Vera, the Medium Part 12

Mannie stared at him, his eyes filled with surprise.

"Don't you suppose," he said simply, "that I know that better than you do?" With a boy's pride in his own incorrigibility he went on boastingly: "Oh, yes," he said, "I used to be awful bad! Cocaine and all kinds of dope, and cigarettes, and whiskey. I was nearly all in--with morphine, it was then--till she took hold of me, and stopped me."

"She?" said Winthrop.

"Vera," said Mannie. "She made me stop. I had to stop. She started taking it herself."

"What!" cried Winthrop.

"Oh!" exclaimed Mannie hastily, "I don't mean what you mean--I mean she started taking it to make me stop. She says to me, Mannie, you're killing yourself, and you got to quit it; and if you don't, every time you take a grain, I'll take two. And she did! I'd come home, and she'd see what I'd been doing, and she'd up with her sleeves, and--" In horrible pantomime, the boy lifted the cuff of his shirt, and pressed his right thumb against the wrist of his other arm. At the memory of it, he gave a shiver and, with a blow, roughly struck the cuff into place.

"G.o.d!" he muttered, "I couldn't stand it. I begged, and begged her not.

I cried. I used to get down, in this room, on my knees. And each time she'd get whiter, and black under the eyes. And--and I had to stop.

Didn't I?"

Winthrop moved his head.

"And now," cried the boy with a happy laugh, "I'm all right!" He appealed to the older man eagerly, wistfully. "Don't you think I'm looking better than I did the last time you saw me?"

Again, without venturing to speak, Winthrop nodded.

Mannie smiled with pride. "Everybody tells me so," he said. "Well, she did it. That's what she did for me. And, I can tell you," he said simply, sincerely, "there ain't anything I wouldn't do for her. I guess that's right, hey?" he added.

The eyes of the cruel cross-examiner, veiled under half-closed lids, were regarding the boy with so curious an expression that under their scrutiny Mannie, in embarra.s.sment, moved uneasily. "I guess that's right," he repeated.

To his surprise, the District Attorney rose from his comfortable position and, leaning across the table, held out his hand. Mannie took it awkwardly.

"That's all right," he said.

"Sure, it's all right," said the District Attorney.

From the hall there was the sound of light, quick steps, and Mannie, happy to escape from a situation he did not understand, ran to the door.

"She's coming," he said. He opened the door and, as Vera entered, he slipped past her and closed it behind him.

Vera walked directly to the chair at the top of the centre table. She was nervous, and she was conscious that that fact was evident. To avoid shaking hands with her visitor, she carried her own clasped in front of her, with the fingers interlaced. She tried to speak in her usual suave, professional tone. "How do you do?" she said.

But Winthrop would not be denied. With a smile that showed his pleasure at again seeing her, he advanced eagerly, with his hand outstretched.

"How are you?" he exclaimed. "Aren't you going to shake hands with me?"

he demanded. "With an old friend?"

Vera gave him her hand quickly, and then, seating herself at the table, picked up the ivory pointer.

"I didn't know you were coming as an old friend," she murmured embarra.s.sedly. "You said you were coming to consult Vera, the medium."

"But you said that was the only way I could come," protested Winthrop.

"Don't you remember, you said--"

Vera interrupted him. She spoke distantly, formally. "What kind of a reading do you want?" she asked. "A hand reading, or a crystal reading?"

Winthrop leaned forward in his chair, frankly smiling at her. He made no attempt to conceal the pleasure the sight of her gave him. His manner was that of a very old and dear friend, who, for the first time, had met her after a separation of years.

"Don't want any kind of a reading," he declared. "I want a talking. You don't seem to understand," he objected, "that I am making an afternoon call." His good humor was una.s.sailable. Looking up with a perplexed frown, Vera met his eyes and saw that he was laughing at her. She threw the ivory pointer down and, leaning back in her chair, smiled at him.

"I don't believe," she said doubtfully, "that I know much about afternoon calls. What would I do, if we were on Fifth Avenue? Would I give you tea?" she asked, "because," she added hastily, "there isn't any tea."

"In that case, it is not etiquette to offer any," said Winthrop gravely.

"Then," said Vera, "I'm doing it right, so far?"

They both laughed; Vera because she still was in awe of him, and Winthrop because he was happy.

"You're doing it charmingly," Winthrop a.s.sured her.

"Good!" exclaimed Vera. "Well, now," she inquired, "now we talk, don't we?"

"Yes," a.s.sented Winthrop promptly, "we talk about you."

"No, I--I don't think we do," declared Vera, in haste. "I think we talk about--Geneva." She turned to him with real interest. "Is the town much changed?" she asked.

As though preparing for a long talk, Winthrop dropped his hat to the floor and settled himself comfortably. "Well, it is, and it isn't," he answered. "Haven't you been back lately?" he asked. Vera looked quickly away from him.

"I have never been back!" she answered. There was a pause and when she again turned her eyes to his, she was smiling. "But I always take the Geneva Times," she said, "and I often read that you've been there.

You're a great man in Geneva."

Winthrop nodded gravely.

"Whenever I want to be a great man," he said, "I go to Geneva."

"Why, yes," exclaimed Vera. "Last June you delivered the oration to the graduating cla.s.s," she laughed, "on The College Man in Politics. Such an original subject! And did you point to yourself?" she asked mockingly, "as the--the bright example?"

"No," protested Winthrop, "I knew they'd see that."

Much to her relief, Vera found that of Winthrop she was no longer afraid.

"Oh!" she protested, "didn't you say, twelve years ago, a humble boy played ball for Hobart College. That boy now stands before you? Didn't you say that?"

"Something like that," a.s.sented the District Attorney. "Oh!" he exclaimed, "that young man who showed me in here--your confederate or fellow-conspirator or lookout man or whatever he is--told me you used to be a regular attendant at those games."

"I never missed one!" Vera cried. She leaned forward, her eyes shining, her brows knit with the effort of recollection.

"I used to tell Aunt," she said, "I had to drive in for the mail. But that was only an excuse. Aunt had an old buggy, and an old white horse called Roscoe Conkling. I called him Rocks. He was blind in one eye, and he would walk on the wrong side of the road; you had to drive him on one rein." The girl was speaking rapidly, eagerly. She had lost all fear of her visitor. With satisfaction Winthrop recognized this; and unconsciously he was now frankly regarding the face of the girl with a smile of pleasure and admiration.

"And I used to tie him to the fence just opposite first base," Vera went on excitedly, "and shout--for you!"

"Don't tell me," interrupted Winthrop, in burlesque excitement, "that you were that very pretty little girl, with short dresses and long legs, who used to sit on the top rail and kick and cheer."

Vera shook her head sternly.