Читать книгу Passers-By - E. Phillips Oppenheim - Страница 7

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A ray of winter sunshine came stealing through the high windows of the room, glancing for a moment upon the faces of the two men, faces as far removed from any likeness to or kinship with one another as the poles of life themselves. Drake was dressed in the shabbiest of blue serge suits, a suit made for a boy, short in the arm, high in the neck, mud-stained, and shiny with wear. His boots had holes in them. His low collar and scrap of tie were negligible things. His face was of a length out of proportion to his size; the chin stubbly, the complexion pallid, and bearing traces of his daily privations. Only his eyes were soft, of a gray which deepened sometimes almost into blue. At this moment, however, they were overcast with a heavy frown, which seemed to gather in intensity as the seconds of silence passed.

The man before whom he stood had presence enough and had borne himself bravely on many great occasions, but at that moment he seemed in some sense to have collapsed. No sense of his stature remained. His limbs were drawn closely together, his shoulders had acquired a new stoop, his head was thrust a little forward, as though he were forced against his will to return the earnest gaze of his visitor. The marquis was forty-six years old, and called himself a young man. He had health enough, and courage, and good looks, but at this moment all three seemed to have deserted him. The cords of life had suddenly slackened. He was face to face with horrible things, and the nerve which should have set him with feet firmly planted upon the ground to face the crisis was gone.

"It has been a long search," Drake said.

"Since it is at an end, then," the marquis answered, "what would you have of me? Up to a certain point," he added, in a low, uneasy tone, "I am in your hands. Do you see, I attempt no evasions. I say that I am in your hands. Go on."

Drake laughed a little bitterly. It was not a pleasant sound, that laugh. It seemed to come from somewhere at the back of his throat, and it left his features unmoved. "Milord has lost his courage," he muttered. "Why don't you have me thrown into the gutter?"

"Because," the marquis answered, "your snarl would reach me from there. Is the—I mean is she—are you alone?" he asked, with a sudden break in his voice.

Drake shook his head. "We are all here," he answered, "she and I and Chicot."

The marquis shivered a little. "Yes, I remember," he said, half to himself. "You, with your tattered brown overcoat, that cursed animal, and the girl. You have been looking for me, I suppose?"

"Over half the world," Drake answered. "Up and down the streets and along the byways of more cities than I should care to count. We have watched the boulevards, the restaurants, the clubs of Paris. We have watched the crowds go by in all the great thoroughfares where one might hope to find a man such as you. It is four years since we started on the search."

"And now?" the marquis asked.

"And now," Drake answered, "I have come to warn you. We shall be here in this city for months. Get you gone out of it. You will be wiser."

The marquis looked startled for a moment. Then he leaned forward, with the air of one who does not understand. Suddenly his expression gave way to one of positive terror. "You don't mean," he faltered, "that you have already, without coming to see me—"

"No," Drake interrupted. "We have done nothing. We have said nothing. It is for another reason that I would have you go."

The marquis was once more puzzled. "You tell me," he protested, "that for four years you have sought me, and yet, now that you have succeeded in your search, you tell me to go away. What do you mean?"

"It is not I who have sought you," Drake answered bitterly. "It is she. She builds dreams, she has many fancies. It is she who has driven us round the world, from place to place, in this wild quest. Understand me. It is I who have found you out. She has not. She does not know."

"But you will tell her!" the marquis exclaimed.

"I shall not," Drake answered. "I tell you that all through these weary months, when her eyes have gone through the throngs, seeking, always seeking, mine have followed hers with a dread as great as her desire. For the first time in my life, to-day I am faithless to her. I come here alone. She does not know, and I would have you hurry away and hide yourself before chance brings you face to face with her."

"I do not understand," the marquis said weakly.

"Perhaps not," Drake replied. "Yet it is simple enough. Look at me. See what I am—a miserable fragment of a man, a misshapen creature, the scoff of passers-by, an outcast. Yet such as I am, I am all that she has. It is I who stand by her, I on whom she relies from day to day for bread and shelter. If she finds you, there will be an end of this, there will be an end of me."

The marquis drew a long breath. There were some signs of color in his cheeks. His tone had gained a little strength. He was no longer absolutely a stricken thing.

"You mean," he said, "that she would have no more need of you?"

"I mean that," Drake answered. "She would take your gold. I wouldn't. She would be a great lady, while I pushed my barrel, ground out my tunes, and pocketed the pennies for which Chicot danced."

Once more the marquis drew a long breath. This time he almost whistled. He remembered that he posed sometimes as a student of human character, that he was a member of the Ethnological Society, and sometimes attended its discussions. These were strange words to come from such a person. "Tell me," he said, "why would you not take my gold? You have only to speak, you know that."

Drake raised his eyes, and he looked the marquis straight in the face, until the eyes of the latter drooped and fell. "You know," he answered.

The marquis laughed uneasily. He had looked away, but the fire of that intent gaze seemed still to be burning its way into his consciousness. "Well," he said, "you are a strange mortal. You think, then, that if I leave London, say to-morrow, I shall not see her?"

"You will go?" Drake asked.

"I will go," the marquis answered.

There was a moment's silence. The marquis looked at his visitor, and saw upon his person the signs of suffering.

"Do you think," he asked, "there is any real reason why you should not take a trifle of money from me—twenty or fifty pounds, at any rate? You need new clothes. I should imagine that you need many things."

"I will take no money," Drake answered. "Apart from the reason which you know of, she would discover it. She sees our takings. If I had money she would suspect. She might even guess the truth. And if she knew that," he added in a lower tone, "she would never forgive me."

The marquis looked at him curiously. "You are a strange person," he said. "You prefer poverty, privations, and all the squalid discomforts of life, just for the sake of having that girl walk by your side?"

"I do," Drake answered. "You look at me and you wonder, I suppose. You think that a creature such as I am has no right to the heart of a man. Perhaps you are right. I do not know that it matters."

"Supposing," the marquis said, "that your health broke down, and the girl was alone?"

Drake was unmoved. The shadow of a smile played about his lips. "I have had that fear," he said, "and I have provided against it."

"At the same time," the marquis said, "I cannot see why you should not allow me, for the girl's sake, to help you."

"I tell you that I will not touch your money," Ambrose answered. "We take pennies every day from all alike, from thieves and vagabonds, sinners of every class. But to us they are strangers, they are just the flotsam and jetsam of the world, paying their tribute as they pass by. You are different. We know who you are."

The marquis rose to his feet with an uneasy little laugh. He thrust his hands deep into the pockets of his quilted smoking-jacket, and he stood upright on his hearth-rug, an attitude not by any means ungraceful. "You are the strangest person I ever met in my life," he said to Drake. "Tell me, where were you born? Of what nation are you? Surely you speak English too well to be a foreigner. If such a thing were possible—"

The frown upon Drake's face was like the frown of a man rebuking an impertinence. "My family history," he said, "would scarcely interest you. Such as it is, it belongs to myself."

The marquis turned toward the bell. "There is nothing more?" he asked.

"There is nothing more," Drake answered, as he turned to leave the room.