faltered, a sudden note of what seemed
almost trepidation in his voice.
John Bruce shrugged his shoulders.
“Possibly it is just a hunch,” he said calmly. “But you were the one who
was driving that old bus on a certain night--you remember? And you seem
to hang around here about as you please. Therefore you must stand in on
a fairly intimate basis with the family circle. I'd like to know what
hold a rotten crook like Doctor Crang has got on Claire Veniza that she
should be willing to marry him, when she doesn't love him. I'd like to
know why a girl like Claire Veniza drives alone at night to a gambling
hell to----”
“That's enough!” Hawkins' voice rose abruptly, peremptorily. He advanced
again threateningly oft John Bruce. “Don't you dare to say one word
against my--against--against her. I'll choke the life out of you, if you
do! Who are you, anyway? You are asking a lot of questions. How did you
get here in the first place? You answer that! I've always meant to ask
you. You answer that--and leave Claire out of it!”
John Bruce whistled softly.
“I can't very well do that,” he said quietly, “because it was Claire who
brought me here.”
“Claire brought you!” The old blue eyes grew very hard and very steady.
“That's a lie! She never saw you after you got out at the corner that
night until you came in through the window here. She didn't tell you
where she lived. She didn't invite you here. She's not that kind, and,
sick though you may be, I'll not keep my hands off you, if----”
“Steady, Hawkins--steady!” said John Bruce, his voice as quiet as
before. “We seem to possess a common bond. You seem to be pretty fond
of Claire. Well, so am I. That ought to make us allies.” He held out his
hand suddenly to the old man. “I had just asked Claire to marry me when
you came to the door.”
Hawkins stared from the outstretched hand into John Bruce's eyes, and
back again at the outstretched hand. Bewilderment, hesitation, a curious
excitement was in his face.
“You asked Claire to marry you?” He swallowed hard. “You--you want to
marry Claire? I--why?”
“Why?” John Bruce echoed helplessly. “Good Lord, Hawkins, you _are_ a
queer one! Barring beasts like Crang, why does a man ordinarily ask a
woman to marry him? Because he loves her. Well, I love Claire. I loved
her from the moment I saw her. I followed her, or, rather, that old bus
of yours, here that night. And that is how, after that fight at Ratti's
when I got out the back door and into the lane, I crawled over here for
sanctuary. I said Claire brought me here. You understand now, don't you?
That's how she brought me here--because I loved her that night. But it
is because of Crang”--his voice grew hard--“that I am telling you this.
I love her now--and a great deal too much, whether she could ever care
for me or not, to see her in the clutches of a crook, and her
life wrecked by a degenerate cur. And somehow”--his hand was still
extended--“I thought you seemed to think enough of her to feel the same
way about this marriage--for I imagine you must know about it. Well,
Hawkins, where do you stand? There's something rotten here. Are you for
Claire, or the dope-eater?”
“Oh, my God!” Hawkins whispered huskily. And then almost blindly he
snatched at John Bruce's hand and wrung it hard. “I--I believe you're
straight,” he choked. “I know you are. I can see it in your eyes. I
wouldn't ask anything more in the world for her than a man's honest
love. And she ain't going to marry that devil! You understand?” His
voice was rising in a curious cracked shrillness. “She ain't! Not while
old Hawkins is alive!”
John Bruce drew his brows together in a puzzled way.
“I pass you up, Hawkins,” he said slowly. “I can't make you out. But if
you mean what you say, and if you trust me----”
“I'm going to trust you!” There was eagerness, excitement, a tremble in
the old man's voice. “I've got to trust you after what you've said. I
ain't slept for nights on account of this. It looks like God sent you.
You wait! Wait just a second, and I'll show you how much I trust you.”
John Bruce straightened up in his chair. Was the old man simply erratic,
or perhaps a little irresponsible--or what? Hawkins had pattered across
the floor, had cautiously opened the door, and was now peering with
equal caution into the outer room. Apparently satisfied at last, he
closed the door noiselessly, and started back across the room. And
then John Bruce knew suddenly an indefinable remorse at having somehow
misjudged the shabby old chauffeur, whose figure seemed to totter now a
little as it advanced toward him. Hawkins' face was full of misery, and
the old blue eyes were brimming with tears.
“It--it ain't easy”--Hawkins' voice quavered--“to say--what I got to
say. There ain't no one on earth but Paul Veniza knows it; but you've
got a right to know after what you've said. And I've got to tell you for
Claire's sake too, because it seems to me there ain't nobody going to
help me save her the way you are. She--she's my little girl. I--I'm
Claire's father.” John Bruce stared numbly at the other. He could find
no words; he could only stare.
“Yes, look at me!” burst out the old man finally, and into his voice
there came an infinite bitterness. “Look at my clothes! I'm just what I
look like! I ain't no good--and that's what has kept my little girl and
me apart from the day she was born. Yes, look at me! I don't blame you!”
John Bruce was on his feet. His hand reached out and rested on the old
man's shoulder.
“That isn't the way to trust me, Hawkins,” he said gently. “What do your
clothes matter? What do your looks matter? What does anything in the
world matter alongside of so wonderful a thing as that which you have
just told me? Straighten those shoulders, Hawkins; throw back that
head of yours. Her father! Why, you're the richest man in New York, and
you've reason to be the proudest!”
John Bruce was smiling with both lips and eyes into the other's face. He
felt a tremor pass through the old man's frame; he saw a momentary flash
of joy and pride light up the wrinkled, weather-beaten face--and then
Hawkins turned his head away.
“God bless you,” said Hawkins brokenly; “but you don't know. She's all
I've got; she's the only kith and kin I've got in all the world, and
oh, my God, how these old arms have ached just to take her and hold her
tight, and--and----” He lifted his head suddenly, met John Bruce's eyes,
and a flush dyed his cheeks. “She's my little girl; but I lie when I say
I love her. It's drink I love. That's my shame, John Bruce--you've got
it all now. I pawned my soul, and I pawned my little girl for drink.”
“Hawkins,” said John Bruce huskily, “I think you're a bigger man than
you've any idea you are.”
“D'ye mean that?” Hawkins spoke eagerly--only to shake his head
miserably the next instant. “You don't understand,” he said. “I as
good as killed her mother with drink. She died when Claire was born. I
brought Claire here, and Paul Veniza and his wife took her in. And Paul
Veniza was right about it. He made me promise she wasn't to know I was
her father until--until she would have a man and not a drunken sot to
look after her. That's twenty years ago. I've tried.. God knows I've
tried, but it's beaten me ever since. Paul's wife died when Claire was
sixteen, and Claire's run the house for Paul--and--and I'm Hawkins--just
Hawkins--the old cab driver that's dropping in the harness. Just Hawkins
that shuffers the traveling pawn-shop now that Paul's quit the regular
shop. That's what I am--just old Hawkins, who's always swearing to God
he's going to leave the booze alone.”
John Bruce did not speak for a moment. He returned to his chair and sat
down. Somehow he wanted to think; somehow he felt that he had not quite
grasped the full significance of what he had just heard. He looked at
Hawkins. Hawkins had sunk into a chair by the table, and his face was
buried in his hands.
And then John Bruce smiled.
“Look here, Hawkins,” he said briskly, “let's talk about something else
for a minute. Tell me about Paul Veniza and this traveling pawn-shop.
It's a bit out of the ordinary, to say the least.”
Hawkins raised his head, and his thoughts for the moment diverted into
other channels, his face brightened, and he scratched at the scanty
fringe of hair behind his ear.
“It ain't bad, is it?” he said with interest. “I'm kind of proud of it
too, 'cause I guess mabbe, when all's said and done, it was my idea. You
see, when Paul's wife died, Paul went all to pieces. He ain't well now,
for that matter--nowhere near as well as he looks. I'm kind of scared
about Paul. He keeps getting sick turns once every so often. But when
the wife died he was just clean broken up. She'd been his right hand
from the start in his business here, and--I dunno--it just seemed to
affect him that way. He didn't want to go on any more without her. And
as far as money was concerned he didn't have to. Paul ain't rich, but
he's mighty comfortably off. Anyway, he took the three balls down from
over the door, and he took the signs off the windows, and in comes
the carpenters to change things around here, and there ain't any more
pawn-shop.”
Hawkins for the first time smiled broadly.
“But it didn't work out,” said Hawkins. “Paul's got a bigger business
and a more profitable one to-day than he ever had before in his life.
You see, he had been at it a good many years, and he had what you might
call a private connection--swells up on the Avenue, mostly ladies, but
gents too, who needed money sometimes without having it printed in the
papers, and they wouldn't let Paul alone. Paul ain't got a hair in his
head that ain't honest and fair and square and above-board--and they
were the ones that knew it better than anybody else. See?”
“Yes,” said John Bruce. “Go on, Hawkins,” he prompted.
“Well,” said Hawkins, “I used to drive an old hansom cab in those days,
and I used to drive Paul out on those private calls to the swell houses.
And then when Mrs. Paul died and Paul closed up the shop here he kind of
drew himself into his shell all round, and mostly he wouldn't go out any
more, though the swells kept telephoning and telephoning him. He'd only
go to just a few people that he'd done business with since almost
the beginning. He said he didn't want to go around ringing people's
doorbells, and being ushered into boudoirs or anywhere else, and he was
settling down to shun everybody and everything. It wasn't good for Paul.
And then a sort of crazy notion struck me, and I chewed it over and over
in my mind, and finally I put it up to Paul. In the mood he was in, it
just caught his fancy; and so I bought a second-hand closed car, and
fitted it up like you saw, and learned to drive it--and that's how there
came to be the traveling pawn-shop.
“After that, there wasn't anything to it. It caught everybody else's
fancy as well as Paul's, and it began to get him out of himself. The old
bus, as you called it, was running all the time. Lots of the swells
who really didn't want to pawn anything took a ride and did a bit of
business just for the sake of the experience, and the regular customers
just went nutty over it, they were that pleased.
“And then some one who stood in with that swell gambling joint where
we picked you up must have tipped the manager off about it, and he
saw where he could do a good stroke of business--make it a kind of
advertisement, you know, besides doing away with any lending by the
house itself, and he put up a proposition to Paul where Paul was to
get all the business at regular rates, and a bit of a salary besides on
account of the all-night hours he'd have to keep sometimes. Paul said
he'd do it, and turned the salary over to me; and they doped out that
pass word about a trip to Persia to make it sound mysterious and help
out the advertising end, and--well, I guess that's all.”
John Bruce was twirling the tassel of his dressing gown again
abstractedly; but now he stopped as Hawkins rose abruptly and came
toward him.
“No--it ain't all,” said Hawkins, a curious note almost of challenge
in his voice. “You said something about Claire going to that gambling
joint. It was the first time she had ever been there. That night Paul
was out when they telephoned. You must be one of their big customers,
'cause they wouldn't listen to anything but a trip to Persia right on
the spot. They were so set on it that Claire said it would be all right.
She sent for me. At first I wasn't for it at all, but she said it seemed
to be of such importance, and that there wasn't anything else to do.
Claire knows a bit of jewelry or a stone as well as Paul does, and I
knew Claire could take care of herself; and besides, although she didn't
know it, it--it was her own old father driving the car there with her.”
“Thank you, Hawkins,” said John Bruce simply; and after a moment: “It
doesn't make the love I said I had for her show up very creditably to
me, does it--that I should have had any questions?”
Hawkins shook his head.
“I didn't mean it that way,” he said earnestly. “It would have been a
wonder if you hadn't. Anyway, you had a right to know, and it was only
fair to Claire.”