Chapter 17

by Frank Norris

　　One day, about a fortnight after the coroner's inquest hadbeen held, and when the excitement of the terrible affairwas calming down and Polk Street beginning to resume itsmonotonous routine, Old Grannis sat in his clean, well-keptlittle room, in his cushioned armchair, his hands lying idlyupon his knees. It was evening; not quite time to light thelamps. Old Grannis had drawn his chair close to the wall--so close, in fact, that he could hear Miss Baker's grenadinebrushing against the other side of the thin partition, athis very elbow, while she rocked gently back and forth, acup of tea in her hands.Old Grannis's occupation was gone. That morning the book-selling firm where he had bought his pamphlets had taken hislittle binding apparatus from him to use as a model. Thetransaction had been concluded. Old Grannis had receivedhis check. It was large enough, to be sure, but when allwas over, he returned to his room and sat there sad andunoccupied, looking at the pattern in the carpet andcounting the heads of the tacks in the zinc guard that wasfastened to the wall behind his little stove. By and by heheard Miss Baker moving about. It was five o'clock, the timewhen she was accustomed to make her cup of tea and "keepcompany" with him on her side of the partition. Old Grannisdrew up his chair to the wall near where he knew she wassitting. The minutes passed; side by side, and separated byonly a couple of inches of board, the two old people satthere together, while the afternoon grew darker.But for Old Grannis all was different that evening. Therewas nothing for him to do. His hands lay idly in his lap.His table, with its pile of pamphlets, was in a far cornerof the room, and, from time to time, stirred with anuncertain trouble, he turned his head and looked at itsadly, reflecting that he would never use it again. Theabsence of his accustomed work seemed to leave something outof his life. It did not appear to him that he could be thesame to Miss Baker now; their little habits weredisarranged, their customs broken up. He could no longerfancy himself so near to her. They would drift apart now,and she would no longer make herself a cup of tea and "keepcompany" with him when she knew that he would never againsit before his table binding uncut pamphlets. He had soldhis happiness for money; he had bartered all his tardyromance for some miserable banknotes. He had not foreseenthat it would be like this. A vast regret welled up withinhim. What was that on the back of his hand? He wiped itdry with his ancient silk handkerchief.Old Grannis leant his face in his hands. Not only did aninexplicable regret stir within him, but a certain greattenderness came upon him. The tears that swam in his fadedblue eyes were not altogether those of unhappiness. No,this long-delayed affection that had come upon him in hislater years filled him with a joy for which tears seemed tobe the natural expression. For thirty years his eyes hadnot been wet, but tonight he felt as if he were young again.He had never loved before, and there was still a part of himthat was only twenty years of age. He could not tellwhether he was profoundly sad or deeply happy; but he wasnot ashamed of the tears that brought the smart to his eyesand the ache to his throat. He did not hear the timidrapping on his door, and it was not until the door itselfopened that he looked up quickly and saw the little retireddressmaker standing on the threshold, carrying a cup of teaon a tiny Japanese tray. She held it toward him."I was making some tea," she said, "and I thought you wouldlike to have a cup."Never after could the little dressmaker understand how shehad brought herself to do this thing. One moment she hadbeen sitting quietly on her side of the partition, stirringher cup of tea with one of her Gorham spoons. She wasquiet, she was peaceful. The evening was closing downtranquilly. Her room was the picture of calmness and order.The geraniums blooming in the starch boxes in the window,the aged goldfish occasionally turning his iridescent flankto catch a sudden glow of the setting sun. The next momentshe had been all trepidation. It seemed to her the mostnatural thing in the world to make a steaming cup of tea andcarry it in to Old Grannis next door. It seemed to her thathe was wanting her, that she ought to go to him. With thebrusque resolve and intrepidity that sometimes seizes uponvery timid people--the courage of the coward greater thanall others--she had presented herself at the oldEnglishman's half-open door, and, when he had not heeded herknock, had pushed it open, and at last, after all theseyears, stood upon the threshold of his room. She had foundcourage enough to explain her intrusion."I was making some tea, and I thought you would like to havea cup."Old Grannis dropped his hands upon either arm of his chair,and, leaning forward a little, looked at her blankly. Hedid not speak.The retired dressmaker's courage had carried her thus far;now it deserted her as abruptly as it had come. Her cheeksbecame scarlet; her funny little false curls trembled withher agitation. What she had done seemed to her indecorousbeyond expression. It was an enormity. Fancy, she had goneinto his room, into his room--Mister Grannis's room.She had done this--she who could not pass him on the stairswithout a qualm. What to do she did not know. She stood, afixture, on the threshold of his room, without evenresolution enough to beat a retreat. Helplessly, and with alittle quaver in her voice, she repeated obstinately:"I was making some tea, and I thought you would like to havea cup of tea." Her agitation betrayed itself in therepetition of the word. She felt that she could not holdthe tray out another instant. Already she was trembling sothat half the tea was spilled.Old Grannis still kept silence, still bending forward,with wide eyes, his hands gripping the arms of his chair.Then with the tea-tray still held straight before her, thelittle dressmaker exclaimed tearfully:"Oh, I didn't mean--I didn't mean--I didn't know it wouldseem like this. I only meant to be kind and bring you sometea; and now it seems so improper. I--I--I'm soashamed! I don't know what you will think of me. I--" shecaught her breath--"improper"--she managed to exclaim,"unlady-like--you can never think well of me--I'll go. I'llgo." She turned about."Stop," cried Old Grannis, finding his voice at last. MissBaker paused, looking at him over her shoulder, her eyesvery wide open, blinking through her tears, for all theworld like a frightened child."Stop," exclaimed the old Englishman, rising to his feet."I didn't know it was you at first. I hadn't dreamed--Icouldn't believe you would be so good, so kind to me. Oh,"he cried, with a sudden sharp breath, "oh, you are kind.I--I--you have--have made me very happy.""No, no," exclaimed Miss Baker, ready to sob. "It wasunlady-like. You will--you must think ill of me." Shestood in the hall. The tears were running down her cheeks,and she had no free hand to dry them."Let me--I'll take the tray from you," cried Old Grannis,coming forward. A tremulous joy came upon him. Never inhis life had he been so happy. At last it had come--comewhen he had least expected it. That which he had longed forand hoped for through so many years, behold, it was come to-night. He felt his awkwardness leaving him. He was almostcertain that the little dressmaker loved him, and thethought gave him boldness. He came toward her and took thetray from her hands, and, turning back into the room withit, made as if to set it upon his table. But the piles ofhis pamphlets were in the way. Both of his hands wereoccupied with the tray; he could not make a place for it onthe table. He stood for a moment uncertain, hisembarrassment returning."Oh, won't you--won't you please--" He turned his head,looking appealingly at the little old dressmaker."Wait, I'll help you," she said. She came into the room, upto the table, and moved the pamphlets to one side."Thanks, thanks," murmured Old Grannis, setting down thetray."Now--now--now I will go back," she exclaimed, hurriedly."No--no," returned the old Englishman. "Don't go, don't go.I've been so lonely to-night--and last night too--all thisyear--all my life," he suddenly cried."I--I--I've forgotten the sugar.""But I never take sugar in my tea.""But it's rather cold, and I've spilled it--almost all ofit.""I'll drink it from the saucer." Old Grannis had drawn uphis armchair for her."Oh, I shouldn't. This is--this is so--You must thinkill of me." Suddenly she sat down, and resting her elbowson the table, hid her face in her hands."Think ill of you?" cried Old Grannis, "think ill ofyou? Why, you don't know--you have no idea--all theseyears--living so close to you, I--I--" he paused suddenly.It seemed to him as if the beating of his heart was chokinghim."I thought you were binding your books to-night," said MissBaker, suddenly, "and you looked tired. I thought youlooked tired when I last saw you, and a cup of tea, youknow, it--that--that does you so much good when you'retired. But you weren't binding books.""No, no," returned Old Grannis, drawing up a chair andsitting down. "No, I--the fact is, I've sold my apparatus;a firm of booksellers has bought the rights of it.""And aren't you going to bind books any more?" exclaimed thelittle dressmaker, a shade of disappointment in her manner."I thought you always did about four o'clock. I used tohear you when I was making tea."It hardly seemed possible to Miss Baker that she wasactually talking to Old Grannis, that the two were reallychatting together, face to face, and without the dreadfulembarrassment that used to overwhelm them both when they meton the stairs. She had often dreamed of this, but had alwaysput it off to some far-distant day. It was to comegradually, little by little, instead of, as now, abruptlyand with no preparation. That she should permit herself theindiscretion of actually intruding herself into his room hadnever so much as occurred to her. Yet here she was, inhis room, and they were talking together, and little bylittle her embarrassment was wearing away."Yes, yes, I always heard you when you were making tea,"returned the old Englishman; "I heard the tea things. ThenI used to draw my chair and my work-table close to the wallon my side, and sit there and work while you drank your teajust on the other side; and I used to feel very near to youthen. I used to pass the whole evening that way.""And, yes--yes--I did too," she answered. "I used to maketea just at that time and sit there for a whole hour.""And didn't you sit close to the partition on your side?Sometimes I was sure of it. I could even fancy that I couldhear your dress brushing against the wall-paper close besideme. Didn't you sit close to the partition?""I--I don't know where I sat."Old Grannis shyly put out his hand and took hers as it layupon her lap."Didn't you sit close to the partition on your side?" heinsisted."No--I don't know--perhaps--sometimes. Oh, yes," sheexclaimed, with a little gasp, "Oh, yes, I often did."Then Old Grannis put his arm about her, and kissed her fadedcheek, that flushed to pink upon the instant.After that they spoke but little. The day lapsed slowlyinto twilight, and the two old people sat there in the grayevening, quietly, quietly, their hands in each other'shands, "keeping company," but now with nothing to separatethem. It had come at last. After all these years theywere together; they understood each other. They stood atlength in a little Elysium of their own creating. Theywalked hand in hand in a delicious garden where it wasalways autumn. Far from the world and together they enteredupon the long retarded romance of their commonplace anduneventful lives.