Читать книгу Passers-By - E. Phillips Oppenheim - Страница 5
ОглавлениеCHAPTER II
Out once more into the Strand, unnoticed, unsuspected, the little company wound its way. The man, bent almost double, so that his deformity was even exaggerated, pushed his barrow and forged ahead at a speed which was almost incredible. The girl walked by his side with swift, even footsteps, and with downcast head. The monkey slept.
Once the man paused, but the girl shook her head.
"Not again to-night," she said. "We may as well starve at home as in jail. You strike too hard."
"It was the wrong man?" he muttered.
"It was the wrong man," she assented, in dull, lifeless tones. "You know that."
Down the Savoy hill, along the Embankment, and across Waterloo Bridge they made their unhesitating way. Near the farther end, the girl for the first time paused. She turned around and looked across the river, inky black, to the long sweep of lights which bordered the Embankment. She looked beyond, to where the two great hotels seemed to vie with each other in a blaze of light, reflected far across the gloomy waters. Farther still, to where the Houses of Parliament shone with a somewhat subdued glory. Across the sky beyond hung the golden haze of a million lights, the reflection from the great seething heart of London caught up and mirrored in the clouds. She looked at it steadfastly, with a scowl upon her sullen face.
"So this is London!" she muttered. "I wish—oh! I wish—"
Her companion dropped the handles of the barrow with a little gesture of weariness. He was glad of the moment's rest. "You wish?" he murmured. "Go on!"
She raised her arms with an impulsive gesture. Her face was suddenly illuminated with a bitter transfiguring light.
"I wish I were a prophetess from behind the ages," she cried. "I wish I could call down fire and brimstone upon every street and house whose lights go flaring up to the sky. They are not men and women any longer, these people who walk the streets, who jostle us from the sidewalk. They are beasts! They have the mark of the beast upon their foreheads. They throw their pennies with a curse. They hunt for pleasure like wolves. Not one smile, not one have I seen to-day!"
The man, too, looked up at the reddened sky. "And yet," he muttered, "somewhere underneath there lies fortune—fortune for you, Christine. Gold, rest, luxury," he added, glancing at her stealthily.
"And for you, too, Ambrose," said the girl, with a faint softening of her tone.
He picked up the handles of his barrow, avoiding her gaze. "Perhaps," he muttered. "Perhaps."
They continued their pilgrimage; the end was not far off. The man turned up a passage with the piano. The girl entered a small shop and made some humble purchases. They met, a few minutes later, in the stuffy hall of a neglected, smoke-begrimed house, in the middle of a row of similar buildings. Silently they made their way into a back sitting-room. The floor was bare of any carpet, the paper hung down in strips from the walls, the wooden mantelpiece knew no ornaments. The table in the middle of the room was covered with a sheet of hard oilskin, stained in many places. The two cane chairs were of odd design. One had only three legs; the other had a hole in the middle, where the cane had worn away. The only sound article of furniture was a horsehair sofa, and of this the springs were almost visible. The girl threw herself upon it with a little sob.
The man watched her for several moments, apparently unmoved. In the room his deformity seemed more apparent. He was less than five feet high, and his head and features were large for a full-grown man's. His face had gone unshaven for so long that his expression was almost unrecognizable. Yet his eyes seemed soft as he watched the girl, shaking all over now with her sudden storm of grief. Her hat, with its poor little cluster of flowers, had fallen to the floor; her black hair was streaming over her face, pressed hard into the round unsympathetic pillow. Chicot jumped upon the man's shoulder as he stood and watched; the man caressed him with gentle touch. The girl he left alone.
Presently Ambrose abandoned his watch and commenced to busy himself about the room. He lighted an oil-stove, opened the parcel which the girl had been carrying, and placed its contents in a small frying-pan. From a deal cupboard he produced a tablecloth and some articles of crockery, every one of which he carefully rubbed over with a cloth. Then he slipped out of the room for a minute, and returned with a small bottle of red wine and a bunch of violets, which he arranged in the middle of the table. When all was ready he touched the girl on the shoulder. ristine," he said softly, "there is supper ready."
"I will not eat," she answered sullenly. "It is a pigsty, this place."
Nevertheless she sat up, and for a moment her face softened when she saw the preparations which he had made. She seated herself ungraciously at the table.
"Wine!" she protested. "It is ridiculous! To-morrow we shall starve for this. Give me some, please. I am shivering."
He filled her glass. "You should take off your wet jacket," he urged.
"I cannot," she answered bitterly. "I threw away my last blouse yesterday. There is nothing on my arms underneath, and they are cold."
A spasm crossed his face. "We cannot go on like this," he muttered. "To-morrow I shall steal."
She shook her head. "It is not easy here," she said gloomily. "The police are everywhere. Ambrose," she added, looking across at him steadfastly, "do you think that you hurt him very much this evening?"
Ambrose shook his head. "He was only stunned," he answered. "He will recover quickly. I saw his face as I struck. I think, Christine, that there will be trouble. He will search again for us."
She shivered a little. "I am afraid," she muttered. "Give me some more wine, Ambrose. It warms my blood."
Obediently he filled her glass. His own was as yet untouched.
"It is—the other one we want," she continued, dropping her voice a little. "Think what he owes us, Ambrose. He is free and he is rich. I hate him—I hated him from the first; but he shall pay for it. All this time he has hidden, and we have starved. Think of it, Ambrose, think of it!"
The hunchback moved in his chair uneasily.
"We shall never find him," he muttered. "With four million francs, a man can live like a prince anywhere—even in the far corners of the world. Think of the countries which we can never visit,—South America, the United States, Brazil, Chile, Peru! Our search is a mad thing."
"I do not believe," she said, "that he is in any of those places. Ambrose, is London a very large city?"
"The largest in the world," he answered. "One man in it is lost like a berry upon the hedges. One may seek for a lifetime in vain—and meantime one starves."
She shook her head. Her expression was sullen but determined. "I will find him," she declared. "I will seek and seek until the day comes when I see him standing before me."
"And then?" Ambrose asked softly.
She leaned back in her chair and looked up at the ceiling through half-closed eyes. "And then," she repeated, "the great adventure! It must come then! It shall come!"
* * * * *
Gilbert Hannaway spent his evening in bed, his head bandaged and still painful. Toward midnight he awoke from a long doze and rang for a drink. He was young and strong, and already he was beginning to feel himself again. When the waiter had left the room he lifted the receiver from the telephone which stood by the side of his bed.
"I want the residence of the Marquis of Ellingham," he said. "It is in Cavendish Square, I believe."
In a moment the bell tinkled. He took the receiver once more into his hand.
"This is Lord Ellingham's house," a quiet voice said. "What do you want?"
"I want to speak to Lord Ellingham," Gilbert Hanna-way answered.
"Who are you?" was the reply. "I am Lord Ellingham's secretary. I can give him any message."
"I must speak to him personally," Hannaway answered. "He would not understand if I told you my name. The matter is an important one."
There was silence for a moment. Hannaway heard the sound of voices at the other end. Then some one else spoke, briefly, imperatively.
"I am Lord Ellingham. What do you want?"
"To give your lordship some valuable information," Hannaway said. "Listen!"
"Who are you?" the voice at the other end asked.
"It does not matter," Hannaway answered. "Listen while I tell you what I saw this evening, in London, within a mile of Cavendish Square. I saw a dark-haired girl singing in the streets—a dark-haired girl, a hunchback, and a monkey!"
Hannaway heard the receiver at the other end go clattering down. There was silence for some moments. Then a voice again, the same voice, but it seemed to come from a long way off.
"Who are you," it demanded. "For God's sake, tell me who you are!"
"An unknown friend, or enemy, whichever you like," Hannaway answered. "I have no more to say."
"Stop!" the voice insisted. "I must know—"
Hannaway laid down the receiver, disconnecting it with the instrument. Then he turned over on his side. "In London!" he muttered softly to himself. "What will come of it, I wonder? Lord, how my head aches!"
Nevertheless he closed his eyes and slept—slept better by far than the great statesman with whom he had been talking.
