“But you haven’t told me what it is,” said Ravenslee drowsily.
“What what is?”
“That very peculiar—woolly thing.”
“This?” said Mrs. Trapes, picking up the object in question, “this is my knittin’. Doctor said t’ call him th’ moment th’ turn came—” Her voice seemed to sink to a slumberous murmur as, having smoothed his pillow, she crossed the room and very softly closed the door behind her; wherefore Ravenslee blinked sleepily at the door until its panels seemed slowly to become confused and merge one into another, changing gradually to a cloud, soft, billowy, and ever growing until it had engulfed him altogether, and he sank down and down into unknown deeps of forgetfulness and blessed quietude.
She was knitting; knitting a shapeless something in red wool, and Ravenslee thought he had never known her elbows more threatening of aspect nor seen wool quite so red and woolly; wherefore he presently spoke, and his voice was no longer a feeble croak.
“Pray what is it, Mrs. Trapes?”
Mrs. Trapes jumped.
“Well, for th’ love o’ heaven!” she exclaimed, and down fell her knitting.
“Now you’ve dropped it!” said Ravenslee a little petulantly.
“Your very—identical—words!” said Mrs. Trapes in awed tones. “Nacher sure ‘moves in a mysterious way her wonders to perform’!”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean as them was the identical words as you addressed to me when you took th’ turn two days ago!”
“Two days!” exclaimed Ravenslee, staring.
“Ever since you did take the turn two days ago, you’ve laid there so quiet an’ peaceful—no more dreams an’ ravin’—you’ve jest laid there ‘wrapped in infant slumbers pure an’ light’, Mr. Geoffrey—Ravenslee, I mean.”
“Why then, it’s about time I got up. If you’ll kindly—er—retire and send Patterson, I’ll get dressed.”
“Dressed?” echoed Mrs. Trapes, hollow-voiced and grim. “Get up? Lord, Mr. Geoffrey!”
“Certainly. Why not?”
“What, you—you as is only jest out o’ the valley o’ th’ shadder! You as we’ve all give up for dead over an’ over! You get up? Lord, Mr. Geoffrey—I mean Ravenslee!”
“Oh,” said Ravenslee, knitting his dark brows thoughtfully, “have I been sick long?”
“Four weeks.”
“Weeks!” he exclaimed, staring incredulously.
“Four weeks an’ a bit! For four weary, woeful weeks you’ve been layin’ here with death hoverin’ over you, Mr. Geoffrey. For four long weeks we’ve been waitin’ for ye t’ draw your las’ breath, Mr. Ravenslee. For four ‘eart-rendin’ weeks your servants has been carryin’ on below stairs an’ robbin’ you somethin’ shameful.”
“My servants? Oh, yes, they generally do. But tell me—”
“The amount o’ food as they consoom constant! The waste! The extravagance! Th’ beer an’ wine an’ sperrits they swaller! Them is sure the thirstiest menials ever I heard tell of! An’ the butler—such airs, such a appetite! An’ sherry an’ bitters t’ make it worse! Lord, Mr. Geoffrey, your servants sure is a ravenin’ horde!”
“Don’t be too hard on ‘em, Mrs. Trapes,” he answered gravely, “I’m afraid I’ve neglected them quite a good deal. But it’s a woman’s hand they need over them.”
“It’s a pleeceman’s club they need on ‘em—frequent! I’d learn ‘em different, I guess—”
“So you shall, Mrs. Trapes, if you will. You are precisely the kind of housekeeper I need.”
“What—me?”
“You, Mrs. Trapes. A lonely bachelor needs some one to—er take care of his servants for him, to see they don’t overeat themselves too often; or—er—strain themselves spring-cleaning out of season—or—”
“But you got a wife t’ do all that for you. I guess Hermy’ll know how to manage.”
“Hermione!” said Ravenslee, starting, “wife? Am I really—married?”
“Sure! Didn’t she go an’ let you wed her when we all thought you was dyin’?”
“Oh, did she?” said he very gently. “Why then, it—it wasn’t all a dream?”
“Mr. Geoffrey, Hermy’s been Mrs. Ravenslee, your lawful wedded wife, just exactly four weeks.”
Ravenslee stared up at the ceiling, dreamy-eyed.
“Good heavens!” he murmured. “I thought I’d only dreamed it.”
“Hermy’s watched over you night an’ day a’most—like th’ guardian angel she is—prayin’ f’ you, workin’ f’ you, fightin’ death away from you. Oh, I guess it’s her fault as you’re alive this day! Anyway, her an’ you’s man an’ wife till death do you part.”
“But death—hasn’t, you see.”
“An’ death sure ain’t goin’ to—yet.”
“No, I’m—I’m very much alive still, it seems.”
“You sure are, glory be t’ th’ Lord of Hosts to who I have also petitioned frequent on your behoof. An’ now I’ll call th’ doctor.”
“No, no—not Dennison; let me see her first. Can’t I speak to Hermione first, Mrs. Trapes?”
“She was up with you all las’ night, sweet lamb! It’d be a shame to wake her—”
“So it would—don’t disturb her.”
“But I guess she’d never forgive me if I didn’t wake her. So if you’ll promise t’ be good—”
“I will!”
“An’ not go gettin’ all worked up an’ excited?”
“I will not!”
“Why then, perhaps ten minutes wouldn’t hurt.”
“God bless you, Mrs. Trapes!”
Left alone, he tried to sit up, and finding this strangely difficult, examined his hands and arms, scowling to find himself so weak. Then he clapped hand to bony jaw and was shocked to feel thereon a growth of ragged beard, and then—she was before him. Fresh from her slumbers she came, wrapped in a scanty kimono whose thin, clinging folds revealed more of her shapely beauty than he had ever seen as she hurried across the wide chamber.
“Hermione,” he said, and reached out his hands to her. And his voice was no longer the feeble echo it had been; the hand that clasped hers, though still thin and weak, thrilled her anew with its masterful touch. Because of all this, her words of tender greeting remained unspoken, the arms which had been eager to cradle his helplessness crossed themselves on her bosom; she became aware of naked ankles and of bare feet thrust into bedroom slippers and needs must hide them, and the better to do so, sank upon the bed, her feet tucked under her. So she sat, just beyond his reach, and, conscious of scanty draperies, shook her shining hair about her, veiling herself in its glory.
“Hermione,” he said unsteadily, “I—I never knew quite how beautiful you were—and we—we are married, it seems!”
“Yes,” she said softly.
“And now I’m—I’m afraid I’m going to—live!”
“Afraid?”
“It—it almost seems as though I had married you under false pretences, doesn’t it? But the doctors and everybody were so certain I was to die that I thought so too. And now—I’m going to live, it seems.”
She was silent, and slowly his hand went out to her again, and slowly hers went to meet it, but though her fingers clasped and twined, thrilling in mute passion to his touch, she came no nearer, but watched him from the shadow of her hair with great troubled eyes.
“Dear,” he said, very humbly, “you do—love me still, don’t you?”
“More than ever.”
“Then you’re not—sorry to be my wife?”
“No—ah, no, no!” she whispered, “never that!”
“Then, dear, won’t you—will you kiss me?” Seeing she hesitated, he sank back on his pillow and laughed a little ruefully. “I forgot these confounded whiskers—I must look an unholy object. Patterson shall shave me, and then perhaps—”
But sudden and warm and soft her arms were about him, and her eyes, troubled no longer, gazed into his, brimful of yearning tenderness.
“Oh, my dear, my dear,” she murmured, quick and passionate, “as if I should ever care how you looked as long as you were—just you. My dear, my dear, you have come back to me from the very gates of death because I—I—”
“Because you nursed me so tenderly!”
“Ah, no, there were others to do that—no, God gave you back to me because He is merciful, and because I love you—want you—need you so much!”
“Oh, my Hermione—Kiss me!”
A knock at the door, and, quick-breathing, she drew from him as the voice of Mrs. Trapes reached them.
“Ten minutes is up!” she announced as she entered, “and Hermy, if you don’t want th’ doctor t’ see you in your nightdress an’ that—”
“Ann!” gasped Hermione, drawing the folds of her kimono about her.
“Anyway, he’s coming.”
Up sprang Hermione, in doing which she lost a slipper.
“Give it me!” she pleaded, for Ravenslee had caught it up.
“Dear, you have one—be content,” he answered. “And surely I may kiss my wife’s slipper without you having to blush so—so deliciously, Hermione?”
“It’s so—old and shabby!” said she faintly.
“That’s why I kiss it.”
“An’ here comes th’ doctor!” said Mrs. Trapes. Whereat Hermione incontinent fled away, white foot agleam. Then Ravenslee, having kissed the little slipper quite brazenly under Mrs. Trapes’s staring eyes, tucked it beneath his pillow.
“Why, Mr. Geoffrey!” said Mrs. Trapes.
CHAPTER XXXVI
CONCERNING A CLEW
“Mrs. Trapes,” said Ravenslee, laying aside the book he had been reading and letting his glance wander across smooth lawns and clipped yew hedges, “Mrs. Trapes, what about that stewed shin of beef with carrots and onions you prepared for—our wedding supper?”
“Which,” said Mrs. Trapes, glancing up from her everlasting knitting, “which you never stopped to eat.”
“Which omission I will now haste to rectify. Mrs. Trapes, pray go and get it ready—I’m ravenous!”
“Good f’r you!” said Mrs. Trapes; “in about half an hour you shall have a nice cup of beef tea to raven at—”
“Confounded slops!” growled Ravenslee.
“Doctor’s orders!” nodded Mrs. Trapes, clicking her knitting needles.
“Can’t I have something to chew at?”
“Sure. How’ll a cracker soaked in milk soot?”
“Cracker!” snarled Ravenslee.
“Doctor’s orders!”
Ravenslee muttered and took up his book.
“Helen who, did you say?” enquired Mrs. Trapes, glancing up. “Mr. Geoffrey—I mean Ravenslee, I’m surprised at you—swearin’ ain’t good for a invalid; your temperature’ll be rose if you swear.”
“But, my dear Mrs. Trapes, I’m hungry, very hungry—darned hungry!”
“Which is a sign as you’re improvin’ rapid. Beef tea’ll be here soon.”
“I won’t drink the stuff!”
“Oh, but you will, when Hermy brings it.”
“Hermione!” said Ravenslee, his voice grown gentle, and laying down his book again. “Mrs. Trapes, have you noticed any change in her lately?”
“A bit handsomer, p’r’aps—”
“Yes, but I don’t mean that; it’s something that puzzles me. She seems to have grown more—more reserved and shy—”
“Well, she was married to you before she knew it kind of, almost.”
“Do you suppose that’s it?”
“Sure! What you got t’ do, Mr. Geoffrey, is—woo her! Woo her all you know how. The best woman can’t be wooed too hard nor too frequent—so you start in an’ woo.”
“But sometimes it has almost seemed that she—avoided me.”
“Well, don’t let her.”
“Do you suppose she’s grieving for Spike?”
“Well, he ain’t exactly a j’y t’ her. There he is going straight to the devil along o’ that Bud M’Ginnis!”
“I must go and fetch him as soon as I can get about again.”
“If he’ll come.”
“Oh, he’ll come,” said Ravenslee grimly. “I’ve decided to send him to college—”
“If he’ll go!”
“Oh, he’ll go—there’s quite a lot of good in him, Mrs. Trapes.”
“Only it’s mighty hard to find, Mr. Geoffrey! If that b’y wants t’ go t’ th’ devil, to th’ devil he’ll go. What you got t’ do is t’ make her forget him—if you can. Oh, drat him, anyway!” and squaring her elbows, Mrs. Trapes knitted so angrily that her knitting needles clashed like weapons fiercely opposed.
“Yes, but suppose she is grieving for him, Mrs. Trapes?”
“Why then,” said Mrs. Trapes, “why then—oh, shucks—I guess I’ll go an’ see after that beef tea.”
When she had gone, Ravenslee sat plunged in gloomy thought until roused by the sound of approaching feet with a creak of shoes, a loud, arrogant creak there was no mistaking, and the Old Un appeared followed by Joe and the Spider, the latter looking very smart in his new livery.
“Guv,” said the Old Un, “best respex! ‘Ere we be, come to say ‘ow glad we are t’ see you come up smilin’ an’ ready for more after Fate ketchin’ ye a perishin’ wallop as we all thought ‘ad doubled ye up till the day o’ doom. ‘Ere you are, on your pins again, an’ ‘ere ‘s us come t’ give ye greetin’s doo an’ j’y o’ your marriage—shut up, Joe!”
“Why, I wasn’t speakin’!” growled Joe.
“No, but you meant to—you’re always meanin’ to, you are. Guv,” continued the Old Un, “folks is allus a-givin’ an’ takin’ in marriage in this ‘ere world, such bein’ their natur’—they can’t ‘elp it! But never in this world nor no other was there ever sich a weddin’ as yours. There was ‘er so young an’ fair an’ full o’ life, an’ there was you so pale an’ nigh to death—one leg in the grave—an’ there was me s’ full o’ years an’ wisdom an’ sorrer for ye both—oh, my pore old bowels was fair yearnin’ over ye-“
“Lord, Old Un,” expostulated Joe, “you keep them bowels o’ yours out of it—”
“Shut up, Joe, in your ignorance; bowels is in the Bible, an’ bowels I abide by now and forever, amen! Well, there we all were, Guv, bendin’ o’er your couch o’ care very silent an’ solemn,
“‘Not a drum was ‘eard, not a funereal note’
“an’ there was you s’ pale an’ nigh t’ death—”
“You said all that afore, Old Un!” growled Joe.
“You leave me alone, Joe,” said the Old Un, scowling and flourishing a trembling fist, “you lemme be, or you’ll be pale an’ nigh t’ death next. Well, there was you, Guv, an’ all s’ pale an’ still when: ”Oo giveth this woman?’ says the parson-cove very solemn. ‘That’s me!’ says I, quick an’ ready. An’ so, me ‘avin’ ‘elped t’ marry you, I’ve brought Joe an’ Spider t’ wish you ‘ealth an’ ‘appiness an’ a j’y continual. Now, Joe, it’s your round—speak up!”
“Sir,” said Joe heavily, “I—we—I mean—Lord, sir, I am that glad—ah, glad as—as never was—”
“That’ll do for you, Joe!” snapped the Old Un. “Spider’s round.”
Hereupon the Spider lurched forward, hunched his wide shoulders, took off his smart cap, and stared at it very hard.
“Bo,” said he, chewing vigorously, “I mean boss—er—no, that ain’t right either—this is sure a bum start I’m makin’—”
“Bo’ will do, Spider,” said Ravenslee, “let it go at that.”
“Why then, bo, I ain’t one as is ever goin’ t’ win any gold-mounted testimonials at any talk-fest or heart-throbbin’ spiel-act, but what I wanter tell you is this—an’ I guess you know I ain’t only breathin’ out puffs o’ hot air—I want yer t’ know as I feel about you like—like Joe an’ the Old Un does—an’ then some more. Y’ see, bo, though I ain’t never held a straight flush agin four aces an’ don’t expect to, th
ough I shan’t ever be a world’s champion like Joe here—I guess I know to-day what it feels like, because you ain’t goin’ t’ snuff it, after all—an’ now I guess you’re on.” Saying which, the Spider dexterously shifted his wad to the other cheek and chewed faster than ever.
“I am, Spider, and I want you to know I’m grateful to you, all three. Also I want to thank you all for keeping this affair out of the papers, though how you managed it beats me.”
“Guv,” cried the Old Un, tremulous and eager, “oh, Guv, we’re fair sleuth-hounds, we are—specially me. There ain’t a ‘tective nor secret-service cove nor bloomin’ bobby fit to black our shoes—specially mine! Y’ see, Guv, I know who done it; Joe thinks he knows; an’ Spider don’t think at all!”
“Oh?” said Ravenslee, and looking around, caught the Spider watching him wide-eyed, his jaws grimly tense and immobile; but meeting his glance, the Spider lowered his eyes, shifted his smartly-gaitered legs, and chewed viciously.
“So, Guv,” piped the Old Un cheerily, “we’re out for the criminal’s gore—specially me. We’re goin’ to track the perisher to ‘is ‘orrible doom—
“‘Where’er he be To th’ gallers tree Oh, Guv, we mean t’ bring him; An’ laugh with j’y When nice an’ ‘igh The blinkin’ bobbies swing ‘im.’”
“And you think you know who it was?”
“I do, Guv, I do!” nodded the Old Un. “I knows as ‘twas a enemy as done it; Joe thinks it was one o’ them gang fellers, an’ Spider don’t say who he thinks done it.”
Once again Ravenslee caught the Spider’s eye watching him furtively, and once again he noticed that the Spider’s jaws were clamped hard, while he was twisting his natty chauffeur’s cap in fingers strangely agitated.
“Sir,” said Joe, “me an’ the Spider searched that wood, an’ we found a coat—”
“Shut up, Joe,” snarled the Old Un, “you’re tellin’ it all wrong. Guv, Joe an’ the Spider went a-seekin’ an’ a-searchin’ that wood, an’ they found a—cloo—”
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