But for all that, the brute was there. Long dormant, it was now at last alive, awake. From now on he would feel its presence continually; would feel it tugging at its chain, watching its opportunity. Ah, the pity of it! Why could he not always love her purely, cleanly? What was this perverse, vicious thing that lived within him, knitted to his flesh?
Below the fine fabric of all that was good in him ran the foul stream of hereditary evil, like a sewer. The vices and sins of his father and of his fathers father, to the third and fourth and five hundredth generation, tainted him. The evil of an entire race flowed in his veins. Why should it be? He did not desire it. Was he to blame?
But McTeague could not understand this thing. It had faced him, as sooner or later it faces every child of man; but its significance was not for him. To reason with it was beyond him. He could only oppose to it an instinctive stubborn resistance, blind, inert.
McTeague went on with his work. As he was rapping in the little blocks and cylinders with the mallet, Trina slowly came back to herself with a long sigh. She still felt a little confused, and lay quiet in the chair. There was a long silence, broken only by the uneven tapping of the hardwood mallet. By and by she said, I never felt a thing, and then she smiled at him very prettily beneath the rubber dam. McTeague turned to her suddenly, his mallet in one hand, his pliers holding a pellet of sponge-gold in the other. All at once he said, with the unreasoned simplicity and directness of a child: Listen here, Miss Trina, I like you better than any one else; whats the matter with us getting married?
Trina sat up in the chair quickly, and then drew back from him, frightened and bewildered.
Will you? Will you? said McTeague. Say, Miss Trina, will you?
What is it? What do you mean? she cried, confusedly, her words muffled beneath the rubber.
Will you? repeated McTeague.
No, no, she exclaimed, refusing without knowing why, suddenly seized with a fear of him, the intuitive feminine fear of the male. McTeague could only repeat the same thing over and over again. Trina, more and more frightened at his huge handsthe hands of the old-time car-boyhis immense square-cut head and his enormous brute strength, cried out: No, no, behind the rubber dam, shaking her head violently, holding out her hands, and shrinking down before him in the operating chair. McTeague came nearer to her, repeating the same question. No, no, she cried, terrified. Then, as she exclaimed, Oh, I am sick, was suddenly taken with a fit of vomiting. It was the not unusual after effect of the ether, aided now by her excitement and nervousness. McTeague was checked. He poured some bromide of potassium into a graduated glass and held it to her lips.
Here, swallow this, he said.
CHAPTER 3
Once every two months Maria Macapa set the entire flat in commotion. She roamed the building from garret to cellar, searching each corner, ferreting through every old box and trunk and barrel, groping about on the top shelves of closets, peering into rag-bags, exasperating the lodgers with her persistence and importunity. She was collecting junks, bits of iron, stone jugs, glass bottles, old sacks, and cast-off garments. It was one of her perquisites. She sold the junk to Zerkow, the rags-bottles-sacks man, who lived in a filthy den in the alley just back of the flat, and who sometimes paid her as much as three cents a pound. The stone jugs, however, were worth a nickel. The money that Zerkow paid her, Maria spent on shirt waists and dotted blue neckties, trying to dress like the girls who tended the soda-water fountain in the candy store on the corner. She was sick with envy of these young women. They were in the world, they were elegant, they were debonair, they had their young men.
On this occasion she presented herself at the door of Old Granniss room late in the afternoon. His door stood a little open. That of Miss Baker was ajar a few inches. The two old people were keeping company after their fashion.
Got any junk, Mister Grannis? inquired Maria, standing in the door, a very dirty, half-filled pillowcase over one arm.
No, nothingnothing that I can think of, Maria, replied Old Grannis, terribly vexed at the interruption, yet not wishing to be unkind. Nothing I think of. Yet, howeverperhapsif you wish to look.
He sat in the middle of the room before a small pine table. His little binding apparatus was before him. In his fingers was a huge upholsterers needle threaded with twine, a brad-awl lay at his elbow, on the floor beside him was a great pile of pamphlets, the pages uncut. Old Grannis bought the Nation and the Breeder and Sportsman. In the latter he occasionally found articles on dogs which interested him. The former he seldom read. He could not afford to subscribe regularly to either of the publications, but purchased their back numbers by the score, almost solely for the pleasure he took in binding them.
What you alus sewing up them books for, Mister Grannis? asked Maria, as she began rummaging about in Old Granniss closet shelves. Theres just hundreds of em in here on yer shelves; they aint no good to you.
Well, well, answered Old Grannis, timidly, rubbing his chin, IIm sure I cant quite say; a little habit, you know; a diversion, aait occupies one, you know. I dont smoke; it takes the place of a pipe, perhaps.
Heres this old yellow pitcher, said Maria, coming out of the closet with it in her hand. The handles cracked; you dont want it; better give me it.
Old Grannis did want the pitcher; true, he never used it now, but he had kept it a long time, and somehow he held to it as old people hold to trivial, worthless things that they have had for many years.
Oh, that pitcherwell, Maria, II dont know. Im afraidyou see, that pitcher
Ah, go long, interrupted Maria Macapa, whats the good of it?
If you insist, Maria, but I would much rather he rubbed his chin, perplexed and annoyed, hating to refuse, and wishing that Maria were gone.
Why, whats the good of it? persisted Maria. He could give no sufficient answer. Thats all right, she asserted, carrying the pitcher out.
AhMariaI say, youyou might leave the doorah, dont quite shut itits a bit close in here at times. Maria grinned, and swung the door wide. Old Grannis was horribly embarrassed; positively, Maria was becoming unbearable.
Got any junk? cried Maria at Miss Bakers door. The little old lady was sitting close to the wall in her rocking-chair; her hands resting idly in her lap.
Now, Maria, she said plaintively, you are always after junk; you know I never have anything laying round like that.
It was true. The retired dressmakers tiny room was a marvel of neatness, from the little red table, with its three Gorham spoons laid in exact parallels, to the decorous geraniums and mignonettes growing in the starch box at the window, underneath the fish globe with its one venerable gold fish. That day Miss Baker had been doing a bit of washing; two pocket handkerchiefs, still moist, adhered to the window panes, drying in the sun.
Oh, I guess you got something you dont want, Maria went on, peering into the corners of the room. Look-a-here what Mister Grannis gi me, and she held out the yellow pitcher. Instantly Miss Baker was in a quiver of confusion. Every word spoken aloud could be perfectly heard in the next room. What a stupid drab was this Maria! Could anything be more trying than this position?
Aint that right, Mister Grannis? called Maria; didnt you gi me this pitcher? Old Grannis affected not to hear; perspiration stood on his forehead; his timidity overcame him as if he were a ten-year-old schoolboy. He half rose from his chair, his fingers dancing nervously upon his chin.
Maria opened Miss Bakers closet unconcernedly. Whats the matter with these old shoes? she exclaimed, turning about with a pair of half-worn silk gaiters in her hand. They were by no means old enough to throw away, but Miss Baker was almost beside herself. There was no telling what might happen next. Her only thought was to be rid of Maria.
Yes, yes, anything. You can have them; but go, go. Theres nothing else, not a thing.
Maria went out into the hall, leaving Miss Bakers door wide open, as if maliciously. She had left the dirty pillow-case on the floor in the hall, and she stood outside, between the two open doors, stowing away the old pitcher and the half-worn silk shoes. She made remarks at the top of her voice, calling now to Miss Baker, now to Old Grannis. In a way she brought the two old people face to face. Each time they were forced to answer her questions it was as if they were talking directly to each other.
These here are first-rate shoes, Miss Baker. Look here, Mister Grannis, get on to the shoes Miss Baker gi me. You aint got a pair you dont want, have you? You two people have less junk than any one else in the flat. How do you manage, Mister Grannis? You old bachelors are just like old maids, just as neat as pins. You two are just alikeyou and Mister Grannisaint you, Miss Baker?
Nothing could have been more horribly constrained, more awkward. The two old people suffered veritable torture. When Maria had gone, each heaved a sigh of unspeakable relief. Softly they pushed to their doors, leaving open a space of half a dozen inches. Old Grannis went back to his binding. Miss Baker brewed a cup of tea to quiet her nerves. Each tried to regain their composure, but in vain. Old Granniss fingers trembled so that he pricked them with his needle. Miss Baker dropped her spoon twice. Their nervousness would not wear off. They were perturbed, upset. In a word, the afternoon was spoiled.
Maria went on about the flat from room to room. She had already paid Marcus Schouler a visit early that morning before he had gone out. Marcus had sworn at her, excitedly vociferating; No, by damn! No, he hadnt a thing for her; he hadnt, for a fact. It was a positive persecution. Every day his privacy was invaded. He would complain to the landlady, he would. Hed move out of the place. In the end he had given Maria seven empty whiskey flasks, an iron grate, and ten centsthe latter because he said she wore her hair like a girl he used to know.
After coming from Miss Bakers room Maria knocked at McTeagues door. The dentist was lying on the bed-lounge in his stocking feet, doing nothing apparently, gazing up at the ceiling, lost in thought.
Since he had spoken to Trina Sieppe, asking her so abruptly to marry him, McTeague had passed a week of torment. For him there was no going back. It was Trina now, and none other. It was all one with him that his best friend, Marcus, might be in love with the same girl. He must have Trina in spite of everything; he would have her even in spite of herself. He did not stop to reflect about the matter; he followed his desire blindly, recklessly, furious and raging at every obstacle. And she had cried No, no! back at him; he could not forget that. She, so small and pale and delicate, had held him at bay, who was so huge, so immensely strong.
Besides that, all the charm of their intimacy was gone. After that unhappy sitting, Trina was no longer frank and straight-forward. Now she was circumspect, reserved, distant. He could no longer open his mouth; words failed him. At one sitting in particular they had said but good-day and good-by to each other. He felt that he was clumsy and ungainly. He told himself that she despised him.
But the memory of her was with him constantly. Night after night he lay broad awake thinking of Trina, wondering about her, racked with the infinite desire of her. His head burnt and throbbed. The palms of his hands were dry. He dozed and woke, and walked aimlessly about the dark room, bruising himself against the three chairs drawn up at attention under the steel engraving, and stumbling over the stone pug dog that sat in front of the little stove.
Besides this, the jealousy of Marcus Schouler harassed him. Maria Macapa, coming into his Parlor to ask for junk, found him flung at length upon the bed-lounge, gnawing at his fingers in an excess of silent fury. At lunch that day Marcus had told him of an excursion that was planned for the next Sunday afternoon. Mr. Sieppe, Trinas father, belonged to a rifle club that was to hold a meet at Schuetzen Park across the bay. All the Sieppes were going; there was to be a basket picnic. Marcus, as usual, was invited to be one of the party. McTeague was in agony. It was his first experience, and he suffered all the worse for it because he was totally unprepared. What miserable complication was this in which he found himself involved? It seemed so simple to him since he loved Trina to take her straight to himself, stopping at nothing, asking no questions, to have her, and by main strength to carry her far away somewhere, he did not know exactly where, to some vague country, some undiscovered place where every day was Sunday.
Got any junk?
Huh? What? What is it? exclaimed McTeague, suddenly rousing up from the lounge. Often Maria did very well in the Dental Parlors. McTeague was continually breaking things which he was too stupid to have mended; for him anything that was broken was lost. Now it was a cuspidor, now a fire-shovel for the little stove, now a China shaving mug.
Got any junk?
I dont knowI dont remember, muttered McTeague. Maria roamed about the room, McTeague following her in his huge stockinged feet. All at once she pounced upon a sheaf of old hand instruments in a coverless cigar-box, pluggers, hard bits, and excavators. Maria had long coveted such a find in McTeagues Parlor, knowing it should be somewhere about. The instruments were of the finest tempered steel and really valuable.
Say, Doctor, I can have these, cant I? exclaimed Maria. You got no more use for them. McTeague was not at all sure of this. There were many in the sheaf that might be repaired, reshaped.
No, no, he said, wagging his head. But Maria Macapa, knowing with whom she had to deal, at once let loose a torrent of words. She made the dentist believe that he had no right to withhold them, that he had promised to save them for her. She affected a great indignation, pursing her lips and putting her chin in the air as though wounded in some finer sense, changing so rapidly from one mood to another, filling the room with such shrill clamor, that McTeague was dazed and benumbed.
Yes, all right, all right, he said, trying to make himself heard. It WOULD be mean. I dont want em. As he turned from her to pick up the box, Maria took advantage of the moment to steal three mats of sponge-gold out of the glass saucer. Often she stole McTeagues gold, almost under his very eyes; indeed, it was so easy to do so that there was but little pleasure in the theft. Then Maria took herself off. McTeague returned to the sofa and flung himself upon it face downward.
A little before supper time Maria completed her search. The flat was cleaned of its junk from top to bottom. The dirty pillow-case was full to bursting. She took advantage of the supper hour to carry her bundle around the corner and up into the alley where Zerkow lived.