McTeague, Frank Norris [polar express read aloud .txt] 📗

face in his hands. Not only did an inexplicable regret stir within him, but a certain great tenderness came upon him. The tears that swam in his faded blue eyes were not altogether those of unhappiness. No, this long-delayed affection that had come upon him in his later years filled him with a joy for which tears seemed to be the natural expression. For thirty years his eyes had not been wet, but tonight he felt as if he were young again. He had never loved before, and there was still a part of him that was only twenty years of age. He could not tell whether he was profoundly sad or deeply happy; but he was not ashamed of the tears that brought the smart to his eyes and the ache to his throat. He did not hear the timid rapping on his door, and it was not until the door itself opened that he looked up quickly and saw the little retired dressmaker standing on the threshold, carrying a cup of tea on a tiny Japanese tray. She held it toward him.

“I was making some tea,” she said, “and I thought you would like to have a cup.”

Never after could the little dressmaker understand how she had brought herself to do this thing. One moment she had been sitting quietly on her side of the partition, stirring her cup of tea with one of her Gorham spoons. She was quiet, she was peaceful. The evening was closing down tranquilly. 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 flank to catch a sudden glow of the setting sun. The next moment she had been all trepidation. It seemed to her the most natural thing in the world to make a steaming cup of tea and carry it in to Old Grannis next door. It seemed to her that he was wanting her, that she ought to go to him. With the brusque resolve and intrepidity that sometimes seizes upon very timid people⁠—the courage of the coward greater than all others⁠—she had presented herself at the old Englishman’s half-open door, and, when he had not heeded her knock, had pushed it open, and at last, after all these years, stood upon the threshold of his room. She had found courage enough to explain her intrusion.

“I was making some tea, and I thought you would like to have a cup.”

Old Grannis dropped his hands upon either arm of his chair, and, leaning forward a little, looked at her blankly. He did not speak.

The retired dressmaker’s courage had carried her thus far; now it deserted her as abruptly as it had come. Her cheeks became scarlet; her funny little false curls trembled with her agitation. What she had done seemed to her indecorous beyond expression. It was an enormity. Fancy, she had gone into his room, into his room⁠—Mister Grannis’s room. She had done this⁠—she who could not pass him on the stairs without a qualm. What to do she did not know. She stood, a fixture, on the threshold of his room, without even resolution enough to beat a retreat. Helplessly, and with a little quaver in her voice, she repeated obstinately:

“I was making some tea, and I thought you would like to have a cup of tea.” Her agitation betrayed itself in the repetition of the word. She felt that she could not hold the tray out another instant. Already she was trembling so that 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, the little dressmaker exclaimed tearfully:

“Oh, I didn’t mean⁠—I didn’t mean⁠—I didn’t know it would seem like this. I only meant to be kind and bring you some tea; and now it seems so improper. I⁠—I⁠—I’m so ashamed! I don’t know what you will think of me. I⁠—” she caught her breath⁠—“improper”⁠—she managed to exclaim, “unladylike⁠—you can never think well of me⁠—I’ll go. I’ll go.” She turned about.

“Stop,” cried Old Grannis, finding his voice at last. Miss Baker paused, looking at him over her shoulder, her eyes very wide open, blinking through her tears, for all the world 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—I couldn’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 was unladylike. You will⁠—you must think ill of me.” She stood 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 in his life had he been so happy. At last it had come⁠—come when he had least expected it. That which he had longed for and hoped for through so many years, behold, it was come tonight. He felt his awkwardness leaving him. He was almost certain that the little dressmaker loved him, and the thought gave him boldness. He came toward her and took the tray from her hands, and, turning back into the room with it, made as if to set it upon his table. But the piles of his pamphlets were in the way. Both of his hands were occupied with the tray; he could not make a place for it on the table. He stood for a moment uncertain, his embarrassment 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, up to the table, and moved the pamphlets to one side.

“Thanks, thanks,” murmured Old Grannis, setting down the tray.

“Now⁠—now⁠—now I