And now this little dago—
About the middle of the afternoon, Mr. Chidden mounted to the third floor and knocked on the door at the front. His was no coward spirit. He had no special design or object; he merely wanted to face the enemy and appraise him. Signor Comicci opened the door.
“I’ve come to see to the gas,” said Mr. Chidden, entering.
“There is nothing wronga weeth eet,” answered the Italian.
Without bothering to reply, Mr. Chidden got a chair from a corner and carried it to the middle of the floor under the chandelier; then, mounting on it, he proceeded to examine the top of the burner with a singular expression of hostility, due, perhaps, to the fact that every now and then his eyes shifted for a quick glance at the Italian, who stood beside the chair looking up curiously. The look was curious, and nothing more; there was certainly nothing vicious in the face, with its twinkling gray eyes beneath the straggling brown hair. But Mr. Chidden found it evil; and he was on the point of making an ill-natured remark, when it occurred to him that, in the role of spy, it is necessary to submerge the violent emotions.
“I guess it’s all right,” he said finally, descending from the chair.
Mr. Comicci nodded amiably.
“Gives trouble sometimes,” continued Mr. Chidden. “On account of the mantle. Jets is easy. But I suppose a good light.”
Thus the conversation began; and, despite a certain wary hesitancy of manner, Mr. Comicci entered into it with zest and affability. Within three minutes he was telling of his sorrow at having been compelled to give up his studio on Tenth Street, declaring that overhead light was essential to his art; after which he discoursed for some time on the stony path of the artist, especially the artist in marble and bronze.
“So costly the material!” he complained, while Mr. Chidden nodded in the effort to appear sympathetic. “Look at this! Just the marble, eet costa five dollar!”
He indicated a figure group, a boy sitting on a man’s knee, half-finished. Mr. Chidden displayed a diplomatic interest, eyeing the group with the air of a man who understands more than he is willing to admit. He had to pay for the pretense. From that figure they passed to another, and another. The room was full of them — just begun, half finished, and completed. The Italian dragged them from all sorts of places — a leaping frog in bronze from under a heap of sketches, a boy with a flute from a soiled laundry bag, a girl poring over a book from a drawer of the wardrobe.
“I show you something,” he said suddenly, going to a corner where stood a table with something on it covered with a dark cloth. “Eet has been at Demarest in exhibit. Only yesterday eet came back. I did eet long ago — so beautiful — see!”
He carefully removed the dark cloth, displaying the figure of a woman in white marble. There was no drapery. Her arms were crossed on her breast, and one knee was bent a little inward; her head was half turned, as if in shamed modesty. It was beautiful.
“By Polly!” exclaimed Mr. Chidden, after a minute’s critical survey; and then he added thoughtfully: “Bare as a picked chicken.”
It was the sight of that nude figure that gave Mr. Chidden his idea. But it came later — three or four days later — for in the presence of the figure he was really somewhat abashed. And the seed of Mr. Chidden’s strategy was the muttering to himself as he went downstairs after leaving Mr. Comicci:
“I’d like to see Maria’s face when she looked at that!”
The immediate effect of his visit was to soften his suspicion of Mr. Comicci. He seemed so harmless and amiable, and, poor devil that he was, what did it matter if he beat Maria out of some rent? Mr. Chidden was only too glad to see his sister done for once. He began to doubt if the kiss had really been delivered; and, looking at Maria’s face, he strongly doubted if any man, in any extremity, would have the temerity to kiss her.
It was about a week later that his doubts vanished decidedly and suddenly. Coming through the hall one afternoon, he heard an indistinct murmur of voices behind the closed door of the parlor. As his footsteps approached, the voices became silent; but as he reached the top of the stairs on the floor above, they came again to his ears, very faintly. Instantly he was suspicious. He halted, and stood still to think, with a hesitation born not of any scruples of morality, but to bolster up his courage. Then he returned to the stairs and descended slowly, noiselessly. From the hall the voices were audible, but he could not catch the words. He tiptoed cautiously to the door of the library in the rear and across to the curtains that hung between that room and the parlor, and, with a beating heart and set lips, he peeped through their folds.
What he saw was his sister Maria seated on the green plush sofa, her face redder than ever, and an absurd tenderness in her eyes, gazing fondly at Mr. Comicci, who was kneeling on the carpet at her feet and holding fast to both her hands!
The Italian’s voice came, plainly audible.
“You will! You will!” he murmured passionately.
He began to plant furious kisses all over her hands. She shook her head.
“I’m too old. You can’t love me,” the astonished Mr. Chidden heard her say.
“Ah!” groaned the lover. “Ah, what is age when one is beautiful? So beautiful! Eet is to break my heart!”
Still she shook her head, but with less determination. It was easy to see that she was yielding. The ardent wooer took one knee from the floor, passed an arm around her waist, and resumed the hand-kissing.
“So beautiful and pure!” he cried in an exalted whisper. It was wonderful. No one but a Latin could possibly have done it. “I implore you — ah — make me happy! Be my wife!”
And then came the voice of Minnie, the kitchen girl, from below:
“Mr. Chidden! Mr. Chid-den!”
Mr. Chidden, with an inward curse, turned so quickly that he nearly betrayed himself by knocking over a lamp pedestal. The voice of Minnie continued, rising higher. He tiptoed silently into the hall and down the stairs, meeting Minnie at the foot.
“What the heck do you want?” he demanded savagely.
“The man’s here for the bottles,” she replied in a tone of surprise at his manner of unaccustomed violence.
After all, as he told himself when he had retired to the cellar that evening to think, the interruption was of little consequence. He had seen and heard enough. Whether Maria had said yes or no, it was certain that she would eventually say yes.
“Indecent amorosity!” said Mr. Chidden aloud.
He sat down and began to think.
And fate played into his hands. The scheme was his own, but opportunity came from Maria herself. It was the next morning when she called him upstairs to order him to beat the parlor rugs and lay a fire in the grate. This in preparation for a meeting of the Help a Little Club, to be held on Thursday.
It was not the first time Mr. Chidden had been called on to prepare for the Help a Little Club, an organization of ladies of Maria’s church, who met weekly to sew for charity and to gossip. Always, hitherto, as he had carried the rugs into the back yard, he had cursed the club for that addition to his labors; and so he did on this occasion. But suddenly, as he was arranging the paper and kindling in the grate, he recognized opportunity. He stopped, stood up, and frowned.