Читать книгу The Celestial City - Baroness Emmuska Orczy - Страница 5

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It was very cold and very wet; a thin drizzle that was neither rain nor snow, but that partook of the unpleasant qualities of both, defied every overcoat and the stoutest of boots, penetrated to the marrow of every bone, and, incidentally, blurred the ugly outlines of the houses in Shaston Street as well as the tall, grim stone walls against which the man leaned in the intervals of tramping up and down to keep himself warm.

Now and again a passer-by spoke to him:

“Hello, Bill!”

And he, chawing the end of an excellent cigar, would murmur a surly “Hello!” in reply.

An excellent cigar and an expensive one, although he, the man, wore a coat over which age had thrown a greenish hue, trousers that had not seen a tailor’s goose for years, a woollen scarf that hid the absence of a collar, and a battered bowler that would have shamed a street musician.

He had been waiting here for over an hour, sometimes tramping up and down, sometimes leaning against the wall, ever since eight o’clock. She had let him know that it would be eight o’clock, but it was past nine now. The shops in Shaston Street were taking down their shutters, preparing for the business of the day. Through the frosty mist one or two lights blinked like lazy eyes just wakened from sleep.

Those that hailed the man as they passed did not stop to make conversation, though one of them did supplement the “Hello, Bill!” with a sympathetic query: “Been here long?” to which the man vouchsafed no reply. It was pretty obvious that he had been here long, for his coat, the one-time velvet collar of which was turned up to his ears, was covered all over with moisture that glistened in the grey morning light like myriads of minute strass.

It was nearly half-past nine before the big wooden doors swung open. The two bobbies at the gate did no more than glance up and hoist their massive chests by inserting their thumbs more firmly in their belts. From where the man stood he couldn’t see the gates, nor could he hear the heavy doors swinging on their well-oiled hinges, but some mysterious instinct warned him that they were now open and that she would come in a minute or two.

He threw away the stump of his cigar and turned back the collar of his coat. He even set his battered hat at a more jaunty angle, and finally passed his hand meditatively over his shaggy beard.

The next moment she came out, dressed as he had last seen her in that neat navy-blue coat and skirt, the thin stockings and patent shoes and the smart little hat that made her look just like a lady. She carried the small suit-case which he had given her the day she got engaged to Jim.

The two bobbies hardly looked at her. Silly fools! not often did they see such a pretty sight as she presented—even now.

Turning out of the gate, she stopped on the pavement and looked to right and left. Presently she saw the man through the mist and the rain and the cold, and, just for a second, her little face lit up. It had been so very sullen, so rebellious before; and, sure enough, the light faded out of it again in a moment, and left it frowning, with drooping mouth and lips set tightly together.

“Hello, kid!” the man said with a vague attempt at cheerfulness.

“Hello, father!” she gave answer, and then added with the ghost of a smile: “I did not know you with that beard.”

“No?” he rejoined simply.

Silently they walked on, side by side, leaving those awful walls towering behind them. Just as the girl stepped off the pavement before crossing Manthorpe Place, she turned and gave them a last look. An imperceptible shudder went through her slim body.

“Don’t look at ’em, kid,” the man said quietly. “It’s all over now, and we’ll forget all about ’em.”

She gave a dry little laugh:

“Easy for you,” she murmured, “to forget all about ’em.”

“We’ll go to London or somewhere,” the man went on with a vague gesture of his lean, brown hand. “There’s plenty of money now, you know. Quite safe.”

They didn’t speak for some time after that, just walked on, she carrying her suit-case, and he walking with his hands in the pockets of his overcoat, not offering to carry the case for her, though it was obviously heavy and awkward, but, nevertheless, very attentive and watchful over her at the crossings.

When they came to the bridge, she exclaimed:

“Hello! don’t we pay our penny to go over the bridge?”

“No!” the man replied; “they took off the toll last year. You didn’t know, did yer?”

“No,” she replied. “I didn’t know.”

“And you remember Reeson’s flour-mill? He’s had to shift his works, outside the city boundary. The smoke from his chimneys was rotting some of the stonework of the minster. He fought the corporation over it, tooth and nail. But he’s had to go. People say it’s cost him a mint of money, but my belief is that he got compensation and didn’t lose a penny by the transaction.”

He went on in the same strain for some time, but, obviously, the girl was not listening. Her thoughts were elsewhere, and he, equally obviously, was only talking for the sake of bridging over those awkward moments, the first they had spent alone together since goodness knows when. She had paused on the bridge and was gazing, silent and absorbed, on an old familiar picture: the grey, sluggish river, the city walls, the dull, red-brick buildings of St. Peter’s schools, half veiled in the drooping branches of secular willows; and farther on the towers of the minster, encased in a network of scaffolding, set up to protect them against the depredations of modern commercialism.

“Much about the same, ain’t it, kid?”

She turned away from the contemplation of the old city and replied with a sigh:

“Yes, much about the same.”

Five minutes later they were over the bridge, in the unfashionable quarter of Yeominster. Row upon row of pale, dim-coloured brickwork broken at regular intervals by flights of stone steps leading to the front doors and flanked by lines of painted iron railings, represented the contributions made by nineteenth-century architecture towards the aggrandisement of the mediæval city.

“Here we are,” the man said with an obvious sigh of relief as he came to a halt outside one of these ugly structures, and, taking the five stone steps at a bound, he fumbled for his latchkey and soon had the front door invitingly open. He entered the house, closely followed by the girl. When the door fell-to behind them, the narrow hall and passage were pitch dark; ahead the steep staircase, partly covered by a tattered oil-cloth, showed vaguely in the dim light that came slanting from a window above. From one of the upper floors came a confused sound made up of intermittent swearing, an occasional fretful appeal, some shuffling and banging, and the monotonous cry of a child.

“We haven’t been able to get rid of those people on the third floor yet,” the man remarked curtly. “Such a nuisance they are! Their brat is always sick.”

The girl followed him along the passage and down the stairs that led to the basement. From below, too, came a vague murmur of voices, and presently the man threw open a door. A loud “Hello!” uttered by half a dozen lusty throats greeted the arrival of the pair. The girl blinked her eyes, trying to pierce the haze of tobacco smoke that hung like a curtain between her and the number of hands stretched out to greet her. A chair was pushed forward for her.

She sat down, half-dazed by the heat of the atmosphere, the rough greetings, the familiar sounds and smells of the old place; a soft colour crept into her wan cheeks and a glimmer of excitement came into her eyes.

“Bless my soul,” said one man, “I do believe she’s grown.”

This made her laugh; she took off her hat with a quick gesture that had something of defiance in it, and her small head appeared with its crop of golden hair cut so close that for a moment she seemed in her neat tailor-made more like a boy than a girl. Her father gave a curt laugh.

“It’s all the fashion in London now,” he said, “for ladies to cut their hair. Ain’t it, mates?”

“It’ll soon grow,” someone remarked sententiously.

Further discussion on the subject was interrupted by the entrance of a very large, slatternly-looking woman carrying a tray of tea-things, which she set upon the table in the middle of the room. She showed neither surprise nor pleasure at seeing the girl, who gave her a curt “Hello, Mrs. Mason,” as she put the tray down.

“I’ve made you a bit o’ toast,” the woman remarked drily, “and I thought you could eat an egg.”

After which she waddled out of the room.

Youth and health asserted themselves then and there. The arrival of Mrs. Mason, the tea-tray, the hot buttered toast and fresh egg acted like a thaw on the girl’s frozen senses. She fell to with relish and vigour, all the men watching her eat as if the sight of her enjoying her tea was the one sight they had been longing for. At one moment she looked up and caught her father’s eyes fixed upon her.

“Glad to be back?” he asked somewhat wistfully, as he came round to her and stood close to her chair.

She didn’t reply in so many words, but with a graceful kittenish movement she leaned over and pressed her cheek against his coat-sleeve, whilst a soft look stole into her eyes.

Sentiment being apparently a reprehensible display in social intercourse, several men at once cleared their throats, expectorated on the dusty floor, wiped their mouths with the backs of their hands, and gave sundry other signs of complete indifference. Then one of them suddenly remarked:

“You did know the war was over, didn’t you, kid?”

She nodded.

“Yes, we knew that,” she said. “Someone sent a lot of oranges to celebrate the occasion, and there was suet pudding one day. November, wasn’t it?”

They all nodded in reply, and after a pause she went on:

“All the boys come home yet?”

“Most of ’em,” someone said. And then suddenly they were all silent. One or two enquiring glances were shot at Bill, who mutely shook his head. Once more there was universal clearing of throats, and presently a call for Mrs. Mason. The girl had been silent for a minute or so; then she said quietly, all at once:

“You needn’t tell me: I know.”

They understood and said nothing, and after another second she added:

“He was killed?”

Her father nodded.

“A week before the armistice,” he said. And one or two of the others also nodded their heads in a sage manner and said slowly:

“Yes, a week before the armistice. That’s when it was.”

With this the incident was closed. The girl went on slowly sipping her tea. The men started a discussion on the subject of some new police regulations that seemed greatly to excite them, but did not interest her in the least. And presently she felt an immense lassitude, a longing for her own comfy bed, with the spring mattress and the light, warm quilt. Her father caught her out yawning.

“Would you like to go upstairs, kid?” he asked.

“Yes, I would,” she replied. “I feel as if I could sleep on and off for hours and hours.”

She rose and clung to his arm.

“S’long everybody,” Bill said, giving his friends a comprehensive nod. “See you to-night as usual. Same place.”

They all said “S’long” and at once resumed their discussion on the new police regulations, whilst Bill picked up the girl’s suit-case and led her out of the room.