McTeague by Frank Norris (leveled readers TXT) 📕

sleepy and stupid, “what you saying? What’s that about Marcus?”

“I believe Marcus has been packing up, the last two or three days. I wonder if he’s going away.”

“Who’s going away?” said McTeague, blinking at her.

“Oh, go to bed,” said Trina, pushing him goodnaturedly. “Mac, you’re the stupidest man I ever knew.”

But it was true. Marcus was going away. Trina received a letter the next morning from her mother. The carpet-cleaning and upholstery business in which Mr. Sieppe had involved himself was going from bad to worse. Mr. Sieppe had even been obliged to put a mortgage upon their house. Mrs. Sieppe didn’t know what was to become of them all. Her husband had even begun to talk of emigrating to New Zealand. Meanwhile, she informed Trina that Mr. Sieppe had finally come across a man with whom Marcus could “go in with on a ranch,” a cattle ranch in the southeastern portion of the State. Her ideas were vague upon the subject, but she knew that Marcus was wildly enthusiastic at the prospect, and was expected down before the end of the month. In the meantime, could Trina send them fifty dollars?

“Marcus is going away, after all, Mac,” said Trina to her husband that day as he came out of his Parlors and sat down to the lunch of sausages, mashed potatoes, and chocolate in the sitting-room.

“Huh?” said the dentist, a little confused. “Who’s going away? Schouler going away? Why’s Schouler going away?”

Trina explained. “Oh!” growled McTeague, behind his thick mustache, “he can go far before I’ll stop him.”

“And, say, Mac,” continued Trina, pouring the chocolate, “what do you think? Mamma wants me⁠—wants us to send her fifty dollars. She says they’re hard up.”

“Well,” said the dentist, after a moment, “well, I guess we can send it, can’t we?”

“Oh, that’s easy to say,” complained Trina, her little chin in the air, her small pale lips pursed. “I wonder if mamma thinks we’re millionaires?”

“Trina, you’re getting to be regular stingy,” muttered McTeague. “You’re getting worse and worse every day.”

“But fifty dollars is fifty dollars, Mac. Just think how long it takes you to earn fifty dollars. Fifty dollars! That’s two months of our interest.”

“Well,” said McTeague, easily, his mouth full of mashed potato, “you got a lot saved up.”

Upon every reference to that little hoard in the brass match-safe and chamois-skin bag at the bottom of her trunk, Trina bridled on the instant.

“Don’t talk that way, Mac. ‘A lot of money.’ What do you call a lot of money? I don’t believe I’ve got fifty dollars saved.”

“Hoh!” exclaimed McTeague. “Hoh! I guess you got nearer a hundred an’ fifty. That’s what I guess you got.”

“I’ve not, I’ve not,” declared Trina, “and you know I’ve not. I wish mamma hadn’t asked me for any money. Why can’t she be a little more economical? I manage all right. No, no, I can’t possibly afford to send her fifty.”

“Oh, pshaw! What will you do, then?” grumbled her husband.

“I’ll send her twenty-five this month, and tell her I’ll send the rest as soon as I can afford it.”

“Trina, you’re a regular little miser,” said McTeague.

“I don’t care,” answered Trina, beginning to laugh. “I guess I am, but I can’t help it, and it’s a good fault.”

Trina put off sending this money for a couple of weeks, and her mother made no mention of it in her next letter. “Oh, I guess if she wants it so bad,” said Trina, “she’ll speak about it again.” So she again postponed the sending of it. Day by day she put it off. When her mother asked her for it a second time, it seemed harder than ever for Trina to part with even half the sum requested. She answered her mother, telling her that they were very hard up themselves for that month, but that she would send down the amount in a few weeks.

“I’ll tell you what we’ll do, Mac,” she said to her husband, “you send half and I’ll send half; we’ll send twenty-five dollars altogether. Twelve and a half apiece. That’s an idea. How will that do?”

“Sure, sure,” McTeague had answered, giving her the money. Trina sent McTeague’s twelve dollars, but never sent the twelve that was to be her share. One day the dentist happened to ask her about it.

“You sent that twenty-five to your mother, didn’t you?” said he.

“Oh, long ago,” answered Trina, without thinking.

In fact, Trina never allowed herself to think very much of this affair. And, in fact, another matter soon came to engross her attention.

One Sunday evening Trina and her husband were in their sitting-room together. It was dark, but the lamp had not been lit. McTeague had brought up some bottles of beer from the “Wein Stube” on the ground floor, where the branch post-office used to be. But they had not opened the beer. It was a warm evening in summer. Trina was sitting on McTeague’s lap in the bay window, and had looped back the Nottingham curtains so the two could look out into the darkened street and watch the moon coming up over the glass roof of the huge public baths. On occasions they sat like this for an hour or so, “philandering,” Trina cuddling herself down upon McTeague’s enormous body, rubbing her cheek against the grain of his unshaven chin, kissing the bald spot on the top of his head, or putting her fingers into his ears and eyes. At times, a brusque access of passion would seize upon her, and, with a nervous little sigh, she would clasp his thick red neck in both her small arms and whisper in his ear:

“Do you love me, Mac, dear? Love me big, big? Sure, do you love me as much as you did when we were married?”

Puzzled, McTeague would answer: “Well, you know it, don’t you, Trina?”

“But I want you to say so; say so always and always.”

“Well, I do, of course I do.”

“Say it, then.”

“Well, then, I love you.”

“But you don’t say it of your own accord.”

“Well, what⁠—what⁠—what⁠—I don’t