Essential Novelists - Frank Norris. Frank Norris

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      “Well, Mr. Sieppe,” exclaimed Marcus, “we won't see each other for some time.” Marcus had given up his first intention of joining in the Sieppe migration. He spoke in a large way of certain affairs that would keep him in San Francisco till the fall. Of late he had entertained ambitions of a ranch life, he would breed cattle, he had a little money and was only looking for some one “to go in with.” He dreamed of a cowboy's life and saw himself in an entrancing vision involving silver spurs and untamed bronchos. He told himself that Trina had cast him off, that his best friend had “played him for a sucker,” that the “proper caper” was to withdraw from the world entirely.

      “If you hear of anybody down there,” he went on, speaking to Mr. Sieppe, “that wants to go in for ranching, why just let me know.”

      “Soh, soh,” answered Mr. Sieppe abstractedly, peering about for Owgooste's cap.

      Marcus bade the Sieppes farewell. He and Heise went out together. One heard them, as they descended the stairs, discussing the possibility of Frenna's place being still open.

      Then Miss Baker departed after kissing Trina on both cheeks. Selina went with her. There was only the family left.

      Trina watched them go, one by one, with an increasing feeling of uneasiness and vague apprehension. Soon they would all be gone.

      “Well, Trina,” exclaimed Mr. Sieppe, “goot-py; perhaps you gome visit us somedime.”

      Mrs. Sieppe began crying again.

      “Ach, Trina, ven shall I efer see you again?”

      Tears came to Trina's eyes in spite of herself. She put her arms around her mother.

      “Oh, sometime, sometime,” she cried. The twins and Owgooste clung to Trina's skirts, fretting and whimpering.

      McTeague was miserable. He stood apart from the group, in a corner. None of them seemed to think of him; he was not of them.

      “Write to me very often, mamma, and tell me about everything—about August and the twins.”

      “It is dime,” cried Mr. Sieppe, nervously. “Goot-py, Trina. Mommer, Owgooste, say goot-py, den we must go. Goot-py, Trina.” He kissed her. Owgooste and the twins were lifted up. “Gome, gome,” insisted Mr. Sieppe, moving toward the door.

      “Goot-py, Trina,” exclaimed Mrs. Sieppe, crying harder than ever. “Doktor—where is der doktor—Doktor, pe goot to her, eh? pe vairy goot, eh, won't you? Zum day, Dokter, you vill haf a daughter, den you know berhaps how I feel, yes.”

      They were standing at the door by this time. Mr. Sieppe, half way down the stairs, kept calling “Gome, gome, we miss der drain.”

      Mrs. Sieppe released Trina and started down the hall, the twins and Owgooste following. Trina stood in the doorway, looking after them through her tears. They were going, going. When would she ever see them again? She was to be left alone with this man to whom she had just been married. A sudden vague terror seized her; she left McTeague and ran down the hall and caught her mother around the neck.

      “I don't WANT you to go,” she whispered in her mother's ear, sobbing. “Oh, mamma, I—I'm 'fraid.”

      “Ach, Trina, you preak my heart. Don't gry, poor leetle girl.” She rocked Trina in her arms as though she were a child again. “Poor leetle scairt girl, don' gry—soh—soh—soh, dere's nuttun to pe 'fraid oaf. Dere, go to your hoasban'. Listen, popper's galling again; go den; goot-by.”

      She loosened Trina's arms and started down the stairs. Trina leaned over the banisters, straining her eyes after her mother.

      “What is ut, Trina?”

      “Oh, good-by, good-by.”

      “Gome, gome, we miss der drain.”

      “Mamma, oh, mamma!”

      “What is ut, Trina?”

      “Good-by.”

      “Goot-py, leetle daughter.”

      “Good-by, good-by, good-by.”

      The street door closed. The silence was profound.

      For another moment Trina stood leaning over the banisters, looking down into the empty stairway. It was dark. There was nobody. They—her father, her mother, the children—had left her, left her alone. She faced about toward the rooms—faced her husband, faced her new home, the new life that was to begin now.

      The hall was empty and deserted. The great flat around her seemed new and huge and strange; she felt horribly alone. Even Maria and the hired waiter were gone. On one of the floors above she heard a baby crying. She stood there an instant in the dark hall, in her wedding finery, looking about her, listening. From the open door of the sitting-room streamed a gold bar of light.

      She went down the hall, by the open door of the sitting-room, going on toward the hall door of the bedroom.

      As she softly passed the sitting-room she glanced hastily in. The lamps and the gas were burning brightly, the chairs were pushed back from the table just as the guests had left them, and the table itself, abandoned, deserted, presented to view the vague confusion of its dishes, its knives and forks, its empty platters and crumpled napkins. The dentist sat there leaning on his elbows, his back toward her; against the white blur of the table he looked colossal. Above his giant shoulders rose his thick, red neck and mane of yellow hair. The light shone pink through the gristle of his enormous ears.

      Trina entered the bedroom, closing the door after her. At the sound, she heard McTeague start and rise.

      “Is that you, Trina?”

      She did not answer; but paused in the middle of the room, holding her breath, trembling.

      The dentist crossed the outside room, parted the chenille portieres, and came in. He came toward her quickly, making as if to take her in his arms. His eyes were alight.

      “No, no,” cried Trina, shrinking from him. Suddenly seized with the fear of him—the intuitive feminine fear of the male—her whole being quailed before him. She was terrified at his huge, square-cut head; his powerful, salient jaw; his huge, red hands; his enormous, resistless strength.

      “No, no—I'm afraid,” she cried, drawing back from him to the other side of the room.

      “Afraid?” answered the dentist in perplexity. “What are you afraid of, Trina? I'm not going to hurt you. What are you afraid of?”

      What, indeed, was Trina afraid of? She could not tell. But what did she know of McTeague, after all? Who was this man that had come into her life, who had taken her from her home and from her parents, and with whom she was now left alone here in this strange, vast flat?

      “Oh, I'm afraid. I'm afraid,” she cried.

      McTeague came nearer, sat down beside her and put one arm around her.

      “What are you afraid of, Trina?” he said, reassuringly. “I don't want to frighten you.”

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