Читать книгу The Definite Object - Jeffery Farnol - Страница 19

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"Oh!" said Mrs. Trapes, "so you've come? Good land, Mr. Geoffrey, there's parcels an' packages been a-coming for you constant ever since you went out! Whatever have you been a-buying of?" And opening the door of his small bedroom, she indicated divers packages with a saucepan lid she happened to be holding.

"Well," said her lodger, seating himself upon the bed, "if I remember rightly, there are shirts, and socks, and pajamas, and a few other oddments of the sort. And here, when I can get it out of my pocket, is a box of candies. I don't know if you are fond of such things, but most of the sex feminine are, I believe. Pray take them as a mark of my—er—humble respect!"

"Candy!" exclaimed Mrs. Trapes, turning the gaily bedecked box over and over, and glaring at it fierce-eyed. "Fer me?"

"If you will deign acceptance."

"Candy!" she repeated, elbows a-twitch. "Fer me? Land sakes, Mr. Geoffrey, I—I—" Here, very abruptly, she turned about and vanished into the kitchen.

Mr. Ravenslee, lounging upon his white bed, was taking languid stock of his purchases when Mrs. Trapes suddenly reappeared, clutching a toasting fork.

"Mr. Geoffrey," she said, glaring still, "them candies must ha' cost you a sight o' money?"

"True, certain monies were expended, Mrs. Trapes."

"They must ha' cost you well nigh a dollar-fifty, I reckon?"

"They did!" nodded Mr. Ravenslee, smiling.

"My land!" exclaimed Mrs. Trapes, and vanished again.

Mr. Ravenslee was sighing over a hideously striped shirt when Mrs. Trapes was back again, flourishing a very large tablespoon.

"Mr. Geoffrey," said she, "it's nigh forty years since any one bought me a box o' chocolates! An' now they look so cute all done up in them gold an' silver wrappings as I don't wanter eat 'em—seems a sin, it do. But—Mr. Geoffrey I—I'd like to—thank ye—" and lo, she was gone again!

Mr. Ravenslee had just pitched the striped shirt out of the window when behold, Mrs. Trapes was back yet once more, this time grasping a much battered but more bepolished dish cover.

"Mr. Geoffrey," said she, "I ain't good at thankin' folks, no, I ain't much on gratitood—never having had much to gratify over—but them candies is goin' to be consoomed slow an' reverent and in a proper sperrit o' gratitood. And now if you're ready to eat your supper, your supper's a-waitin' to be ate!"

So saying, she led the way into the parlour, where upon a snowy cloth, in a dish tastefully garnished with fried tomatoes, the English mutton chop reposed, making the very most of itself; the which Mr. Ravenslee forthwith proceeded to attack with surprising appetite and gusto.

"Is it tender?" enquired Mrs. Trapes anxiously. "Heaven pity that butcher if it ain't! Is it tasty, kind of?"

"It's delicious," nodded her lodger. "Really, Hell's Kitchen seems to suit me; I eat and sleep like a new man!"

"So you ain't lived here long, Mr. Geoffrey?" queried Mrs. Trapes, eagle-eyed.

"Not long enough to—er—sigh for pastures new. Don't go, Mrs. Trapes, I love to hear folks talk; sit down and tell me tales of dead kings and—er—I mean, converse of our neighbours, will you?"

"I will so, an' thank ye kindly, Mr. Geoffrey, if you don't mind me sucking a occasional candy?"

"Pray do, Mrs. Trapes," he said heartily; whereupon, having fetched her chocolates, Mrs. Trapes ensconced herself in the easy chair and opening the box, viewed its contents with glistening eyes.

"You're an Englishman, ain't you?" she enquired after a while, munching luxuriously.

"No, but my mother was born in England."

"You don't say!" exclaimed Mrs. Trapes. "So was I—born in the Old Kent Road, Mr. Geoffrey. I came over to N' York thirty long years ago as cook general to Hermy Chesterton's ma. When she went and married again, I left her an' got married myself to Trapes—a foreman, Mr. Geoffrey, with a noble 'eart as 'ad wooed me long!" Here Mrs. Trapes opened the candy box again and, after long and careful deliberation, selected a chocolate with gentle, toil-worn fingers, and putting it in her mouth, sighed her approbation. "They sure are good!" she murmured. "But talkin' o' Hermy Chesterton's ma," she went on after a blissful interval, "I been wondering where you came to meet that b'y Arthur?"

"Ah, Mrs. Trapes," sighed Ravenslee, leaning back in his chair and shaking a rueful head, "you touch on gloomy matters. As the story books say, 'thereby hangs a tale'—the dismal tale of a miserable wretch whose appetite was bad, whose sleep was worse, and whose temper was worst of all—oh, a very wretched wretch indeed!"

"My land!" exclaimed Mrs. Trapes, stopping abruptly in the act of masticating a large chocolate walnut, "so bad as that, Mr. Geoffrey?"

"Worse!" he nodded gloomily. "It is indeed a gloomy tale, a tale dark and dismal that I love not the telling of, for, Mrs. Trapes, that more than hopeless wretch stands, or rather sits, before you!"

"Save us!" ejaculated Mrs. Trapes, "meanin' yourself?"

"My unworthy self!"

"Lord!" she whispered, "what you been a-doin' of?"

"Wasting a promising life, Mrs. Trapes!"

"You mean," she questioned in a harsh whisper, "you mean as you've—killed some one—accidental?"

"Oh, no, the life was mine own, Mrs. Trapes."

"Land sakes, Mr. Geoffrey, you give me quite a turn! Y' see, sometimes folks gets theirselves killed around here—an' it's always accidental—sure!" and Mrs. Trapes nodded meaningly and went on chewing. "But say," she demanded, suddenly sharp of eye, "where does Arthur come in?"

"Arthur comes in right here, Mrs. Trapes! In fact, Arthur broke into my—er—life just when things were at their darkest generally. Arthur found me very depressed and gloomy. Arthur taught me that life might yet have its uses. Arthur lifted me out of the Slough of Despond. Arthur brought me—to you! And behold! life is good and perchance shall be even better if—ah yes, if! So you see, my dear Mrs. Trapes, Arthur has done much for me, consequently I have much to thank Arthur for. Indeed, I look upon Arthur—"

"Shucks!" exclaimed Mrs. Trapes, "that'll be about enough about Arthur—Arthur, indeed! You oughter know his sister!" Now at this her lodger started and glanced at her so suddenly, and with eyes so unexpectedly keen that once again she suspended mastication.

"Now, in the name of all that's wonderful, Mrs. Trapes, why mention her?"

"Why, because she's worth knowin'! Because she's the best, the bravest, the sweetest thing that ever went in petticoats. She's beautiful inside and out—mind, I've nursed her in these arms years ago an' I know she's—oh, well, you ought to meet Hermy!"

"Mrs. Trapes, I have!"

"Eh? You have? My lan'!" Mrs. Trapes bolted a caramel in her astonishment and thereafter stared at Ravenslee with watering eyes. "An' you to set there an' never tell me!" quoth she, "an' Hermy never told me—well, well! When did ye meet her? Whereabouts? How?"

"About half an hour ago! Coming up the stairs! I carried her grip!"

"Well!" exclaimed Mrs. Trapes, staring, "well, well!" and she continued to munch candy and to stare and say "well!" at intervals until arrested by a new thought. "That b'y!" she exclaimed. "Was Arthur with her?"

"No," answered Ravenslee, wrinkling his brows, "I lost him on my way home."

Mrs. Trapes sighed and shook her head.

"The sun sure rises and sets for her in that b'y—an' him only her stepbrother at that!"

"Her stepbrother?"

"Yes!" nodded Mrs. Trapes emphatically. "Hermy's ma were a lady, same as Hermy is; so were her pa, I mean a gentleman, of course. But Hermy's father died, an' then her ma, poor soul, goes an' marries a good-lookin' loafer way beneath her, a man as weren't fit to black her shoes, let alone take 'em off! And Arthur's his father's child. Oh, a good enough b'y as b'ys go, but wild, now and then, and rough, like his dad."

"I see!" nodded her hearer, thoughtfully.

"Now me, though married ten long year, never 'ad no children, so ever since Hermy's mother died, I've tried to watch over her and help her as much as I could. She's had a mighty hard struggle, one thing and another, Mr. Geoffrey, an' now I've known her an' loved her so long it kind o' seems as if she belonged to me—almost!"

"She looks very good and—brave!" said Mr. Ravenslee.

"Good!" cried Mrs. Trapes, and snorted. "I tell you she's jest a angel o' light, Mr. Geoffrey. If you'd seen her, like I have, goin' from one poor little sick child to another, kissing their little hot faces, tellin' 'em stories, payin' for doctor's stuff out of her bit o' savings, mendin' their clo'es—an' prayin' over 'em when they died—why—I guess you'd think she was a angel too! One sure thing," said Mrs. Trapes rising, "there ain't a breathin' man in all this whole round earth as is fit to go down on 'is knees an' kiss 'er little foot—not a one! No, sir!"

"No, I don't think there is!" said Mr. Ravenslee slowly.

"As for that Bud M'Ginnis," cried Mrs. Trapes, seizing on the coffee-pot much as if it had been that gentleman's throat, "I'd—I'd like to—bat him one as would quiet him for keeps—I would so!" and she jerked the coffee-pot fiercely, much to the detriment of her snowy tablecloth. "There! now see what I done, but I do get all worked up over that loafer!"

"Pray why?"

"Why?" snorted Mrs. Trapes indignantly. "Hasn't he made eyes at her ever since they was kids together? Hasn't he worried and worried at her, an' because she won't look at him if she can help it, don't he try to get back at her through that b'y—"

"How does he?"

"How? By puttin' him up to fightin' an' all sorts o' devilment, by teachin' him to be tough, by gettin' him drunk—"

"Oh, does he?"

"Why, bless ye, Bud M'Ginnis can do anything with him!"

"How so?"

"Because Arthur jest worships M'Ginnis for his strength and toughness!"

"I see!"

"Yes, Arthur thinks there's nobody in the world could lick Bud M'Ginnis."

"Hum! May I smoke, Mrs. Trapes?"

"Sure ye may!" she nodded, and began to collect the supper things. "I tell you what," she exclaimed suddenly, flourishing the fork she had just taken up, "if somebody would only come along an' thrash M'Ginnis, thrash him good, it would be a sight better for every one around here—it would so! M'Ginnis is always makin' trouble for some one or other, an' there ain't a man big enough or got heart enough to stand up to him—not even Spider Connolly. Wish I was a man, that's all—just for an hour! Ah!" Here Mrs. Trapes snorted fiercer than usual, and the jut of her elbows was deadly.

"And he gets Arthur drunk, does he!" said Ravenslee, puffing dreamily at his pipe.

"Yes!" sighed Mrs. Trapes as she loaded a tray with the supper things. "Hermy's seen him drunk twice, to my knowing, an' I thought it would break her 'eart, poor dear! Y' see, Mr. Geoffrey, his father died o' the drink, an' she's frightened for fear Arthur should go the same road. Oh, Hermy's life ain't all ice-cream sodas an' lollipops, not much it ain't, poor, brave, beautiful thing!"

Saying which, Mrs. Trapes, sighing again, took up her tray; Mr. Ravenslee, having opened the door for her, closed it again, lighted his pipe, and sinking into the easy-chair, fell into frowning thought.

The windows were open, and from the crowded court below rose the shrill babel of many children's voices, elfin shrieks and cries accompanied by the jingle of a barrel-organ, very wiry and very much out of tune; but Ravenslee, deep-plunged in thought, heard nought of it nor heeded the fact that the pipe, tight-clenched between his strong, white teeth, was out. For Geoffrey Ravenslee had set himself a problem.

The barrel-organ ceased its jangle, the children's voices were gradually hushed, as, one by one, they were called in by hoarse-voiced mothers and led away to bed; and the gloomy court grew ever gloomier as evening deepened into night. But still Mr. Ravenslee lounged in the easy-chair, so motionless that he might have been asleep except for the grim set of his jaw and the bright, wide-open eyes of him.

At last, and suddenly, he sat erect, for he had heard a voice whose soft murmur he recognised even through the closed door.

"I don't know, Hermy dear," came in Mrs. Trapes' harsh tones, "I'm afraid he's gone to bed—anyway, I'll see!" Ensued a knocking of bony knuckles and, opening the door, Ravenslee beheld Mrs. Trapes. Behind her stood Hermione, and in her eyes he saw again that look of wistful, anxious fear he had wondered over at the first.

"Oh, Mr. Geoffrey," said Mrs. Trapes, "it's eleven o'clock, an' that b'y ain't in yet. Here's Hermy been out hunting the streets for him and ain't found him. Consequently she's worriting herself sick over him—drat 'im!"

"Out on the streets!" repeated Ravenslee. "Alone?"

"Yes," answered Hermione, "I had to—try and find him."

"But alone! And at this hour! Miss Hermione, that was surely very—er—unwise of you."

"Yes, you see I didn't know where to look," she sighed. "I've been to the saloon but he wasn't there—"

"The saloon? Good Lord!" exclaimed Ravenslee, his placidity quite forgotten, his face set and stern. "That is no place for you—or any girl—"

"I must go to find Arthur," she said softly.

"No, not there—even for that."

"Why not?"

"Think of the—the risks you run! No girl should take such chances."

"Oh, you mean—that!" said Hermione, meeting his eyes with her frank glance. "But no one would try to insult me hereabouts; this isn't Broadway or Fifth Avenue, Mr. Geoffrey!" and she smiled a very sad, weary little smile. "But I came to ask if you happened to know where Arthur is or—whom he was with?"

"Wasn't wid that Bud M'Ginnis, was he?" questioned Mrs. Trapes sharply.

"No, he wasn't with M'Ginnis," answered Mr. Ravenslee, in frowning perplexity, "but that's about all I can tell you."

"Thank you," sighed the girl, "I must go and try again. I know I shall find him—soon." But, though she tried to speak in a tone of cheerful confidence, her shapely head drooped rather hopelessly.

"You mean you are going out on to the—to look for him again?"

"Why, of course," she answered, "I must find Arthur!"

"Don't, Hermy, don't—so pale an' tired as you are, don't go again!" pleaded Mrs. Trapes, her usual sharpness transfigured into a deep and yearning tenderness; even her voice seemed to lose something of its harshness. "Don't worry, my sweet, the b'y'll find his way home right enough, like he did last time."

"Like—last time!" cried Hermione, and shivering, she leaned against the wall as if she were faint. "Ah, no, no!" she whispered, "not—like last time!" and bowing her head she hid her face in her hands.

Close, close about that quivering form came two motherly arms, and Mrs. Trapes fell to passionate invective and tender soothing, thus:

"There, there, my love—my pretty, don't remember that last time! Oh, drat my fool's tongue for remindin' you, drat it, my dear, my honey! Ah, don't go breakin' your angel's 'eart along of Arthur, my precious—and drat him too! That b'y'll come back all right, he will—he will, I know he will. Oh, if I was only behind 'im with a toasting fork! There, there, Hermy dear, don't fret, Arthur'll come home all right. My honey, you're all tuckered out, an' here it's gettin' on to midnight, an' you to go to Englewood by the early car! Go to bed, dear, an' I'll sit up for Arthur. Only don't cry, Hermy—"

"Oh, I'm not crying, dear," said Hermione, lifting her head. "See, I haven't shed a tear! But I must find Arthur. I couldn't rest or sleep; I should lie listening for his step. So you see, dear, I must go out and find him!"

Hereupon, with swift, dexterous fingers, Hermione straightened the very neat hat which the embrace of Mrs. Trapes had rendered somewhat askew, and, turning to the door, came face to face with Mr. Ravenslee, and in his hand she beheld his battered hat, but she did not notice how fiercely his powerful fingers gripped it.

"Miss Hermione," said he, in his soft, indolent voice, and regarding her beneath languidly drooping lids, "pray accept the hospitality of my—er—apartment. You will find the easy-chair is very easy, and while you sit here with Mrs. Trapes, I'll find your brother and bring him here to you."

"Thank you," she answered a little shortly because of his lazy tone or his sleepy eyes, or his general languid air, or all of them together. "Thank you, but I'm going myself; I must go, I—I couldn't wait—"

"Oh, but really you must, you know!"

"Must?" she repeated, looking her surprise.

"Ab-solutely must!" he answered softly, nodding so sleepily that she almost expected him to yawn. "You really can't go out again to-night, you know," he added. Hermione's blue eyes flashed, her delicate brows knit themselves, and Mr. Ravenslee saw that she was taller than he had thought.

"You mean you will—try to stop me?" she demanded.

"No, I mean that I—will stop you!"

"But you'd never dare—"

"I would dare even your anger in so good a cause. Ah, please don't be angry with me, Miss Hermione, because—" and here his sleepy voice grew positively slumberous, "you shall not go out into the streets again to-night!"

"Ah, an' that's right too, Mr. Geoffrey!" cried Mrs. Trapes. "Hermy needs some one strong enough to master her now an' then, she is that wilful, she is so!"

But now all at once, as he watched, Hermione's eyes filled with great, slow-gathering tears, her firm-set lips grew soft and quivered pitifully, and she sank down in the easy-chair, her golden head bowed upon the green and yellow tablecloth. The battered hat tumbled to the floor, and striding forward, he had bent and caught one of her listless hands all in a moment, and thereafter, though it struggled feebly once, he held it closely prisoned in his own.

"Oh, don't!" he pleaded, his words coming quick and eager, "don't do that! Do you think I can't see that you're all overwrought? How can I let you go tramping out there in the streets again? You couldn't go—you mustn't go! Stay here with good Mrs. Trapes, I beg of you, and I swear I'll bring Arthur to you! Only you must promise me to wait here and be patient, however long I am—you must promise, Hermione!"