|HAWKINS sat at the table in his room, and twined and twined one old
storm-beaten hand over the other. For hours he had sat like that. It was
light in the room now, for it was long after seven o'clock. His bed had
not been slept in. He was dressed in his shiny best suit; he wore his
frayed black cravat. He had been dressed like that since midnight; since
he had returned home after Claire had fled into her house, and John
Bruce had strode by him on the sidewalk with set, stony face and
unseeing eyes; since, on reaching his room here, he had found a note
whose signature was false because it read “Paul Veniza,” when he knew
that it came from Crang. Crang was taking precautions that his return
should not leak out! The note only corroborated what he had heard
through the door. He was to be at Paul Veniza's at eight o'clock with
the traveling pawn-shop..
The note had said nothing about any marriage; but, then, he knew! He
was to be the best man. And so he had dressed himself. After that he had
waited. He was waiting now.
“The first,” said Hawkins, with grave confidence to the cracked mirror.
“Yes, that's it--the first in line, because I _am_ her old father, and
there ain't nothing can change that.”
His own voice seemed to arouse him. He stared around the shabby room
that was his home, his eyes lingering with strange wistfulness on
each old battered, and long familiar object--and then suddenly, with a
choking cry, his head went down, buried in his arms outflung across the
table.
“Pawned!” the old man cried brokenly. “It's twenty years ago, I pawned
her--twenty years ago. And it's come to this because--because I
ain't never redeemed her--but, oh God, I love her--I love my little
girl--and--and she ain't never going to know how much.”
His voice died away. In its place the asthmatic gas-jet spat venomous
defiance at the daylight that was so contumaciously deriding its puny
flame.
And after a little while, Hawkins raised his head. He looked at his
watch.
“It's time to go,” said Hawkins--and cleared his throat.
Hawkins picked up his hat and brushed it carefully with his coat sleeve;
his shoulders, and such of his attire as he could reach, he brushed
with his hands; he readjusted his frayed black cravat before the cracked
mirror.
“I'm the best man,” said Hawkins.
Oblivious to the chattering gas-jet, he descended the stairs, and went
out to the shed in the rear that housed the traveling pawn-shop.
“The first in line,” said the old cab driver, as he climbed into the
seat.
Five minutes later, he drew up in front of the onetime pawn-shop. He
consulted his watch as he got down from his seat and entered the house.
It was twenty-five minutes of eight.
He twisted his hat awkwardly in his hands, as he entered the rear room.
He felt a sudden, wild rush of hope spring up within him because
there was no sign of Crang. And then the hope died. He was early; and,
besides, Claire had her hat on and was dressed to go out. Paul Veniza,
also dressed, lay on the cot.
No one spoke.
Then Paul Veniza's frame was racked with a fit of coughing, and out of a
face ashen in pallor his eyes met Hawkins' in silent agony--and then he
turned his head away.
Hawkins twisted at his hat.
“I came a little early;” he said wistfully, “because I thought mabbe
you might--that mabbe there might be some change--that mabbe you might
not----”
He stopped. He was looking at Claire. Her face was very white too. Her
smile seemed to cut at his heart like a knife.
“No, Hawkins,” she said in a low voice; “there is no change. We
are going to Staten Island. You will drive Doctor Crang. There is a
limousine coming for father and me, that will be more comfortable for
father.”
Hawkins' eyes went to the floor.
“I--I didn't mean that kind of a change,” he said.
“I know you didn't, Hawkins. But--but I am trying to be practical.” Her
voice broke a little in spite of herself. “Doctor Crang doesn't know
that you overheard anything last night, or that you know anything about
the arrangements, so--so I am explaining them to you now.”
Hawkins' eyes were still on the floor.
“Ain't there nothing”--his voice was thick and husky--“ain't there
nothing in all the world that any of us can do to make you change your
mind? Claire, ain't there nothing, nothing at all? John Bruce said there
wasn't, and you love John Bruce, but----”
“Don't, Hawkins!” she cried out pitifully.
The old shoulders came slowly up, and the old head; and the old blue
eyes were of a sudden strangely flints like.
“I've got to know,” said Hawkins, in a dead, stubborn way.
“There is nothing,” she answered.
Hawkins' eyes reverted to the floor. He spoke now without lifting them.
“Then--then it's--it's like saying good-by,” he said, and the broken
note was back again in his voice. “It's--it's so many years that mabbe
you've forgotten, but when you were a little girl, and before you grew
up, and--and were too big for that, I--I used to hold you in my arms,
and you used to put your little arms around my neck, and kiss me,
and--and you used to say that--Hawkins would never let the bugaboos get
you, and--and I wonder if--if----”
“Oh, Hawkins!” Claire's eyes were full of tears. “I remember. Dear, dear
Hawkins! And I used to call you Daddy Hawkins. Do _you_ remember?”
A tear found a furrow and trickled down the old weather-beaten face
unchecked, as Hawkins raised his head.
“Claire! Claire!” His voice trembled in its yearning. “Will--will you
say that again, Claire?”
“Dear Daddy Hawkins,” she whispered.
His arms stretched out to her, and she came to them smiling through her
tears.
“You've been so good to me,” she whispered again. “You _are_ so good to
me--dear, dear Daddy Hawkins.”
A wondrous light was in the old cabman's face. He held the slight form
to him, trying to be so tenderly careful that he should not hurt her
in his strength. He kissed her, and patted her head, and his fingers
lingered as they smoothed the hair back from where it made a tiny curl
about her ear.
And then he felt her drawing him toward the couch--and he became
conscious that Paul Veniza was holding out his hands to them both.
And Claire knelt at the side of the couch and took one of Paul Veniza's
hands, and Hawkins took the other. And no one of them looked into the
other's face.
The outer door opened, and Doctor Crang came in. He stood for an instant
surveying the scene, a half angry, half sarcastic smile spreading over
his sallow face, and then he shrugged his shoulders.
“Ah, you're here, like me, ahead of time, Hawkins, I see!” he said
shortly. “You're going to drive me to Staten Island where----”
Claire rose to her feet.
“I have told Hawkins,” she said quietly.
Hawkins' hand tightened over Paul Veniza's for a moment, and then he
turned away.
“I--I'll wait outside,” said Hawkins--and brushed has hand across his
eyes as he went through the doorway.
Paul Veniza was racked with a sudden fit of coughing again. Doctor
Crang walked quickly to the couch and looked at the other sharply. After
a moment he turned to Claire.
“Are you ready to go?” he asked crisply.
“Yes; I am ready,” she answered steadily.
“Very well, then,” said Crang, “you had better go out and get into the
old bus. You can go with Hawkins and me.”
“But”--Claire looked in a bewildered way at Paul Veniza--“but you
said----”
“I know I did,” Crang interrupted brusquely, “but we're all here a
little early and there's lots of time to countermand the other car.” He
indicated Paul Veniza with a jerk of his head. “He's far from as well as
he was last night. At least you'll admit that I'm a _good_ doctor, and
when I tell you he is not fit to go this morning that ought to be enough
for both of you. I'll phone and tell them not to send the limousine.”
Still Claire hesitated. Paul Veniza had closed his eyes.
Crang shrugged his shoulders.
“You can do as you like, but I don't imagine”--a snarl crept into his
voice--“that it will give him any joy to witness the ceremony, or you to
have him. Suit yourselves; but I won't answer for the consequences.”
“I'll go,” said Claire simply--and as Paul Veniza lifted himself up
suddenly in protest, she forced him gently back upon the couch again.
“It's better that way,” she said, and for a moment talked to him in low,
earnest tones, then kissed him, and rose, and walked out from the room.
Crang, with a grunt of approval, started toward the telephone.
“Wait!” Paul Veniza had raised himself on his elbow.
Crang turned and faced the other with darkened face.
“It is not too late even now at the last moment!” Paul Veniza's face was
drawn with agony. “I know you for what you are, and in the name of God
I charge you not to do this thing. It is foul and loathsome, the basest
passion--and whatever crimes lay at your door, even if murder be among
them, no one of them is comparable with this, for you do more than take
a human life, you desecrate a soul pure as the day God gave it life,
and----”
The red surged into Crang's face, and changed to mottled purple.
“Damn you!” he flung out hoarsely. “Hold your cackling tongue! This is
my wedding morning--understand?” He laughed out raucously. “My wedding
morning--and I'm in a hurry!”
Paul Veniza raised himself a little higher. White his face was--white as
death.
“Then God have mercy on your soul!” he cried.
And Crang stared for a moment, then turned on his heel--and laughed.