McTeague by Frank Norris (leveled readers TXT) 📕

“Yes, all right⁠—I’ll⁠—you can give me⁠—will you give me a check for thirty-seven hundred? Give me all of my money.”

A few hours later she entered her little room over the kindergarten, bolted the door with shaking fingers, and emptied a heavy canvas sack upon the middle of her bed. Then she opened her trunk, and taking thence the brass matchbox and chamois-skin bag added their contents to the pile. Next she laid herself upon the bed and gathered the gleaming heaps of gold pieces to her with both arms, burying her face in them with long sighs of unspeakable delight.

It was a little past noon, and the day was fine and warm. The leaves of the huge cherry trees threw off a certain pungent aroma that entered through the open window, together with long thin shafts of golden sunlight. Below, in the kindergarten, the children were singing gayly and marching to the jangling of the piano. Trina heard nothing, saw nothing. She lay on her bed, her eyes closed, her face buried in a pile of gold that she encircled with both her arms.

Trina even told herself at last that she was happy once more. McTeague became a memory⁠—a memory that faded a little every day⁠—dim and indistinct in the golden splendor of five thousand dollars.

“And yet,” Trina would say, “I did love Mac, loved him dearly, only a little while ago. Even when he hurt me, it only made me love him more. How is it I’ve changed so sudden? How could I forget him so soon? It must be because he stole my money. That is it. I couldn’t forgive anyone that⁠—no, not even my mother. And I never⁠—never⁠—will forgive him.”

What had become of her husband Trina did not know. She never saw any of the old Polk Street people. There was no way she could have news of him, even if she had cared to have it. She had her money, that was the main thing. Her passion for it excluded every other sentiment. There it was in the bottom of her trunk, in the canvas sack, the chamois-skin bag, and the little brass match-safe. Not a day passed that Trina did not have it out where she could see and touch it. One evening she had even spread all the gold pieces between the sheets, and had then gone to bed, stripping herself, and had slept all night upon the money, taking a strange and ecstatic pleasure in the touch of the smooth flat pieces the length of her entire body.

One night, some three months after she had come to live at the kindergarten, Trina was awakened by a sharp tap on the pane of the window. She sat up quickly in bed, her heart beating thickly, her eyes rolling wildly in the direction of her trunk. The tap was repeated. Trina rose and went fearfully to the window. The little court below was bright with moonlight, and standing just on the edge of the shadow thrown by one of the cherry trees was McTeague. A bunch of half-ripe cherries was in his hand. He was eating them and throwing the pits at the window. As he caught sight of her, he made an eager sign for her to raise the sash. Reluctant and wondering, Trina obeyed, and the dentist came quickly forward. He was wearing a pair of blue overalls; a navy-blue flannel shirt without a cravat; an old coat, faded, rain-washed, and ripped at the seams; and his woollen cap.

“Say, Trina,” he exclaimed, his heavy bass voice pitched just above a whisper, “let me in, will you, huh? Say, will you? I’m regularly starving, and I haven’t slept in a Christian bed for two weeks.”

At sight at him standing there in the moonlight, Trina could only think of him as the man who had beaten and bitten her, had deserted her and stolen her money, had made her suffer as she had never suffered before in all her life. Now that he had spent the money that he had stolen from her, he was whining to come back⁠—so that he might steal more, no doubt. Once in her room he could not help but smell out her five thousand dollars. Her indignation rose.

“No,” she whispered back at him. “No, I will not let you in.”

“But listen here, Trina, I tell you I am starving, regularly⁠—”

“Hoh!” interrupted Trina scornfully. “A man can’t starve with four hundred dollars, I guess.”

“Well⁠—well⁠—I⁠—well⁠—” faltered the dentist. “Never mind now. Give me something to eat, an’ let me in an’ sleep. I’ve been sleeping in the Plaza for the last ten nights, and say, I⁠—Damn it, Trina, I ain’t had anything to eat since⁠—”

“Where’s the four hundred dollars you robbed me of when you deserted me?” returned Trina, coldly.

“Well, I’ve spent it,” growled the dentist. “But you can’t see me starve, Trina, no matter what’s happened. Give me a little money, then.”

“I’ll see you starve before you get any more of my money.”

The dentist stepped back a pace and stared up at her wonder-stricken. His face was lean and pinched. Never had the jaw bone looked so enormous, nor the square-cut head so huge. The moonlight made deep black shadows in the shrunken cheeks.

“Huh?” asked the dentist, puzzled. “What did you say?”

“I won’t give you any money⁠—never again⁠—not a cent.”

“But do you know that I’m hungry?”

“Well, I’ve been hungry myself. Besides, I don’t believe you.”

“Trina, I ain’t had a thing to eat since yesterday morning; that’s God’s truth. Even if I did get off with your money, you can’t see me starve, can you? You can’t see me walk the streets all night because I ain’t got a place to sleep. Will you let me in? Say, will you? Huh?”

“No.”

“Well, will you give me some money then⁠—just a little? Give me a dollar. Give me half a dol⁠—Say, give me a dime, an’ I can get a cup of coffee.”

“No.”

The dentist paused and looked at her with curious intentness, bewildered,