Читать книгу Passers-By - E. Phillips Oppenheim - Страница 8
ОглавлениеCHAPTER V
It was mid-November, and the afternoons were short. Already the gas-lamps were lighted when Drake re-entered the lodging-house, and after a moment's hesitation made his way into the little sitting-room at the rear. The girl was sitting there, with a pack of cards spread out on the table before her. She looked up as he entered, and the frown upon her dark sullen face grew deeper.
"Where have you been all day long, Ambrose?" she asked. "Why have you left me here alone?"
"It was wet," he answered quickly, "too wet for you to go out. I sold matches this morning. Since then I have had the piano out, Chicot and I. We did not do so badly."
She looked disdainfully at the handful of coppers which he laid upon the table. "Faugh!" she exclaimed. "It disgusts me, this cheap dirty money."
"We live by it," he answered grimly.
"It has stopped raining," she said. "I shall go out now for a little time. I have on my thick boots."
"As you will," he answered, a little wearily. "The piano is still outside."
"And Chicot?" she asked.
He brought into evidence the canvas bag hung over his shoulder. Chicot's little black head peered out. The girl rose, and pinned on her hat before the cracked looking-glass. Not even the careless indifference of her movements, or her shabby clothes, could altogether conceal the elegant lines of her slim young figure.
They descended to the street together. Drake lifted the handles of the barrow a little wearily. For two hours he had been grinding out his wretched music, and he was weary.
"Which way?" he asked, turning eastward. "I think this will be better."
The girl shook her head. She pointed across the river, to where the lowering skies were already catching the reflections from the flaring signs and hotels ablaze with light.
"No," she said firmly. "It is there that we must go. It is there that we go all the time. You forget, Ambrose, that it is not for our miserable pennies that I walk these wretched streets. It is for the search, still for the search!"
He obeyed her, but with reluctance. "You forget last night," he said. "We may be seen. He may have informed the police."
She shook her head. "You did not hurt him," she said. "What can he do? He cannot make us speak. I cam be dumb, and so can you. Come."
They crossed the bridge. The girl walked apart and unseeing, her eyes fixed steadily upon the deepening glow in the skies. Drake groaned a little to himself as he pushed the barrow. He had eaten little, and his limbs were stiff with cold and wet. Now and then he looked wistfully toward the girl, but never once did she turn her head. At the corner of the Embankment she paused.
"Here first," she said.
Silently he arranged the seat, sat down, and struck the crazy notes of his little instrument. The girl folded her hands and sang. The monkey, with outstretched tray, collected the pennies. Then a policeman moved them on. It was always like that.
They passed along the Embankment. The girl walked close to the stone wall, looking down to the river. Drake, whose breath was coming in little gasps, pushed his barrow along close to the curbstone, to avoid the heavy mud. They passed the side streets which led up into the Strand, and turned into Northumberland Avenue. Once more they paused and repeated their little program. There were fewer people and fewer pennies this time. The evening was raw, and every one was hurrying. When the girl had finished singing there were very few for Chicot to visit with his little tray.
"Let us go back," Drake said. "It is a bad night. There are few people out of doors. We have enough for dinner. I did well with the matches this morning."
The girl shook her head. "No," she said. "I am going on, on that way." She pointed across Trafalgar Square, westward. "If you are tired, go back, you and Chicot."
She walked on, as though heedless whether they followed or not. Drake set his teeth, and commenced once more his weary pilgrimage. The wheels of his barrow were stiff, and the traffic around him grew thicker. Still, somehow or other, he managed to keep his eyes upon the girl ahead. Once or twice, when the crowd was thick, he grew anxious. "We shall lose her, Chicot," he muttered. "No, there she is! Courage, little one. We must push on."
A hansom cab missed him by barely a few inches. A motor-car, whizzing by, splashed him all over with mud. Still he kept her in sight along Pall Mall, up Regent Street, once more to the left, always westward. She paused for a few moments to look into a shop. He caught up with her there and called to her weakly.
ristine," he said.
She turned away, and approached the edge of the pavement.
ristine," he gasped, "I am tired. The roads are heavy, and I have not eaten much to-day. Let us rest for a little time."
"Rest!" she answered bitterly, "there is no place here to rest."
He sat upon the handle of his barrow. "Let us go home," he said more slowly. "No one will stop to listen to us to-night. If we sing here the police will only move us on."
"Go home, if you like," she answered. "I am going farther. Somehow, I feel that here in London we are near the end of it."
"The end?" he gasped.
"The search," she answered. "You know what I mean. There is something which seems to draw me across that bridge up here. I tell you that it is not I who comes. It is something which tells me that here, not far away, I shall find him."
She paused. For the first time a shadow of something which might have been sympathy crossed her face. "As for you," she said, "you are not strong enough for this. You are tired. I can see that you are very tired. Listen. I will wait here and hold Chicot. You shall go over there and take something to drink, something hot."
He hesitated. Even then he would not have gone but for the feeling of faintness against which he had been struggling for the last half hour. "You will not move from here?" he asked.
She shook her head.
"Then I think I will go," he said. "It is foolish, but there is a pain."
He plunged into the traffic and crossed the street to the bar opposite. They looked at him strangely as he drank his hot spirits and water. On a corner of the counter was a little basket of bread, left over from luncheon-time. He took a piece and ate it ravenously. He remembered suddenly that he had not eaten since that early breakfast. Then he turned once more into the street and crossed it. His heart gave a sudden jump. The piano was there. Chicot, indeed, had collected a small crowd, for he had escaped from his bag, and was sitting on the top saluting the passers-by with profuse wavings of his little hat. The piano was there, and Chicot, but the girl was gone!
* * * * *
Drake stood upon the curbstone, gazing wildly up and down the great thoroughfare. He peered into the shops, came back again, and walked backward and forward along the crowded sidewalk. Christine was not there, and his heart was filled with a sudden terrible apprehension. People stared at him, this queer little figure, with tragedy written large in his face, who wandered hither and thither, peering into their faces, looking everywhere, looking for something which he could not find. At last he came back to the piano.
"We will wait, Chicot," he muttered. "We will wait here. She has gone away to buy something, perhaps. She will come back. We must wait here, Chicot, or she will lose us."
The rain commenced to fall, at first softly, then more steadily. Chicot crept into his bag. With trembling fingers Drake drew the waterproof covering over the little piano. Then he stood up beside it, facing the sidewalk, looking up and down, across the street, up and down again. Sometimes they moved him on. He went a few yards and returned.
"She will come back," he muttered to himself. "She must come back. We will wait, Chicot and I."
