“And yet, Princess, I’m sure we shall find it.”
“We? Oh, are you coming too, Prince?” cried the child joyfully.
“To be sure I am!” nodded Ravenslee.
“Oh, goody, I’m glad—so glad, ‘cause I know we shall find it now!”
“Why?”
“Well,” answered the child, looking at him with her big, wistful eyes, “‘cause you look like you could find it, somehow. You see, Prince, you’ve got grey eyes so brave an’ true—an’ you’re big an’ strong an’ could carry me an’ Hermy over the thorny places when we get very, very tired—couldn’t you?”
“I could!” answered Ravenslee almost grimly, “and I—surely will!”
“When we get there, Prince, I want first—a doll-carriage an’ a doll with lovely blue eyes that wink at you, an’ a big box of candy, an’ a new dress for my mumsey, an’ no more work, an’ I want lots an’ lots of flowers for my daddy ‘cause he loves flowers—oh, an’ I want my leg t’ be made well. What d’ you want, Hermy?”
“Well, dear, I want to—say good-by to my sewing-machine for ever and ever and ever!”
“Why, Hermy!” exclaimed the child, “last time you said you wanted some one who could give you your heart’s desire!”
“Perhaps that is my heart’s desire, little Hazel,” said Hermione, rising and taking up the medicine bottle.
“An’ what do you want, Prince?”
“I want a great deal,” answered Ravenslee, smiling down into the big, soft eyes. “I want some one who—is my heart’s desire now and for ever and ever. Good night, dear little Princess!”
“You’ll come again, Prince?” she pleaded, holding up her face to be kissed, “you’ll come again soon?”
“As soon as—Princess Nobody will bring me.”
“Good night, Hermy dear; you’ll bring our Prince again soon?”
“If you wish, dear,” said Hermione, stooping to kiss her in turn.
“Why, Hermy—what makes your cheeks so hot to-night?”
“Are they?” said Hermione, making pretence to test them with the back of her hand.
“Why, yes,” nodded the child, “an’ they look so red an’—”
“Of course you believe in fairies, don’t you, Princess?” enquired Ravenslee rather hurriedly.
“Oh, yes, Prince, I often see them in my dreams. They just wait till I’m asleep, an’ then they come an’ show themselves. Do you ever see any?”
“Well, your highness, I fancy I have lately, and when fairies are around, things are sure to happen; wishes get the habit of coming true. So, little Princess, just go on wishing and dreaming and—watch out!”
Then Ravenslee turned and followed Hermione out upon the dingy landing; but as he climbed the stair, there went with him the memory of a little face, very thin and pale, but radiant and all aglow with rapturous hope. Silently as they had come they mounted the stairs, until, reaching the topmost landing, they paused as by mutual consent.
“Poor little Hazel!” said Hermione very gently, “if only there were real fairies to spirit her away to where the air is sweet and pure and flowers grow for little hands to gather—the doctor told me it was her only chance.”
“Why, then of course she must have her chance!” said Ravenslee with a sleepy nod.
“But, Mr. Geoffrey—how?”
“Well—er—the fairies—you said something about fairies spiriting—”
“The fairies!” said Hermione a little bitterly, “I guess they are too busy over their own affairs to trouble about a poor, little, sick child; besides, what fairy could possibly live five minutes in—Mulligan’s?”
“Which leaves us,” said Ravenslee thoughtfully, “which leaves us the beautiful City of Perhaps. It is a wonderful thought, that!”
“But only a thought!” she sighed.
“Is it? Are you quite sure?”
“Well, isn’t it?” she questioned wistfully.
“No!” he answered gravely, “the City of Perhaps is very, very real.”
“What do you mean?”
Once again their hands touched in the shadow, but this time his fingers closed upon her hand, the hand that held the medicine bottle, drawing her nearer in the dimness of that dingy landing.
“I mean,” he answered, “that for every one of us there is a City of Perhaps waiting to open its gates to our coming, and I am sure we shall reach it sooner or later, all three of us—the Princess and you and I—yes, even I, when I have done something worth while. And then, Hermione, then—nothing shall keep me from—my heart’s delight—nothing, Hermione!” As he ended, she felt an arm about her in the dimness; an arm fierce and strong that gripped and swept her close—then, as suddenly, loosed her. For a breathless moment he stood with head bowed in seeming humility, then, stooping, he crushed her hand, medicine bottle and all, to lips that burned with anything but humility.
“Good night, dear Princess Nobody!” he said, and watched her turn away, nor moved until the door had closed upon her. That night he smoked many pipes, weaving him fancies of the beautiful City of Perhaps, and dreamed dreams of what might be, and his eyes glowed bright and wide, and his mouth grew alternately grim and tender. And, that night, long after he lay asleep, Hermione’s golden head was bowed above her work, but, more than once she stayed her humming sewing-machine to look at one white hand with eyes shy and wistful—the hand that had held the medicine bottle, of course.
CHAPTER XIV
OF A TEXT, A LETTER, AND A SONG
Ravenslee opened his eyes to find his small chamber full of a glory of sun which poured a flood of radiance across his narrow bed; it brought out the apoplectic roses on the wall paper and lent a new lustre to the dim and faded gold frame that contained a fly-blown card whereon was the legend:
LOVE ONE ANOTHER
And with his gaze upon this time-honoured text, Ravenslee smiled, and leaping out of bed proceeded to wash and shave and dress, pausing often to glance glad-eyed from his open window upon the glory of the new day. And indeed it was a morning of all-pervading beauty, one such that even Mulligan’s, its dingy bricks and mortar mellowed by the sun, seemed less unlovely than its wont, and its many windows, catching a sunbeam here and there, winked and twinkled waggishly.
So Ravenslee washed and shaved and dressed, glancing now and then from this transfigured Mulligan’s to the fly-blown text upon the wall, and once he laughed, though not very loudly to be sure, and once he hummed a song and so fell to soft whistling, all of which was very strange in Geoffrey Ravenslee.
The sun, it is true, radiates life and joy; before his beneficence gloom and depression flee away, and youth and health grow strong to achieve the impossible; even age and sickness, bathed in his splendour, may forget awhile their burdens and dream of other days. Truly sunshine is a thrice blessed thing. And yet, as Ravenslee tied the neckerchief about his brawny throat, was it by reason of the sun alone that his grey eyes were so bright and joyous and that he whistled so soft and merrily?
Having brushed his hair and settled his vivid-hued neckerchief to his liking, he turned, and stooping over his humble bed, slipped a hand beneath the tumbled pillow and drew thence a letter; a somewhat crumpled missive, this, that he had borne about with him all the preceding day and read and reread at intervals even as he proceeded to do now, as, standing in the radiant sunbeams, he unfolded a sheet of very ordinary note paper and slowly scanned these lines written in a bold, flowing hand:
Dear Mr. Geoffrey
I find I must be away from home all this week; will you please watch over my dear boy for me? Then I shall work with a glad heart. Am I wrong in asking this of you, I wonder? Anyway, I am
Your grateful
Hermione C.
P.S. I hear you are a peanut man. You!!
Truly the sun is a thrice-blessed thing—and yet—! Having read this over with the greatest attention, taking preposterous heed to every dot and comma, having carefully refolded it, slipped it into the envelope and hidden it
upon his person, he raised his eyes to the spotted text upon the wall.
“You’re right,” quoth he, nodding, “an altogether wise precept and one I have had by heart ever since she blessed my sight. I must introduce you to her at the earliest—the very earliest opportunity.”
Then he fell to whistling softly again, and opening the door, stepped out into the bright little sitting room. Early though it was, Mrs. Trapes was already astir in her kitchen, and since sunshine is indubitably a worker of wonders, Mrs. Trapes was singing, rather harshly to be sure, yet singing nevertheless, and this was her song:
“Said the young Obadiah to the old Obadiah, Obadiah, Obadiah, I am dry. Said the old Obadiah to the young Obadiah, Obadiah, Obadiah, so am I. Said the young—”
The song ended abruptly as, opening the door, she beheld her lodger.
“Lordy Lord, Mr. Geoffrey,” she exclaimed a little reproachfully, “whatever are you a-doin’ of, up an’ dressed an’ not half-past five yet?”
“Enjoying the morning, Mrs. Trapes, and yearning for my breakfast.”
“Ah, that’s just like a man; they’re almighty good yearners till they get what they yearns for—then they yearns for somethin’ else—immediate!”
“Well, but I suppose women yearn too, sometimes, don’t they?”
“Not they; women can only hope an’ sigh an’ languish an’ break their hearts in silence, poor dears.”
“What for?”
“Would a couple o’ fresh eggs an’ a lovely ham rasher soot ye?” enquired Mrs. Trapes.
“They will suit.”
“Then I’ll go and fry’ em!”
“And I’ll come and look on, if I may,” said he, and followed her into her neat kitchen.
“And how,” said Mrs. Trapes, as she prepared to make the coffee, “how’s the peanut trade, Mr. Geoffrey?”
“Flourishing, thanks.”
“The idea of you a-sellin’ peanuts!”
“Well, I’ve only been guilty of it four days so far, Mrs. Trapes.”
“Anyway, you’ve disgusted Hermy!”
“Ah, so you told her, did you?”
“O’ course I did!”
“And what did she say?”
“Laughed at first.”
“She has a beautiful laugh!” said Ravenslee musingly.
“An’ then she got thoughtful—”
“She’s loveliest when she’s thoughtful, I think,” said Ravenslee.
“An’ then she got mad at you an’ frowned—”
“She’s very handsome when she frowns!” said Ravenslee.
“Oh, shucks!” said his landlady, slapping the ham rasher into the pan.
“And she was very angry, was she?”
“I should say so!” snorted Mrs. Trapes, “stamped her foot an’ got red in the face—”
“I love to see her flush!” said Ravenslee musingly again.
“Said she wondered at you, she did! Said you was a man without any pride or ambition—an’ that’s what I say too—peanuts!”
“They’re very wholesome!” he murmured.
“Sellin’ peanuts ain’t a man’s job, no more than grinding a organ is.”
“There’s money in peanuts!”
“Money!” said Mrs. Trapes, wriggling her elbow joints. “How much did you make yesterday—come?”
“Fifty cents.”
“Fifty cents!” she almost screamed, “is that all?”
“No—pardon me! There were three pimply youths on Forty-second Street—they brought it up to seventy-five.”
“Only seventy-five cents? But you sold out your stock; Tony told me you did.”
“Oh, yes, trade was very brisk yesterday.”
“And you sold everything for seventy-five cents?”
“Not exactly, Mrs. Trapes. You see, the majority of customers on my beat are very—er—small, and their pecuniary capabilities necessarily somewhat—shall we say restricted? Consequently, I have adopted the—er—deferred payment system.”
“Land sakes!” said Mrs. Trapes, staring, “d’ye mean ter say—”
“That my method of business is strictly—credit.”
“Now look-a-here, Mr. Geoffrey, I’m talkin’ serious an’ don’t want none o’ your jokes or jollying.”
“Solemn as an owl, Mrs. Trapes!”
“Well, then, how d’ you suppose you can keep a wife and children, maybe, by selling peanuts that way or any way?”
“Oh, when I marry I shall probably turn my—attention to—er—other things, Mrs. Trapes.”
“What things?”
“Well—to my wife, in the first place.”
“Oh, Mr. Geoffrey, you make me tired!”
“Alas, Mrs. Trapes, I frequently grow tired of myself.”
Mrs. Trapes turned away to give her attention to the ham.
“Did ye see that b’y Arthur yesterday?” she enquired presently over her shoulder.
“Yes.”
“How’s he like his noo job?”
“Well, I can’t say that he seems—er—fired with a passion for it.”
“Office work, ain’t it?”
“I believe it is.”
“Well, you mark my words, that b’y won’t keep it a week.”
“Oh, I don’t know,” said Ravenslee, “he seemed quite content.”
“You took him to the theayter las’ night, didn’t you? Wastin’ your good money, eh?”
“Not very much, Mrs. Trapes,” said her lodger humbly.
Mrs. Trapes sniffed. “Anyway, it’s a good thing you had him safe out o’ the way, as it happens.”
“Why?”
“Because that loafer M’Ginnis was hanging around for him all the evenin’. Even had the dratted imperence to come in here an’ ask me where he was.”
“And what did you tell him?”
“Tell him?” she repeated. “What did I not tell him!” Her voice was gentle, but what words could convey all the quivering ferocity of her elbows! “Mr. Geoffrey, I told Bud M’Ginnis just exactly what kind o’ a beast Bud M’Ginnis is. I told Bud M’Ginnis where Bud M’Ginnis come from an’ where Bud M’Ginnis would go to. I told Bud M’Ginnis the character of his mother an’ father, very plain an’ p’inted.”
“And what did he say?”
“He say! Mr. Geoffrey, I didn’t give him a chance to utter a single word, of course. An’ when I’d said all there was to say, I picked up my heaviest flatiron, as happened to be handy, an’ ordered him out; and Mr. Geoffrey, Bud M’Ginnis—went!”
“Under the circumstances,” said Ravenslee, “I’m not surprised that he did.”
“Ah, but he’ll come back again, Mr. Geoffrey; he’ll find Arthur alone next time, an’ Arthur’ll go along with him, and then—good night! The b’y’ll get drunk an’ lose his job like he did last time.”
“Why, then, he mustn’t find Arthur alone.”
“And who’s t’ stop him?”
“I.”
“Mr. Geoffrey, you’re big an’ strong, but M’Ginnis is stronger—and yet—” Mrs. Trapes ran a speculative eye over Ravenslee’s lounging form. “H’m!” said she musingly, “but even if you did happen to lick him, what about th’ gang?”
“Echo, Mrs. Trapes, promptly answers, ‘what’?”
“Well, Mr. Geoffrey, I can tell ye there’s been more ‘n one poor feller killed around here to my knowing—yes, sir!”
“But the police?”
“Perlice!” snorted Mrs. Trapes. “M’Ginnis an’ his father have a big pull with Tammany, an’ Tammany is the perlice. Anyways, Mr. Geoffrey, don’t you go having no trouble with Bud M’Ginnis; leave him to some one as is as much a brute-beast as he is.”
“But then—what of Spike?”
“Oh, drat him! If Arthur ain’t got the horse sense to know who’s his worst enemy, he ain’t worth a clean man riskin’ his life over—for it would be your life you’d risk, Mr. Geoffrey—mark my words!”
“Mrs. Trapes, your anxiety on my account flatte
rs me, also I’m glad to know you think me a clean man. But all men must take risks—some for money, some for honour, and some for the pure love of it. Personally, I rather like a little risk—just a suspicion, if it’s for something worth while.”
“Mr. Geoffrey, what are you gettin’ at?”
“Well, I would remind you that Spike has—a sister!”
“Ah!” said Mrs. Trapes, and her lined face took on a sudden anxious expression.
“Therefore, I’ve been contemplating—er—tackling Mr. M’Ginnis—at a proper and auspicious time, of course.”
“An’ what o’ the gang?”
“Oh, drat the gang, Mrs. Trapes.”
“But you don’t mean as you’d fight M’Ginnis?”
“Well—er—the thought has occurred to me, Mrs. Trapes, though I’m quite undecided on the matter, and—er—I believe my breakfast is burning!”
“My land!” ejaculated Mrs. Trapes, turning to snatch the pan from the stove, “I’m afraid the fire’s ketched it a bit, Mr. Geoffrey—”
“No matter.”
“An’ now there’s the coffee b’ilin’ over!”
“Let me help you,” said Ravenslee, rising.
“Anyway, your breakfast’s ready, so come an’ eat it while it’s good an’ hot.”
“On condition that you eat with me.”
“What, eat wi’ you, Mr. Geoffrey—in my best parlour—an’ me in me workin’ clo’es?”
“Ah, to be sure—not to be thought of, Mrs. Trapes; then we’ll breakfast here in the kitchen.”
“Would ye mind?”
“Should love it.”
So down they sat together, and Ravenslee vowed the ham was all ham should be and the eggs beyond praise. And when his hunger was somewhat appeased, Mrs. Trapes leaned her bony elbows on the table and questioned him.
“You ain’t ever spoke to Hermy, have you, Mr. Geoffrey?”
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