“My word!” said Mr. Brimberly.
CHAPTER XXXVIII
IN WHICH SOAPY TAKES UPON HIMSELF A NEW ROLE
Soapy was alone, which in itself was no new thing, for Soapy was a solitary soul at all times; but just now he sat close against the rotting fence which skirted that desolation behind O’Rourke’s saloon. Moreover, it was night, and solitude profound was his. He sat on a battered and disused pail that chanced to be handy, a smouldering cigarette dangling from his thin-lipped mouth, his long hands pendulous between his knees, his pallid eyelids sleepily a-droop; but his eyes, quick and watchful, scanned the deeper gloom of fence and dismal outbuilding, and he sat there very patient and very still. At last he stirred slightly, the cigarette quivered and was motionless again, for, amid the shadows, he had seen a dim shape that flitted swiftly toward him; on it came, creeping swift and silent beside the fence, nearer and nearer until it resolved itself into a slender form. Then Soapy spoke.
“Hello, Kid!”
Ensued a moment of tense silence, then Spike answered, his voice unnaturally thin and high-pitched.
“That—that you, Soapy?”
“‘S right, Kid!”
“What you—doin’ around—here?”
“Who, me? Y’ see, I’m kind o’ yearnin’ for that gun you got there—”
“Gun? I—I ain’t got—no gun—”
“Well, Kid, I know Heine’s all kinds of a liar, but he tells me he’s loaned you one of his, an’ so—” Soapy’s long arm shot out in the gloom and seizing Spike’s right arm he drew it near. “Why, Kid,” said he, “it kind o’ looks like Heine told the truth for once by accident, don’t it?”
“You leggo my wrist!”
“Right-o, Kid, right-o! Don’t get peeved—”
“Well, leggo then!”
“Sure! Only this artillery ain’t goin’ t’ be no good t’ you t’night—ye see, Bud—ain’t here! ‘S rough on ye, Kid, ‘s rough, but he ain’t!”
“W—what—d’ ye mean?” stammered the boy.
“I mean as you comin’ here t’ plug holes in Bud’s carcase it’s kind o’ rough on you as there ain’t goin’ t’ be no carcase here to plug. Y’ see, Bud’s took his carcase up-town with him t’night—”
“You’re a liar, Soapy, a liar! Bud’s inside, I know he is. Leggo my arm, you can’t con me!”
“‘S right, Kid, I ain’t tryin’. Only I’m tellin’ you Bud’s left me an’ Lefty t’ run things here t’night. Bud’s up-town at his old man’s place. I know because—I sent him, see?”
“You sent him—you? Ah, come off! You couldn’t!”
“‘S right, Kid; I got him away by a fake telegram.”
The boy ventured a long, quivering sigh, his whole frame relaxed, and in that instant Soapy wrenched the weapon from his loosened hold and rose. Choking with passion, Spike sprang at him, but Soapy fended him off with a long arm.
“Gimme that gun!”
“Behave, Kid, behave, else I’ll have t’ dot ye one! Be good an’ chase off home; this ain’t no place for you t’night—nor no other time.”
“Gimme that gun!”
“No!”
Spike ceased the useless struggle and leaned against the fence, panting, while Soapy reseated himself upon the battered pail.
“What you got t’ come buttin’ in for?” demanded the boy, “this ain’t your show, an’ I guess you ain’t so mighty fond o’ Bud either—”
“‘S right, too,” nodded Soapy, “no, I ain’t exactly fond of him, Kid; leastways I don’t run t’ help him if he falls nor kiss th’ place t’ make it well—no, Kid! But I kind o’ feel that Bud’s too good t’ snuff it this way, or snuff it—yet!”
“Good?” said the lad bitterly, “good—hell! He’s ruined me, Soapy, he’s done me in! He’s come between me an’—an’ Hermy. He tried t’ make me think dirt of her, an’ now—now I—I’m all alone; I ain’t got nobody left—oh, my God!” and huddling to the fence, Spike broke out into a fierce and anguished sobbing, while Soapy, spinning the revolver dexterously on his finger, watched him under drooping lids.
“She was mighty good t’ ye, Hermy was!” said he thoughtfully.
“Don’t—ah, don’t!” gasped Spike.
“An’ when he spoke dirt of her, you—believed him, Kid!”
“I didn’t.”
“You did, else you’d have been with her now. She was always good t’ you, Hermy was, but you—well, you preferred Bud!”
“I didn’t, Soapy; God knows I didn’t—only—I thought Bud would make me a champion—”
“By gettin’ ye soused, Kid!”
“Oh, I know—I know now he’s only been stringin’ me all along—I know now it’s too late—that’s why I’m goin’ t’ kill him.”
“Kill him!” mused Soapy. “Kid, there’s good killings an’ bad killin’s, an’ I reckon this ‘ud be a good killin’, maybe. But this ain’t your job.”
“Why—why ain’t it?”
“Well, you got a sister f’r one thing, an’ besides, you ain’t a killer.”
“You gimme that gun an’ see!” cried the lad, reaching out a hand tremulous and eager.
“When the time came, Kid, ‘stead o’ shootin’, you’d drop your gun like that time in th’ wood.”
“Th’ wood!” Spike’s voice dropped to a strangled whisper and he shrank back against the fence. “You—my God, you—saw—!”
“‘S right, Kid, I was there! An’ I’m kind o’ glad y’ couldn’t do it, glad for your sister’s sake. But what I’m thinkin’ is that maybe she thinks it was you—eh, Kid?”
Spike writhed and groaned.
“Eh, Kid?”
“Yes!”
“Why, then, if I was you, I’d skin off right now an’ put her wise; it may mean a whole lot t’ her. Y’ know where she is—go an’ tell her, Kid.”
“I can’t! I can’t—she don’t want me no more, she’s done wi’ me, I guess. I’m—oh, I’m too low-down an’ rotten!”
“Sure!” nodded Soapy. “But she’s good, an’ she’s a woman; an’ good women are only made t’ forgive, I reckon.”
“But there’s Geoff! I—I couldn’t face Geoff.”
“That’s because you think a heap too much about a low-down rotten guy called Spike. I guess it’s about time you began t’ think about your sister f’ a change. Well, s’ long, Kid, I guess I’ll be movin’; this pail comes a bit sharp after an hour of it.”
So saying, Soapy rose, nodded, and strolled away, still twirling the revolver upon that long and dexterous finger. For a moment Spike stood looking after him, then, chin on breast, turned and went his solitary way across the desolate waste. But now it was Soapy who, pausing, turned to watch him safe out of sight. Scarcely had the sound of Spike’s departure died away than a door opened and closed hard by, and heavy steps approached, halted suddenly, and a hoarse voice demanded:
“Who’s there?”
“Why, this is me, Bud.”
“What th’ hell are ye hangin’ around out here for?” questioned M’Ginnis suspiciously.
“Countin’ th’ stars, Bud, an’ doin’ th’ Providence act—midst of life we are in death’ gag—”
“Aw, cut out that slush an’ hike along t’ Rayner’s wi’ me; I got a job for you an’ Heine—”
Side by side they crossed the gloomy, open lot until they were come beneath a lamp at a certain bleak street corner. Here Soapy paused and held out his hand, open to the light.
“This don’t happen t’ be your ring, Bud?” he enquired lazily.
M’Ginnis glanced at the ring upon that narrow palm, a ring wrought into the semblance of two hands that clasped each other, looked closer, drew in his breath suddenly, then straightened his shoulders and threw back his head.
“No!” he answered, frowning into Soapy’s imperturbable face, “what th’ hell made you think it was?”
“Why, ye see, Bud, it happens t’ have your name scratched inside it, that’s all. But if it ain�
�t yours, it ain’t!” And speaking, Soapy tossed the ring back over his shoulder far out into the open lot.
For a long moment M’Ginnis stood motionless, staring back at that desolate plot of ground; when at last he glanced toward his companion, Soapy was lighting a fresh cigarette.
CHAPTER XXXIX
THE OLD UN ADVISES AND RAVENSLEE ACTS
In the rose garden was an arbour smothered in riotous bloom, and in the arbour was a divan, wide and low and voluptuously soft, meet for the repose of an invalid on a languorous afternoon, or indeed any other time. But just now the invalid reposed not at all but sat, elbow on knee and square chin on fist, very lonely and therefore very grim.
All about him roses bloomed, filling the air with their sweetness, but he had no eyes for their beauty; upon the table within reach of his hand were books and magazines, but he was in no mood for reading; clasped between strong white teeth he held his favourite pipe unlighted and cold, for tobacco had for him no savour. So he sat and scowled at the universe in general, and in particular at a robin that had boldly ventured near and was regarding him with a very round, bright eye.
“She’s avoiding me!” said Ravenslee bitterly, teeth clenched upon his pipestem, “there’s no doubt about it, damn it; she’s avoiding me! And she’s not happy here either!”
The robin turned his head to regard the speaker with his other eye, then fluttered his wings and flew away as the lazy quiet of the afternoon was broken by the squeak of shoe leather, and glancing up, Ravenslee beheld the Old Un.
“What cheer, Guv,” said he, “greetin’s doo and how’s the invalid?”
“Invalid!” repeated Ravenslee, scowling again, “I’m no invalid!”
“Spoke like a true-bred gamecock, s’ help me!”
“I’m as right as rain physically, Old Un, but—”
“Talkin’ o’ physic, Guv,” said the old man, seating himself and nodding brightly, “talkin’ o’ physic, the physic as set you on your pins again was love, Guv, love!”
“But it so happens—”
“Wait a bit, I ain’t done, Guv! ‘Ere ‘s me, a old cove as ‘as lived ‘ears an’ ‘ears an’ ‘ears an’ ‘ears longer ‘n you, so nacherally I’m a powerful lot fuller o’ th’ wisdom o’ life than you, specially in matters o’ th’ ‘eart, Guv. Now me, ‘avin’ ‘elped you into th’ matrimonial ring, as you might say, ‘ave took your ‘appiness under my wing, an’, Guv, I don’t like the way you’re shapin’—”
“But you see—”
“‘Old ‘ard, Guv, let a pore old cove get a word in for a change. Now there’s you an’ ‘er, your fair young spouse, both up to each other’s weight, sound in wind an’ limb an’ meant for j’y—what I want is t’ see you come to a clinch! This ain’t no time for sparrin’ an’ out-fightin’—yet ‘ere you are a-feintin’ at each other from opposite corners—”
“But—”
“‘Arf a mo’, Guv, ‘arf a mo’—gimme a chance for a occasional word! An’ don’t frown, Guv, don’t frown at a pore old cove; y’ see, there’s jest three blokes in this ‘ard world as my old ‘eart warms to, an’ one on ‘em ‘s Joe, an’ t’ other un ‘s you, an’ t’ other un ‘s ‘er—which ain’t a bloke. Lord, Guv, what a soft armful o’ beauty! ‘Ow warm an’ cuddlesome! Oh, Guv, what a waist! What lips! What—”
“Old Un, for heaven’s sake, shut up! D’ you think I’m blind? D’ you think—”
“Guv, I dunno wot t’ think! ‘Ere ‘s you with your ‘ead in your ‘ands, an’ there’s ‘er sighin’ an’ sighin’—”
“Sighing? Where? When? Why—”
“Sighin’ an’ sighin’, Guv, so soft an’ pretty—I ‘eard ‘er! Also she wep’—I seen ‘er.”
“Where?”
“An’ ‘er tears, Guv, them pearly tears went t’ my ‘eart—an’ nobody t’ put a arm round that waist, nor kiss them sweet lips, nor soothe them tears away—
“‘Oh, alone she sat sighin’ by a green willer tree, With ‘er ‘and on ‘er bosom, ‘er ‘ead on ‘er knee, Weepin’ willer” willer, willer my garlan’ shall be.’
“So, Guv, I ax you, man to man, why, oh, why are ye neglectin’ your fair young spouse? An’, Guv, I only ax because your ‘appiness an’ ‘ers is mine—s’ ‘elp me!”
“How if it’s the other way about, Old Un? Suppose she avoids me?”
“Why lumme, Guv! ‘T is a sure sign she needs persoot. Remember this:
“‘Im as would lovely woman woo ‘E lovely woman must persoo, For if ‘e don’t, ‘t is plain as plain That feller ‘e will woo in vain.’
“An’, Guv, I’ve only took th’ liberty o’ sayin’ this because my pore old bowels yearns to ye—both on ye. Persoot’s the word, Guv, persoot!”
The Old Un nodded, rose, and creaked away, and Ravenslee, looking after him, scowled no longer, but rising, sauntered across the trim garden to where there was a lily pool and, leaning over the marble rim, stared down into the placid water.
Now as the Old Un went his way, there met him a little girl, very neat and tidy, who sang to herself in a small happy voice and tapped along on a crutch; but beholding the Old Un, his dazzling shoes, his rakish hat, she stood silent all at once, glancing up wistfully into that fierce, battered old face.
“Lumme—crutches!” he exclaimed.
“No, please—only one, sir!” she answered, dropping him a little, old-fashioned curtsey.
“Crikey!” said he, staring, “so young, so tender, an’—a game leg! A little angel wi’ a broke wing—lumme!”
So Age and Youth stared at each other and she, being a child, was quick to heed that the eyes so bright beneath their hoary brows were kindly eyes, and the smile upon the grim old mouth was very reassuring, wherefore she smiled also.
“Only one crutch, sir,” she repeated. “An’ the doctor says as I won’t want it much longer, sir.” Here, dropping another curtsey, she held up for his acceptance a bunch of wild flowers.
“What—f’ me, little maid?” he enquired.
“Yes, please, sir.”
“Why bless—bless your lovin’ little ‘eart!” quavered the old man, and stooped to touch her rosy cheek with a hand gnarled and scarred with much hard punching, yet a very gentle hand indeed. “God bless that little game leg, but pretty flowers ‘ud be wasted on a old bloke like me. You take ‘em to th’ Guv, see—over there—that tall chap leanin’ over th’ pool. But first gimme a—a kiss instead, will ye, little lass?”
“I’d like to, sir.”
And when the Old Un had kissed and been kissed right heartily, he pointed to Ravenslee’s distant, lounging figure, winked, nodded, and squeaked away.
Thus it was that Ravenslee, absorbed in thought, was presently roused by the quick light tapping of the little crutch and glanced up.
“Oh!” she cried softly; the flowers fell and lay neglected as, clasping her hands, she stared up at him in radiant-eyed wonder.
“Welcome, Highness!” said he and bowed.
“Oh, it’s the Prince—my dear Prince! Oh, Goody!” and she hastened toward him, then stopped all at once, puzzled and abashed because of his elegant attire. Perceiving which he reached out and drew her down by him on the marble seat beside the pool.
“Why this sudden change of demeanour, Princess?” he enquired. “What’s the matter?”
“You’re—you’re so different, sir—so different an’ grand in all them cute clo’es, sir.”
“Am I, dear? But I’m just the same inside, you know. And, for heaven’s sake, Princess, do not call me ‘sir.’”
“But the big gentleman that belongs here an’ has all these lovely flowers an’ everything—he says as I must always say ‘sir.’”
“Big gentleman?”
“Yes, the big, soft gentleman with the cute little curls on his cheeks.”
“Oh—him!” said Ravenslee, laughing suddenly. “Indeed a very just description, Princess. But you don’t have to worry about him any more; he’s gone.”
“Gone?
For good?”
“For very good indeed!”
“Doesn’t all this beautiful, beautiful place belong t’ him any more?”
“Never any more.”
“Have you come here ‘stead of him? Come t’ stay?”
“Yes.”
“An’ can I pick a rose t’ kiss sometimes?”
“As many as you like.”
“Oh!” sighed the child rapturously, nestling within his arm, “isn’t that just—fine! I guess this sure is the Beautiful City of Perhaps, after all!”
“I wonder?”
“Oh, but I’m sure it is—now th’ gentleman’s gone I just know it is!”
“What makes you so sure?”
“Everything! ‘Cause you see, Prince, my daddy don’t have t’ be away all day any more. An’ mumsey don’t have t’ sew late, nights, any more. An’ when we came into the cute little house where we live—there was the doll that says ‘mamma’ jest waitin’ f’ me. An’ there was a big box o’ candies, an’ a doll carriage with real rubber on th’ wheels—jest like we used to talk about. So you see this must be Perhaps at last, an’ I’m so—so happy—only—” Hazel sighed.
“Only what?”
“I do wish Hermy could find her way here too; she used t’ be so tired sometimes.”
“You mean that you would like to find Princess Nobody, I guess.”
“Oh, but I can’t! I used to look an’ look for her every day ‘til th’ gentleman said she wasn’t here, an’ told me never t’ come near th’ big house any more.”
“But he’s gone, and you never had me to help you.”
“Oh, will you—will you help me right now?” she pleaded.
“Surest thing you know!” he nodded, “your hand, Princess.”
So hand in hand he led her, suiting his long legs to hers, along shady walks, up terrace steps, across smooth lawns, and so to the great house. Hazel paused to question him further concerning “the gentleman”, but Ravenslee laughed and, seating her upon his shoulder, bore her into the house.
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