Читать книгу The Yellow Hunchback - Fergus Hume - Страница 4

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“So you love me still?”

“I have always loved you, dearest and best, since that moment in London when you came into my life.”

“Yet we have been parted for months and months.”

“Circumstances parted us, not our wills, my darling Alice.”

“I know; but absence makes the heart grow fonder, they say.”

“They say; what say they; let them say.” The young man was quoting a family motto. “In my case the proverb is untrue. Whether absent or present my heart could grow no fonder of you, my darling.”

Alice sighed. “You think too well of me.”

“That,” said Treffry, decisively, “is entirely impossible.”

It was a poor room in which the lovers sat, but a bower of bliss to them, since they coloured it with their own vivid imaginations. A jerry-built suburban villa, at twenty pounds a year, is not exactly a palace, and Alice’s father, out of his poor pay as managing clerk to Mason Clyde, the local lawyer, could afford no higher rent. Only himself and his daughter dwelt in the shoddy, common-place house, for the wife of the one and the mother of the other had long ago left this work-a-day world for a welcome grave. For fifteen years Marvel had reared his little girl without the assistance of womankind; and now, at the age of twenty, she was able to help the devoted father who had helped her. Since a perfect affection existed between them, she was not unhappy in her toil. And to teach singing to unimaginative girls is a toil.

Certainly her happiness was superlative now, seeing that Rupert Treffry embraced her at the moment, with his honest blue eyes almost constantly seeking the light of her true brown ones. Fate had parted them for six months, and Fate had brought them together again in a somewhat unexpected manner. Left alone by Marvel for the last hour, it seemed but one minute since his departure. Time did not exist for two ardent lovers who dreamt of a brilliant and prosperous future, which included fame for Rupert the artist and money for Alice the singer, not to speak of a near marriage for bachelor and maid. No wonder the shabby room was to them as the Groves of Paphos.

The apartment was small, square and low-ceilinged, furnished clumsily with the heavy chairs, table, sofa and sideboard of the Early Victorian epoch, when beauty was obliterated by smug ugliness. The carpet was worn and faded, the china ornaments were chipped, the wall-paper revealed an aggressive pattern, and the hangings were of dingy red rep. Alice, by draping this and polishing that, and rearranging the furniture, had done her best to make the room more endurable; but the result was a failure. Yet it was comfortable after a fashion, and looked especially so at the moment. The lovers had wisely dispensed with the cheap paraffin lamp, and renewed their vows by the cheerful illumination of a brisk coal fire.

In a horse-hair armchair, drawn up beside the cheap grate, lounged Rupert Treffry, tall, straight, clean-limbed and athletic, with a bold, bronzed face, thoughtful blue eyes, and a sensitive mouth almost concealed by a light moustache. He looked like a soldier, and, indeed, had surrendered a commission to take up the artistic life, which presented more attractions to him than a military career. Alice nestled beside him, seated on a footstool, her head leaning on his knee, and his arm encircling her neck. The firelight flickered on her delicate face, on her smooth brown hair and youthfully graceful figure, and in her pensive brown eyes. She was not exactly a pretty girl, but there was a quiet beauty about her which grew on the observer. She reminded one of a pale primrose, of a still summer eve, of a sleeping mere.

One striking object in the ugly room has yet to be mentioned—a fine grand piano, which was much too bulky for the apartment. As the firelight winked in the rich dark rosewood, Rupert’s eyes, which had hitherto been exclusively devoted to satisfied contemplation of Alice’s serene beauty, caught sight of the instrument. Assuredly he had noted it before, but mechanically. Now in the half-light he recognised that it was both incongruous and expensive, and wondered how hard-up Lawrence Marvel had come by so costly a thing.

“It must be a present,” he remarked, thinking aloud.

“What?” Alice looked round; then added, indifferently: “The piano. Yes, it is a present.”

“How did you guess that I meant the piano?” he asked, playfully.

“Because it looks so out of place amongst this ugly furniture inherited by father from his parents. And you know well that we could never afford such a Broadwood.”

“Well, dear, of course, your father is a musician as well as a solicitor, and he might have treated himself to—”

“No! Poor father”—she sighed again—“Mr. Clyde pays him so badly that it takes all my time to make both ends meet. With all his love for music he could never have scraped together to buy that piano. It is, as I said, a present.”

Rupert looked jealously down at the averted face. “Not to you?”

The girl did not reply immediately, but clasping her knees with two slender hands, stared into the ruddy coals. “It might be,” she admitted, in a reluctant voice.

“Alice!”

She looked up smiling. “Don’t get angry, Rupert. I love you, and you alone, my dear Othello.”

“But—the other fellow?”

“What fellow?” she asked, provokingly.

“The man who gave you the piano.”

“He gave it to father; and yet”—she hesitated once more—“I think it was really meant for me. You see, he—he—he—”

“Oh, yes, I can guess, hang him!”

“Poor soul!” Alice rose slowly, and moved to the round table to light the lamp. “He would be a light weight to hang.”

“What do you mean by that?” asked Treffry, shortly, and by no means pleased at the pathetic note in her voice.

As she applied the match to the wick a dim blue flame glimmered on her pensive face. “His name is Evan Berrow,” said she, putting on chimney and globe. “He is twenty-five years of age, four feet three inches in height, and the only son of the man who built this house. Would you like further particulars?”

“A dwarf!” remarked Rupert, passing over the sarcasm of the question.

“I suppose so—but a perfectly made dwarf. There is nothing deformed about Evan, poor creature.”

“You call him by his Christian name, I see.”

“If you saw him you would not object to my doing so,” said Alice, placing the lamp on a wool mat in the centre of the table. “He is in love with me,” she finished, serenely.

“I certainly object to that,” replied Treffry, drawing his brows together. “Do you mean to say that this dwarf dares to—”

“He does. I told him as gently as possible that it could not be.”

“And that you were engaged to me, I hope?”

“Of course. He knows that, even though I were free, I could never love him. Poor Evan,” she said, softly; “he has many good qualities, and far too much money.”

“Can anyone have too much money, Alice?”

“I think so, if unable to look after it. Dear”—she came, and, seating herself beside her suspicious lover, took his hand—“banish that ugly frown, and I’ll tell you how I have been sought in marriage.”

“Humph! A queer way you take to banish my frown. But there!”—his arm crept round her waist, and he drew her caressingly towards him—“do not look upon me as an ogre. I can’t possibly be jealous of this deformed creature.”

“He is not deformed, I tell you,” insisted Alice, rather annoyed. “He is perfectly made, although very small. With his dark hair, melancholy eyes and wizened appearance, he really might be a changeling from fairyland.”

“Strange,” murmured Rupert, his eyes on the fire. “I saw a creature like that on my way here!”

“Then you must have seen Evan Berrow.”

“Not if he is rich, as you say. This was a crossing-sweeper in that crooked street—”

“I know; the one near the railway station. It is the High Street of Chadston village, which forms the nucleus of this suburb; in fact, the suburb is merely an expansion of the original village, and was built by Evan’s father, who owned nearly all the land. So you may guess that, as Evan has inherited all the property for the last three years, he is very, wealthy. He is quite the king of Chadston, and lives in the Manor House which belonged to the old estate on which these villas are built.”

Rupert nodded. “I understand. The Tait family sold the estate to old Berrow. Clyde told me something about the matter, months ago.”

“Do you know Mr. Clyde very well, Rupert?”

Treffry shrugged his shoulders.

“In a way—yes,” he admitted. “He is doing some business for me, and on my way here this evening I called to have a consultation. He had gone home, however, but I understood that he would be again at his office at nine o’clock.” The young man glanced at his watch. “By Jove! I’ll have to go and see him soon. Will your father be at the office also?”

“No.” Alice hesitated, then continued to speak with something of an effort. “I see no reason why I should conceal our poverty from you, Rupert. Mr. Clyde, as I told you, pays father only a small salary.”

“Why doesn’t Mr. Marvel seek a better situation, then?”

“I don’t know; he refuses to leave Mr. Clyde, with whom he has been for twenty years. And, indeed,” added Alice, half to herself, “I think that Mr. Clyde has some hold over father, who seems to dread him, yet will not throw up his post. Well, then,” she went on, as though fearful of an interruption, “father, being a clever pianist, sometimes goes out to play at dances. Mr. Clyde does not object.”

“I should think not, seeing that he gives Mr. Marvel—as I understand you to say—starvation wages. Well?”

“Well,” she echoed, “an entertainment of Animated Pictures has come here for this evening, and father, hearing that the pianist had fallen ill, went out when you came in, to offer himself as a substitute. I expect father is playing at The Builders’ Hall, since he has not come back. I shall go at ten o’clock to fetch him home.”

“You—and on a stormy, snowy December night?” asked Treffry, sharply.

“Father is sometimes—” Alice turned aside her face, but he could see a nervous flush redden her fair neck. “He is sometimes weak, and—and, Rupert, don’t ask me any questions, but tell me about this dwarf you saw. It could not have been Mr. Berrow, and yet I cannot think poor Evan can have a duplicate.”

Treffry knew as certainly as though she had put the knowledge into words that Lawrence Marvel indulged overmuch in alcohol, and with sudden resentment he was minded then and there to insist that Alice should marry him at once, so as to be removed from such uncomfortable companionship. But the thought of his poverty prevented his speaking openly, since it would not do to ask her to jump from the frying-pan into the fire. With a commendable effort he controlled the impulse, and replied to her direct question. “The hunchback,” he began, with affected carelessness, when she interrupted him—

“Mr. Berrow—l mean Evan—is not a hunchback.”

“This crossing-sweeper is then, my dear. A little yellow hunchback, as small as your wealthy friend, with a dark, pinched, wizened face. I thought at the moment I gave him sixpence that he looked like a fairy changeling, and it was your same remark that made me speak of the creature. No, I don’t suppose it was your millionaire dwarf, who has the insolence to love you; but the sweeper must be his twin brother, in spite of the hunch.”

Alice shook her head vehemently. “Evan has no twin,” she said, “and why yellow, Rupert?”

“What do you mean?—oh! the crossing-sweeper. Well, he wore a yellow sou’-wester hat and an oilskin coat, such as sailors wear in times of storm, my dear. And I don’t wonder, on such a night.” He rose, and crossing to the one window of the room, pulled aside the curtain, to look out at the whirling eddies of snow, scattering in the high wind. “What weather—very seasonable, seeing that this is Christmas week, but decidedly disagreeable to me, after Jamaican summers. Let me go for your father, Alice.”

“No.” She rose, flushing painfully. “He might be—oh, don’t speak of it—don’t speak of it!”

Rupert swiftly replaced the curtain, and moved towards her, to clasp her in his strong arms. “Let me share the burden, dear.”

“There is no burden.” She removed his arms, and changed the subject quickly. “Poor little Evan; he has a miserable life. His step-mother hates him and I detest, her; a quiet, dangerous, lady-like woman, with a pale face and a false smile.”

“Has she any children of her own?”

“None. She married Mr. Berrow, who built the suburb, for his money, and he died within six months of the marriage. He left only a small income to her, and Evan has about ten thousand a year. She hates him for that, I think.”

“Ten thousand a year,” echoed Treffry, with a, bitter smile, “and I have nothing. If this dwarf loves you, Alice, why not—”

She placed a white hand on his mouth. “Oh, never say it—never say it, dear,” she cried. “I like Evan, but even did I not love you, I could never marry him. He is not repulsive,” she added, eagerly “believe me, he is shapely, if small, and he is very kind.” Her eyes wandered to the piano. “Oh, very kind. But to marry him—” She shuddered. “I could never do that, not even though father insisted I should.”

“Does your father wish to force you to marry him?”

“Don’t be angry, Rupert.” She laid a caressing hand on his shoulder. “Poor papa; you know how fond he is of luxury, and how unable we are to live as he desires. Evan is kind to papa, and sometimes has him to play at the Manor. He pays him well—oh! Evan has a heart of gold. But, oh, the poor soul”—Alice struck her hands together—“he is most unhappy—most lonely.”

“But why should he be unhappy, Alice?”

“He feels the smallness of his stature, and then he is rich, and his step-mother hates him. I wish I could have loved him—”

“Alice—when you love me.”

“Dear, do not be angry,” she said again. “If you saw the poor soul, with his worn face and mournful eyes—oh! I wish he could find someone to love him.”

“Has he no friends?” asked Treffry.

“None—oh, yes, Mason Clyde is fond of him. He is the executor of the late Mr. Berrow’s will. But, Mrs. Berrow—ah! how she hates her step-son, and because he has the money. Being young, I expect she would like to marry again, and would do so were she rich, or could get a wealthy husband. But Evan has the fortune and the Manor House, and Mrs. Berrow lives with him, surrounded by luxury, yet hating the hand that feeds her. But you must go, Rupert,” she broke off, suddenly. “I have to copy some music for father, and then call for him at The Builders’ Hall. It is just nine.”

“I’ll go and see Clyde at his office,” said Rupert, putting on his overcoat reluctantly. “But I would rather stop and talk with you, my darling. This business with Clyde may lead to my getting sufficient money to allow us to marry. I want to take you away from these sordid surroundings. And then your father—”

“Not a word against him,” said Alice, quickly. “He is weak, but the very soul of honour and kindness. Good-night, dear. To-morrow we can talk again. Be here at eleven.”

Treffry kissed her tenderly, and they went into the hall. Alice opened the door, to reveal a wild night. On the doorstep stood a small figure, and the light from the hall lamp showed a dark, mournful face, pinched and bloodless.

“The yellow hunchback,” said Rupert, under his breath, and stared.