Читать книгу The Peer and the Woman - E. Phillips Oppenheim - Страница 9

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A remarkably pretty young woman was doing her best to spoil an otherwise charming face by scowling at herself in a mirror. It was a very silly thing for her to do, very silly indeed, for the utter weariness and discontent which her tell-tale features betrayed was quite sufficient to leave its traces, if often indulged in, even upon so pert and young a face as hers. Perhaps the same idea occurred to her, or it might have been that some pleasing thought acted as a charm. At any rate, after five minutes' silent contemplation of herself, she suddenly withdrew from the mirror, sank into an easy-chair, and sat looking into vacancy, with a soft smile parting her lips and transfiguring her expression.

Presently a smooth-coated, brown dachshund rose slowly from the hearth-rug, lazily reared its two front paws upon her lap, and, wagging its tail in an insinuating manner, fixed a meditative gaze upon his young mistress. She commenced to caress him, mechanically at first, but the encouragement was sufficient. He leaped up with all the agility which his short limbs would permit and coiled himself in her lap.

She looked down at him reproachfully, and as though inclined to protest against such a liberty. But the soft brown eyes watching hers so anxiously disarmed her, and she changed her mind. She took him into her confidence instead. After all, better a dog to talk to than nobody.

"Tory," she said, shaking a forefinger at him, "that was very rude—very bad manners indeed. Don't you know that you ought to have been specially invited to come up in my lap before you took such a liberty? No; you needn't go," she added, patting his head softly. "Now you are here you may as well stay—for a little time, at least. Oh, Tory! Tory! How I wish you were a human being—even if you were only a girl—so that I might talk to you sensibly now and then. It wouldn't be quite so triste then—and it is very triste indeed here sometimes, isn't it, Tory, all by myself with no one to talk to? Or, I wish—I wish—he would come again. Wasn't he handsome, Tory, and didn't he bear it bravely? Poor, poor fellow! I did so want to tell him bow sorry I was for him, and I couldn't. Directly I wanted to speak it all went out of my head. How stupid he must have thought me, Tory! Do you think he did, sir? Why don't you say something? I wonder—I wonder what he was thinking about when I looked up and saw him watching me, before he had remembered about—that! I believe it was something nice—I do really, Tory. I wonder how I looked that morning! Let me see. I had my blue frock on—the one madame had made for me in Paris." She went off into a day-dream. Tory, evidently deeply relieved at the cessation of her monologue, curled himself up with a satisfied snort and went off to sleep. Poor beast! He ventured to add to the luxury of what he doubtless considered well-earned repose by a few gentle snores, and he paid the penalty. One of them happened to reach his mistress' ears, and distracted her attention from the sweet little day-dream. The result was lamentable. In less than a moment poor Tory lay on his back on the hearth-rug, with his paws convulsively striking the air, and with a confused sense of having reached the ground with a haste quite out of keeping with his usual slow movements.

"Nasty, unsympathetic brute!" exclaimed his mistress, shaking her skirts.

Tory felt hurt, and determined to maintain his dignity. He turned his back upon his mistress in an offended manner, and, trotting slowly off to the other side of the room, ensconced himself on an unoccupied cushion.

Meanwhile Tory's mistress had gone back to her day-dream, and she was absorbed in it. Perhaps she was a very sentimental young woman to allow her thoughts to become so much engrossed by a few minutes' chance interview with a complete stranger. And yet there were excuses for her. She was only eighteen years old, and had just quitted a French convent, within whose narrow precincts the whole of her life had been spent. There had been no holiday for her, no visits to friends' houses, no gayety of any sort. The rules of the convent had not been strict enough to prohibit unrestrained conversation among the girls, and on the other hand were too strict to allow them to become acquainted with a single person outside its bounds. It was an ill training for a young girl, and now that comparative emancipation had come, no wonder that she looked back upon it almost with a shudder.

Even the sweetest of day-dreams is liable to interruptions. The interruption to hers came in the shape of a surprise. The door opened and her father entered suddenly.

She looked up at him in amazement. "Mon père! You up and dressed! How wrong of you that is! You will be ill again! I am sure you will."

He stood just inside the door, leaning heavily upon the back of a chair. His face was ghastly white, and drawn as though with illness; there were dark rims under his hollow, brilliant eyes, and his unshaven beard and ragged, unkempt hair added to the wildness of his appearance. When he spoke his breath came in short, quick gasps, and the long, bony fingers which rested on the chair-back were shaking nervously.

"I—I have been ill," he muttered dreamily. "I—"

"Ill! Of course you have! Can one not see that? Why have you risen, mon père? What would the doctor say?" she exclaimed, wringing her hands in a gesture of despair. Then she ran to his side, forced him into a chair, and closed the door before she would let him speak.

"What day is this?" he asked.

"Friday.

"Friday?" He put his hand to his forehead, and seemed trying to recall something. "Friday? There as a young man came here?" he said doubtfully, "when—"

"Oh, yes," she answered, with a faint blush. "That was on Tuesday. You have been ill since then, you know."

He groaned heavily. "I began to think—that it might have been a dream," he muttered despairingly; "a vision of hell! A paper, Marie; quick! A paper!" he cried out wildly. "Give it me."

"A paper?" she repeated wonderingly.

"Ay, ay! You know! The paper he saw! The murder, you know! I want to read about it! Quick, girl!"

He stretched out his trembling fingers and snatched it from her. She had found the place, but he turned it hastily over, and after a little feverish search commenced reading in another part. She stood by his side, frightened, with the tears in her eyes. What could there be there to affect him like this? She could see his whole frame quivering with excitement and the perspiration standing out like drops of agony upon his hard, damp forehead. Then his head fell buried in his arms, and his frail body, wasted with recent illness, was shaken by great sobs.

"No dream!" he gasped. "No dream! God help me!"

She fell on her knees by his side, caught hold of his hands, kissed his forehead, wrapped her arms around him—tried all the arts of sympathy which her woman's heart could devise—but in vain. Nothing that she could say or do seemed to have any effect upon him. Only when she strove gently to disengage the paper from his frenzied grasp he resisted her fiercely, and with his long, nervous fingers tore it into strips. Finally, she did what perhaps was wisest—she left him altogether to himself, and seated herself a little distance away.

It was well that she had patience. She sat there motionless, after the first passion of sobs had exhausted itself, for nearly an hour. Then he looked up at her, and she shuddered as she looked into hie white, agony-stricken face.

"Mon père, something terrible has happened!" she faltered.

"Ay, something terrible has happened," he repeated, in a hollow, far-away tone.

He was silent for fully five minutes. Then he rose slowly to his feet. "I must go out."

"Go out?" she almost screamed. "Why, father, what can you be thinking of? Didn't the doctor say, only yesterday, that you were not to move from your bed for a week?"

"I must go out to-day—at once—though I die tomorrow," he said, wearily but firmly. "Get me my coat and hat, Marie, and send for a cab; my legs are weak; I can't walk."

She strove again to turn him from his purpose. He only shook his head impatiently.

"At least tell me what this terrible thing is which has happened," she begged, her woman's curiosity mingled with her dread. "If it is terrible for you, is it not terrible for me, too? Am I not your daughter?"

"You will know—perhaps," he answered. "Not now. I have no breath to spare. I shall need all—I have—presently. Is the cab—at the door?"

"I have sent for it it will be here directly. Oh, mon père let me go with you," she begged. "You are not fit to go out anywhere alone."

"Go with me—you!" He shuddered as though the idea hurt him. Then the sound of the cab stopping below reached his ears.

"Give me your arm downstairs," he said. "I am a little dizzy."

He needed it. At every fourth step he had to stop and rest, and his breathing at times almost choked him. When at last he reached the cab he sank into a corner and for a minute or two was too exhausted to give the driver any directions. Marie had gone with him bareheaded into the street, and stood holding his hand. But when he recovered himself he motioned her away into the house with an impatient gesture.

"You mustn't stand there, Marie, with no hat on. I shall be all right. Run into the—house—please."

She left him with swimming eyes and uneasy heart. The cabman, who was getting impatient, put his head in at the window.

"Where to, sir?" he asked.

M. de Feurget consulted a fragment of the newspaper which he had retained in his hand.

"The Rising Sun, Brown Street, Bethnal Green Road. Drive fast!"