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 Ipromised 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 Icould tell.
I crept along--the carpets were thick and soft and silky as the rug I'd had my hands buried in to keep 'em warm.
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 Imust 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 portieres 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 disposition 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,with rage in his heart and death in his hand,leaping on that cripple's body--it made me sick!
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 off 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 nothing for you?Aren't you sick of this sort of life?""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,Iguess.
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 Isaw,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!