Essential Novelists - Frank Norris. Frank Norris

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      “Well, then, for the last time, will you help me out?” Trina cut the heads of a fresh bunch of onions and gave no answer.

      “Huh? will you?”

      “I'd like to have my kitchen to myself, please,” she said in a mincing way, irritating to a last degree. The dentist stamped out of the room, banging the door behind him.

      For nearly a week the breach between them remained unhealed. Trina only spoke to the dentist in monosyllables, while he, exasperated at her calmness and frigid reserve, sulked in his “Dental Parlors,” muttering terrible things beneath his mustache, or finding solace in his concertina, playing his six lugubrious airs over and over again, or swearing frightful oaths at his canary. When Heise paid his bill, McTeague, in a fury, sent the amount to the owner of the little house.

      There was no formal reconciliation between the dentist and his little woman. Their relations readjusted themselves inevitably. By the end of the week they were as amicable as ever, but it was long before they spoke of the little house again. Nor did they ever revisit it of a Sunday afternoon. A month or so later the Ryers told them that the owner himself had moved in. The McTeagues never occupied that little house.

      But Trina suffered a reaction after the quarrel. She began to be sorry she had refused to help her husband, sorry she had brought matters to such an issue. One afternoon as she was at work on the Noah's ark animals, she surprised herself crying over the affair. She loved her “old bear” too much to do him an injustice, and perhaps, after all, she had been in the wrong. Then it occurred to her how pretty it would be to come up behind him unexpectedly, and slip the money, thirty-five dollars, into his hand, and pull his huge head down to her and kiss his bald spot as she used to do in the days before they were married.

      Then she hesitated, pausing in her work, her knife dropping into her lap, a half-whittled figure between her fingers. If not thirty-five dollars, then at least fifteen or sixteen, her share of it. But a feeling of reluctance, a sudden revolt against this intended generosity, arose in her.

      “No, no,” she said to herself. “I'll give him ten dollars. I'll tell him it's all I can afford. It IS all I can afford.”

      She hastened to finish the figure of the animal she was then at work upon, putting in the ears and tail with a drop of glue, and tossing it into the basket at her side. Then she rose and went into the bedroom and opened her trunk, taking the key from under a corner of the carpet where she kept it hid.

      At the very bottom of her trunk, under her bridal dress, she kept her savings. It was all in change—half dollars and dollars for the most part, with here and there a gold piece. Long since the little brass match-box had overflowed. Trina kept the surplus in a chamois-skin sack she had made from an old chest protector. Just now, yielding to an impulse which often seized her, she drew out the match-box and the chamois sack, and emptying the contents on the bed, counted them carefully. It came to one hundred and sixty-five dollars, all told. She counted it and recounted it and made little piles of it, and rubbed the gold pieces between the folds of her apron until they shone.

      “Ah, yes, ten dollars is all I can afford to give Mac,” said Trina, “and even then, think of it, ten dollars—it will be four or five months before I can save that again. But, dear old Mac, I know it would make him feel glad, and perhaps,” she added, suddenly taken with an idea, “perhaps Mac will refuse to take it.”

      She took a ten-dollar piece from the heap and put the rest away. Then she paused:

      “No, not the gold piece,” she said to herself. “It's too pretty. He can have the silver.” She made the change and counted out ten silver dollars into her palm. But what a difference it made in the appearance and weight of the little chamois bag! The bag was shrunken and withered, long wrinkles appeared running downward from the draw-string. It was a lamentable sight. Trina looked longingly at the ten broad pieces in her hand. Then suddenly all her intuitive desire of saving, her instinct of hoarding, her love of money for the money's sake, rose strong within her.

      “No, no, no,” she said. “I can't do it. It may be mean, but I can't help it. It's stronger than I.” She returned the money to the bag and locked it and the brass match-box in her trunk, turning the key with a long breath of satisfaction.

      She was a little troubled, however, as she went back into the sitting-room and took up her work.

      “I didn't use to be so stingy,” she told herself. “Since I won in the lottery I've become a regular little miser. It's growing on me, but never mind, it's a good fault, and, anyhow, I can't help it.”

      CHAPTER 11

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      ON THAT PARTICULAR morning the McTeagues had risen a half hour earlier than usual and taken a hurried breakfast in the kitchen on the deal table with its oilcloth cover. Trina was house-cleaning that week and had a presentiment of a hard day's work ahead of her, while McTeague remembered a seven o'clock appointment with a little German shoemaker.

      At about eight o'clock, when the dentist had been in his office for over an hour, Trina descended upon the bedroom, a towel about her head and the roller-sweeper in her hand. She covered the bureau and sewing machine with sheets, and unhooked the chenille portieres between the bedroom and the sitting-room. As she was tying the Nottingham lace curtains at the window into great knots, she saw old Miss Baker on the opposite sidewalk in the street below, and raising the sash called down to her.

      “Oh, it's you, Mrs. McTeague,” cried the retired dressmaker, facing about, her head in the air. Then a long conversation was begun, Trina, her arms folded under her breast, her elbows resting on the window ledge, willing to be idle for a moment; old Miss Baker, her market-basket on her arm, her hands wrapped in the ends of her worsted shawl against the cold of the early morning. They exchanged phrases, calling to each other from window to curb, their breath coming from their lips in faint puffs of vapor, their voices shrill, and raised to dominate the clamor of the waking street. The newsboys had made their appearance on the street, together with the day laborers. The cable cars had begun to fill up; all along the street could be seen the shopkeepers taking down their shutters; some were still breakfasting. Now and then a waiter from one of the cheap restaurants crossed from one sidewalk to another, balancing on one palm a tray covered with a napkin.

      “Aren't you out pretty early this morning, Miss Baker?” called Trina.

      “No, no,” answered the other. “I'm always up at half-past six, but I don't always get out so soon. I wanted to get a nice head of cabbage and some lentils for a soup, and if you don't go to market early, the restaurants get all the best.”

      “And you've been to market already, Miss Baker?”

      “Oh, my, yes; and I got a fish—a sole—see.” She drew the sole in question from her basket.

      “Oh, the lovely sole!” exclaimed Trina.

      “I got this one at Spadella's; he always has good fish on Friday. How is the doctor, Mrs. McTeague?”

      “Ah, Mac is always well, thank you, Miss Baker.”

      “You know, Mrs. Ryer told me,” cried the little dressmaker, moving forward a step out of the way of a “glass-put-in” man, “that Doctor McTeague pulled a tooth of that СКАЧАТЬ