Читать книгу Passers-By - E. Phillips Oppenheim - Страница 9

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Exactly how it happened, Christine herself could scarcely have told. She had been gazing without any special interest into a shop-window, awaiting Drake's return. Suddenly she was conscious of some one standing by her side, and a hand was laid upon her wrist. She looked around, startled. It was the man who had rushed the night before down from his rooms into the narrow passage, the man whom they had left lying upon the pavement with his face turned to the sky. She recognized him at once with a little gasp.

"This time, young lady," he said quietly, "I am not asking you any questions. I know quite well who you are, and I want to talk to you. Are you alone?"

"I will not talk to you," she answered, snatching her wrist away. "I do not know you. I am waiting for Ambrose. When he comes you will be sorry."

The young man laughed softly. It was not at all an unpleasant laugh, nor was he an unpleasant person to look upon.

"My dear young lady," he said, "why will you persist in looking upon me as an enemy? I assure you that I have no wish to be anything of the sort. It may be very much to your interest to talk to me for a few minutes. At any rate, I have found you, and I am not going to let you go."

Something in his face suddenly attracted her. She hesitated.

"Come," he said persuasively, "do not be foolish. Times are bad with you. Don't think me impertinent, but I can see that. It is not fit for you, this life."

"It is the life I choose," she answered, a note of fierceness in her tone.

"You have, perhaps, an object," he said quietly. "But never mind that now. You must come with me."

"Where to?" she asked.

"I am going to take you to a restaurant close by here," he said, "and I am going to give you some dinner. Afterward we will talk."

The idea appealed to her amazingly. A restaurant, good food, wine, flowers, and lights! She half closed her eyes. When she opened them again she was quite determined. "I will go with you," she said. "Let us hurry. We must be gone before Ambrose returns."

He needed no second bidding. In a moment they were across the street, and he piloted her through the throngs of people for a hundred yards or so. Then he stopped before a great restaurant. The commissionaire threw open the door with a bow.

"We will go in here," Hannaway said, "into the grill room. It is too early to find many people there, but we can talk."

She followed him into the room. He led the way, preceded by a bowing maître d'hôtel, to a corner table. She sank into a chair with a little sigh of relief. There was everything here that she had hoped for—clean linen, sparkling silver, flowers upon the table, a delicate sense of warmth, and from the larger restaurant, the faint sound of music. He took the carte and ordered the dinner. The waiter placed by his side a gold-foiled bottle and a pail of ice. Over their oysters he looked at her, smiling.

"Come," he said, "this is better than hitting me on the head because I ventured to show myself to you once more."

For the first time she smiled. The parting of her lips was transfiguring. One realized, almost breathlessly, that this girl with the tired eyes and sullen face was, if she chose to claim her heritage, beautiful.

"If Ambrose should find us," she said, "I think that he would do more than strike you."

"I will take my chances," the young man answered easily. "I do not think that he will find us here, but even if he does he shall not take you away until I have said something to you which has been in my mind since—"

Her hand flashed out across the table. "Never mind when," she said hurriedly. "You will say what you want to, I suppose, and I must listen. But remember that even here there are waiters, and people at the next table. There are some things it were better not to speak of."

He remained silent for several moments. The girl sipped her wine and with her elbows on the table leaned her head on her hands and looked across at him thoughtfully. He was certainly good to look at, this young Englishman. It was a pity that he knew anything of those days that lay behind. It was a pity, she thought, that she had not met him now for the first time, that this ceaseless duel between them must intervene, must keep her always upon her guard.

Their table was admirably chosen for a tête-à-tête. There were few people in the room, and the little party at the nearest table were too thoroughly engrossed in themselves to be of any serious account. Gilbert Hannaway, who for some time had maintained a deliberate silence, turned in his chair and took careful stock of their surroundings.

"I think," he said, "that we are not in very much danger from eavesdroppers here. Tell me this. Is this miserable existence of yours, this tramping after a piano, a necessity of your life? Or is it merely a cloak for something else?"

"It is a necessity," she answered.

"You are really as poor as you seem?" he asked.

"Poorer," she answered. "I have known what it is, within the last few weeks, to depend upon the pennies thrown to us in the streets for the food we ate."

"I do not understand it," the young man said. "There should be one man, at any rate, upon whom you have a sufficient claim."

Her eyes suddenly glittered. She leaned far across the table. Her lips were parted. A flush of excitement was in her face. "There is," she answered. "Do you know where I can find him?"

The young man toyed with his wine-glass. "Perhaps," he said. "That depends."

"Upon what?" she whispered, almost fiercely.

"Upon two things," he answered. "The first is, I must know exactly what will be your attitude toward that person when you have found him."

"The second?" she demanded.

"I think," he said quietly, "that you know. For four years I have been looking for you. That is why, when I looked down from my rooms last night and saw you singing in the passage underneath, saw you and the hunchback and the monkey, that I rushed down like a madman, determined that this time, at any rate, you should not escape me."

She drew away. "You were foolish," she said. "You are foolish now."

"I do not deny it," he answered. "I have been a little foolish ever since I used to see you, almost daily, singing in the streets. You were never very gracious. Sometimes when you saw me there among your scanty audience you would even frown and look annoyed. You scarcely ever spoke a kind word to me, and yet, when you disappeared I commenced a search which has never ended until now."

She looked at him a little curiously. Her face was no longer sullen, and with the passing of the frown from her dark, silky eyebrows her eyes seemed somehow to have increased in size. They watched him steadily, soft, brilliant, inquisitive, anything but tender. Her mouth was no longer hard. Her lips had parted in a faint mocking smile.

"And now that you have found me," she asked, "what do you want?"

"To help you, if I can," Hannaway said. "I believe," he continued, "that this time, at any rate, you are really what you seem. I believe that your poverty is not a disguise. You really trudge these cruel streets for a hard living. You were not born for it. It is not right that you should live such a life."

"You wish to help me?" she asked.

"I do," he answered fervently.

"Then you can tell me," she said, leaning a little forward, "something that will end my search—tell me the whereabouts of the man whom we seek."

"I could," he answered, "but I will be frank with you. I have no information to give away. I will sell it at a price."

"Sell!" she repeated scornfully. "Look at me. My hat has been soaked through a dozen times, and it cost me five shillings. My clothes were bought ready-made. My boots—well, the soles are thick, but they are what your country girls wear who walk to market. Look at me. I have no gloves. All my jewelry, the little I ever had, is in the pawnbrokers' shops of Paris, Milan, Rome, and those other places. What have I to offer you for your information?"

"You can repay me," he answered, "in the like coin. You are in search of—"

Again her hand flashed across the table. She seemed about to close his lips. She hung on his wrist, and her terrified eyes flashed into his.

"Be quiet! Oh, be quiet!" she said. "You must not mention him. It is not to be thought of."

He smiled. "This is England," he said.

"But it is London," she interrupted, almost fiercely. "London is not England. London is as bad as any place I know of. There are many who say too much here who never speak again."

Hannaway drained his glass. "My dear young lady," he said, "caution, up to a certain point, I approve of most thoroughly. But now listen to me, and understand this. I will give you, at this moment, the name and address of the man whom you seek if you will tell me who it was you helped to escape, you and the dwarf and the little black monkey, when you—"

"Stop!" she cried, with pallid lips. "You must not!"

He shook his head. "We are safer here than in the streets," he said. "You know when I mean. I saw you going down the hill; I saw you pass into the Rue Pigalle. I saw that strange little hunchback running, pushing the little piano before him, and I saw a man walking by his side. You were there, too. I saw you all turn into the Boulevard. I saw your shadows. I even heard the sound of those creaking wheels. You turned the corner, and you vanished. The earth might have swallowed you up. No one knew of you. Every corner of Paris was searched in vain. What became of you? No, I will not ask you that! I promised to ask one question, and one question only. Who was it that you helped to escape that night?"

The girl's face seemed suddenly changed. She was paler. Her features had lost all their sullen impassivity. She was like a person looking out upon dreaded things. She crumbled up her bread with trembling fingers. The hand which raised her wine-glass to her lips shook. Waiters were at their table, but she made no attempt at lighter conversation. She sat still, looking around the room, looking everywhere but into the fixed, steadfast face of the man who sat opposite to her. Presently they were alone again.

She leaned a little over the table. "There was no one there," she said. "We were alone. We hurried away because we were afraid. It was a passer-by that you saw."

He smiled. "It is not true," he answered. "There are some things about which it is not worth while to lie, and this is one of them. Will you tell me who it was? I am not a policeman or a detective. No harm will come to anybody through me."

"Not if a knife were at my throat!" she answered, with sudden passion. "Why should I? What are you to me? I owe you what? A dinner, perhaps. Bah! You asked me here, not because I was hungry, not because you really wanted to see me again, but just to gratify your curiosity. You say that you have searched for me for four years. You want me to believe that you have thought of me, that it was for my sake. You looked everywhere for a singing girl and a hunchback and a monkey! Bah! I do not believe you. I am not even sure that you are not a policeman."

"That is not kind of you," he answered quietly. "It may seem strange to you, perhaps, that I should be so curious. Since you misunderstand me, I will ask you that question no more. Only, unless you will tell me exactly what you want of this person of whom you are in search—"

"I am in search of no one," she interrupted, with a little nervous gesture. "It is a mistake. We are here because there is money in London, always money. And one must live. We have been in so many other places, and every one has told us that it is here that one finds that people give the easiest."

He shrugged his shoulders, and filled her glass. "You will not trust me," he said. "Very well, I will not spoil your dinner any more. I will ask no more questions. Presently we shall part. Only, before you go, there is one privilege at least which you must allow me."

"I will not take your money," she said hastily. "I will not take anything at all from you."

"Then you are a very foolish person," he answered. "I do not know much about you, but I do know that it is a shameful thing that you should be singing in the streets day after day, with only that poor little hunchback for a companion. I do not ask for any return from you of any sort. I simply ask to be allowed to help you for the sake of a sentiment."

"It is finished," she said coldly. "I can starve very well, but I would not take money from you."

He sighed. "You are worse than foolish," he declared. "You take pennies from the passers-by in the street, and yet you refuse the help of one who is anxious only to be your friend."

"We take the pennies of people whom we do not know," she answered coldly. "We sing and play to them, or we would ask for nothing. The greatest artist who sings in opera does that. For you it is different. We live our own lives. After all, we ourselves are the best judges of what seems right to us."

Hannaway shrugged his shoulders. It was only too obvious that the girl was in earnest. "It must be as you will," he said quietly. "The chicken at last! You take salad, of course? For the rest of the evening we speak of cookery, or shall it be the weather?"

She looked at him not unkindly. "You may talk of what you like," she answered, "except—"

He smiled as he filled her glass. "That," he answered, "is finished."