 | III. In The Bishop's Carriage |  |
3. III.
Oh, Mag, Mag, for heaven's sake, let me talk to you! No, don't say anything. You must let me tell you. No — don't call the other girls. I can't bear to tell this to anybody but you.
You know how I kicked when Tom hit on Latimer's as the place we were to scuttle. And the harder I kicked the stubborner he got, till he swore he'd do the job without me if I wouldn't come along. Well — this is the rest of it.
The house, you know, stands at the end of the street. If you could walk through the garden with the iron fence you'd come right down the bluff on to the docks and out into East River. Tom and I came up to it from the docks last night. It was dark and wet, you remember. The mud was thick on my trousers — Nance Olden's a boy every time when it comes to doing business.
“We'll blow it all in, Tom,” I said, as we climbed. “We'll spend a week at the Waldorf, and then, Tom Dorgan, we'll go to Paris. I want a red coat and
“Just wait, Sis, till you get out of this. And keep still.”
“I can't. I'm so fidgety I must talk or I'll shriek.”
“Well, you'll shut up just the same. Do you hear me?”
I shut up, but my teeth chattered so that Tom stopped at the gate.
“Look here, Nance, are you going to flunk? Say it now — yes or no.”
That made me mad.
“Tom Dorgan,” I said, “I'll bet your own teeth chattered the first time you went in for a thing like this. I'm all right. You'll squeal before I do.”
“That's more like. Here's the gate. It's locked. Come, Nance.”
With a good, strong swing he boosted me over, handed me the bag of tools and sprang over himself. . . . He looked kind o' handsome and fine, my Tom, as he lit square and light on his feet beside me. And because he did, I put my arm in his and gave it a squeeze.
Oh, Mag, it was so funny, going through Latimer's garden! There was the garden table where I had sat reading and thinking he took me for Miss Omar. There was the bench where that beast Moriway sat sneering at me. The wheeled chair was gone. And it was so late everything looked asleep. But something was left behind that made me think I heard Latimer's slow, silken voice, and made me feel cheap — turned inside out like an empty pocket — a dirty, ragged pocket with a seam in it.
“You'll stay here, Nancy, and watch,” Tom whispered. “You'll whistle once if a cop comes inside the gate, but not before he's inside the gate. Don't whistle too soon — mind that — nor too loud. I'll hear ye all right. And I'll whistle just once if — anything happens. Then you run — hear me? Run like the devil — ”
“Tommy — ”
“Well, what?”
“Nothing — all right.” I wanted to say goodby — but you know Tom.
Mag, were you ever where you oughtn't to be at midnight — alone? No, I know you weren't. 'Twas your ugly little face and your hair that saved you — the red hair we used to guy so at the Cruelty. I
Yes, I'll go on.
I stood it all right for a time, out there alone in the night. But I never was one to wait patiently. I can't wait — it isn't in me. But there I had to stand and just — God! — just wait.
If I hadn't waited so hard at the very first I wouldn't 'a' given out so soon. But I stood so still and listened so terribly hard that the trees began to whisper and the bushes to crack and creep. I heard things in my head and ears that weren't sounding anywhere else. And all of a sudden — tramp, tramp, tramp — I heard the cop's footsteps.
He stopped over there by the swinging electric light above the gate. I crouched down behind the iron bench.
And my coat caught a twig on a bush and its crack — ck was like a yell.
I thought I'd die. I thought I'd scream. I thought I'd run. I thought I'd faint. But I didn't — for there, asleep on a rug that some one had forgotten to take in, was the house cat. I gave her a quick slap, and she flew out and across the path like a flash.
The cop watched her, his hand on the gate, and passed on.
Mag Monahan, if Tom had come out that minute without a bean and gone home with me, I'd been so relieved I'd never have tried again. But he didn't come. Nothing happened. Nights and nights and nights went by, and the stillness began to sound again. My throat went choking mad. I began to shiver, and I reached for the rug the cat had lain on.
Funny, how some things strike you! This was Latimer's rug. I had noticed it that evening — a warm, soft, mottled green that looked like silk and fur mixed. I could see the way his long, white hands looked on it, and as I touched it I could hear his voice — Oh, Thou, who Man of baser Earth didst make, And ev'n with Paradise devise the Snake: For all the Sin wherewith the Face of Man Is blacken'd — Man's forgiveness give — and take!
Ever hear a man like that say a thing like that? No? Well, it's — it's different. It's as if the river had spoken — or a tree — it's so — it's so different.
That saved me — that verse that I remembered. I said it over and over and over again to myself. I fitted it to the ferry whistles on the bay — to the cop's steps as they passed again — to the roar of the L-train and the jangling of the surface cars.
And right in the middle of it — every drop of blood in my body seemed to leak out of me, and then come rushing back to my head — I heard Tom's whistle.
Oh, it's easy to say “run,” and I really meant it when I promised Tom. But you see I hadn't heard that whistle then. When it came, it changed everything. It set the devil in me loose. I felt as if the world was tearing something of mine away from me. Stand for it? Not Nance Olden.
I did run — but it was toward the house. That whistle may have meant “Go!” To me it yelled “Come!”
I got in through the window Tom had left open. The place was still quiet. Nobody inside had heard that whistle so far as I could tell.
I crept along — the carpets were thick and soft
Along a long hall and through a great room, whose walls were thick with books, I was making for a light I could see at the back of the house. That's where Tom Dorgan must be and where I must be to find out — to know.
With my hands out in front of me I hurried, but softly, and just as I had reached the portières below which the light streamed, my arms closed about a thing — cold as marble, naked — I thought it was a dead body upright there, and with a cry, I pitched forward through the curtains into the lighted room.
“Nance! — you devil!”
You recognize it? Yep, it was Tom. Big Tom Dorgan, at the foot of Latimer's bed, his hands. above his head, and Latimer's gun aimed right at his heart.
Think of the pluck of that cripple, will you?
His eyes turned on me for just a second, and then fixed themselves again on Tom. But his voice went straight at me, all right.
“You are something of a thankless devil, I must admit, Miss — Omar,” he said.
I didn't say anything. You don't say things in answer to things like that. You feel 'em.
Ashamed? What do I care for a man with a voice like that! . . . But you should have heard how Tom's growl sounded after it.
“Why the hell didn't you light out?”
“I couldn't, Tom. I just — couldn't,” I sobbed.
“There seems invariably to be a misunderstanding of signals where Miss Omar is concerned. Also a dispositon{sic} to use strong language in the lady's presence. Don't you, young man!”
“Don't you call me Miss Omar!” I blazed, stamping my foot.
He laughed a contemptuous laugh.
I could have killed him then, I hated him so. At least, I thought I could; but just then Tom sent a spark out of the corner of his eye to me that meant — it meant
You know, Mag, what it would have meant to Latimer if I had done what Tom's eye said.
I thought at first I had done it — it passed through my mind so quick; the sweet words I'd say — the move I'd make — the quick knocking-up of the pistol, and then —
It was that — that sight of Tom, big Tom Dorgan,
I stood there gasping — stood a moment too long. For the curtains were pushed aside, and Burnett, Latimer's servant, and the cop came in.
Tom didn't fight; he's no fool to waste himself.
But I — well, never mind about me. I caught a glimpse of a crazy white face on a boy's body in the great glass opposite and heard my own voice break into something I'd never heard before.
Tom stood at last with the handcuffs on.
“It's your own fault, you damned little chump!” he said to me, as they went out.
You lie, Mag Monahan, he's no such thing! He may be a hard man to live with, but he's mine — my Tom — my Tom!
What? Latimer?
Well, do you know, it's funny about him. He'd told the cop that I'd peached — peached on Tom! So they went of without me.
Why?
That's what he said himself when we were alone.
“In order to insure for myself another of your most interesting visits, I suppose, Miss — not Omar? All right. . . . Tell me, can I do
“Get Tom out of jail.”
He shook his head.
“I'm too good a friend of yours to do you such a turn.”
“I don't want any friend that isn't Tom's.”
He threw the pistol from him and pulled himself up, till he sat looking at me.
“In heaven's name, what can you see in a fellow like that?”
“What's that to you?” I turned to go.
“To me? Things of that sort are nothing, of course, to me — me, that `luckless Pot He marr'd in making.' But, tell me — can a girl like you tell the truth? What made you hesitate when that fellow told you with his eyes to murder me?”
“How did you know?”
“How? The glass. See over yonder. I could watch every expression on both your faces. What was it — what was it, child, that made you — oh, if you owe me a single heart-beat of gratitude, tell me the truth!”
“You've said it yourself.”
“What?”
“That line we read the other night about `the luckless Pot'.”
His face went gray and he fell back on his pillows. The strenuous life we'd been leading him, Tom and I, was too much for him, I guess.
Do you know, I really felt sorry I'd said it. But he is a cripple. Did he expect me to say he was big and strong and dashing — like Tom?
I left him there and got out and away. But do you know what I saw, Mag, beside his bed, just as Burnett came to put me out?
My old blue coat with the buttons — the bell-boy's coat I'd left in the housekeeper's room when I borrowed her Sunday rig. The coat was hanging over a chair, and right by it, on a table, was that big book with a picture covering every page, still open at that verse about "Through this same Garden — and for one in vain!"
| III. In The Bishop's Carriage | |