Complete Works of F Marion Crawford

by F. Marion Crawford

  In spite of their unctuous tones the Hebrew and his wife did their business rapidly, with sharpness and decision. Either one of them would have undertaken to name the precise pawning value of anything on earth and, possibly, of most things in heaven, provided that the universe were brought piecemeal to their counter. Both Vjera and Schmidt had been made acquainted by previous necessities with the establishment. Vjera held her paper parcel in her hand. The other things were laid together upon the counter. The Hebrew woman glanced at the samovar, felt the weight of it and turned it once round.

  “Leaky,” she observed in her smooth voice. “Old brass. One mark and a half.” Her husband put out his hand, touched the machine, lifted it, and nodded.

  “Only a mark and a half!” exclaimed Vjera. “And the skin, how much for that?”

  “It is a genuine Russian wolf,” Schmidt put in. “And it is very large.”

  “Moth-eaten,” said the Jewess. “And there is a hole in the side. Five marks.”

  Schmidt held the fur up to the light and blew into it with a professional air, as furriers do.

  “Look at that!” he cried, persuasively. “Why, it is worth twenty!”

  The Hebrew lady, instead of answering extended a fat thumb and a plump, pointed forefinger, and pinching a score of hairs between the two, pulled them out without effort, and then held them close to the Cossack’s eyes.

  “Five marks,” she repeated, getting the money out and preparing to fill in a couple of pawn-tickets.

  “Make it ten, with the samovar!” entreated Vjera. The Jewess smiled.

  “Do you think the samovar is of gold?” she inquired. “Six and a half for the two. Take it or leave it.”

  Vjera looked at Schmidt anxiously as though to ask his opinion.

  “They will not give more,” he said, in Russian.

  The girl took the money and the flimsy tickets and they went out into the street. Vjera hesitated as to the direction she should take, and Schmidt looked to her as though awaiting her orders.

  “Twenty-eight and a half and six and a half are thirty-five,” she said, thoughtfully. “And we have nothing more to give, but this. I must sell it, Herr Schmidt.”

  “Well, what is it?” he asked, glad to know the secret at last.

  “It is my mother’s hair. She cut it off herself when she knew she was dying and she told me to sell it if ever I needed a little money.”

  The girl’s voice trembled violently, and she turned her head away. Schmidt was silent and very grave. Then Vjera began to move on again, clutching the precious thing to her bosom and drawing her shawl over it.

  “The best man for this lives in the Maffei Strasse,” said Schmidt after a few minutes.

  “Show me the way.” Vjera turned as he directed. At that moment she would have lost herself in the familiar streets, had he not been there to guide her.

  The hairdresser’s shop was brilliantly lighted, and as good fortune would have it, there were no customers within. With an entreating glance which he obeyed, Vjera made Schmidt wait outside.

  “Please do not look!” she whispered. “I can bear it better alone.” The good fellow nodded and began to walk up and down.

  As Vjera entered the shop, the chief barber in command waltzed forward, as hairdressers always seem to waltz. At the sight of the poor girl, however, he assumed a stern appearance which, to tell the truth, was out of character with his style of beauty. His rich brown locks were curled and anointed in a way that might have aroused envy in the heart of an Assyrian dandy in the palmy days of Sardanapalus.

  “Do you buy hair?” asked Vjera, timidly offering her limp parcel.

  “Oh, certainly, sometimes,” answered the barber. The youth in attendance — the barber tadpole of the hairdresser frog — abandoned the cleansing of a comb and came forward with a leer, in the hope that Vjera might turn out to be pretty on a closer inspection. In this he was disappointed.

  The man took the parcel and laid it on one of the narrow marble tables placed before a mirror in a richly gilt frame. He pushed aside the blue glass powder-box, the vial of brilliantine and the brushes. Vjera untied the bit of faded ribband herself and opened the package. The contents exhaled a faint, sickly odour.

  A tress of beautiful hair, of unusual length and thickness, lay in the paper. The colour was that which is now so much sought after, and which great ladies endeavour to produce upon their own hair, when they have any, by washing it with extra-dry champagne, while little ladies imitate them with a humble solution of soda. The colour in question is a reddish-brown with rich golden lights in it, and it is very rare in nature.

  The barber eyed the thick plait with a businesslike expression.

  “The colour is not so bad,” he remarked, as though suggesting that it might have been very much better.

  “Surely, it is very beautiful hair!” said Vjera, her heart almost breaking at the sight of the tenderly treasured heirloom.

  Suddenly the man snuffed the odour, lifted the tress to his nose, and smelt it. Then he laid it down again and took the thicker end, which was tied tightly with a ribband, in his hands, pulling at the short lengths of hair which projected beyond the knot. They broke very easily, with an odd, soft snap.

  “It is worth nothing at all,” said the barber decisively. “It is a pity, for it is a very pretty colour.”

  Vjera started, and steadied herself against the back of the professional chair which stood by the table.

  “Nothing?” she repeated, half stupid with the pain of her disappointment. “Nothing? not even fifteen marks?”

  “Nothing. It is rotten, and could not be worked. The hairs break like glass.”

  Vjera pressed her left hand to her side as though something hurt her. The tadpole youth grinned idiotically and the barber seemed anxious to end the interview.

  With a look of broken-hearted despair the girl turned to the table and began to do up her parcel again. Her shawl fell to the ground as she moved. Then the tadpole nudged his employer and pointed at Vjera’s long, red-brown braid, and grinned again from ear to ear.

  “Is it fifteen marks that you want?” asked the man.

  “Fifteen — yes — I must have fifteen,” repeated Vjera in dull tones.

  “I will give it to you for your own hair,” said the barber with a short laugh.

  “For my own?” cried Vjera, suddenly turning round. It had never occurred to her that her own tress could be worth anything. “For my own?” she repeated as though not believing her ears.

  “Yes — let me see,” said the man. “Turn your head again, please. Let me see. Yes, yes, it is good hair of the kind, though it has not the gold lights in it that the other had. But, to oblige you, I will give you fifteen for it.”

  “But I must have the money now,” said Vjera, suspiciously. “You must give me the money now, to take with me. I cannot wait.”

  The barber smiled, and produced a gold piece and five silver ones.

  “You may hold the money in your hand,” he said, offering it to her, “while you sit down and I do the work.”

  Vjera clutched the coins fiercely and placed herself in the big chair before the mirror. She could see in the glass that her eyes were on fire. The barber loosened a screw in the back of the seat and removed the block with the cushion, handing it to his assistant.

  “The scissors, and a comb, Anton,” he said briskly, lifting at the same time the heavy tress and judging its weight. The reflection of the steel flashed in the mirror, as the artist quickly opened and shut the scissors, with that peculiar shuffling jingle which only barbers can produce.

  “Wait a minute!” cried Vjera, with sudden anxiety, and turning her head as though to draw away her hair from his grasp. “One minute — please — fifteen and thirty-five are really fifty, are they not?”

  The tadpole began to count on his fingers, whispering audibly.

  “Yes,” answered the barber. “Fifteen and thirty-five are fifty.”

  The tadpole desisted, having already
got into mathematical difficulties in counting from one hand over to the other.

  “Then cut it off quickly, please!” said poor Vjera, settling herself in the chair again, and giving her head to the shears.

  In the silence that followed, only the soft jingle of the scissors was heard.

  “There!” exclaimed the hairdresser, holding up a hand-mirror behind her. “I have been generous, you see. I have not cut it very short. See for yourself.”

  “Thank you,” said Vjera. “You are very kind.” She saw nothing, indeed, but she was satisfied, and rose quickly.

  She tied up the limp parcel with the same old piece of faded ribband, and a little colour suddenly came into her face as she pressed it to her bosom. All at once, she lost control of herself, and with a sharp sob the tears gushed out. She stooped a little and drew her shawl over her head to hide her face. The tears wet her hands and the brown paper, and fell down to the greasy marble floor of the shop.

  “It will grow again very soon,” said the barber, not unkindly. He supposed, naturally enough, that she was weeping over her sacrifice.

  “Oh no! It is not that!” she cried. “I am so — so happy to have kept this!” Then, without another word, she slipped noiselessly out into the street, clasping the precious relic to her breast.

  CHAPTER XI.

  “I HAVE GOT it — I have got it all!” cried Vjera, as she came up with Schmidt on the pavement. His quick eye caught sight of the parcel, only half hidden by her shawl.

  “But you have brought the hair away with you,” he said, in some anxiety, and fearing a mistake or some new trouble.

  “Yes,” she answered. “That is the best of it.” Her tears had disappeared as suddenly as they had come, and she could now hardly restrain the nervous laughter that rose to her lips.

  “But how is that?” asked Schmidt, stopping.

  “I gave them my own,” she laughed, hysterically. “I gave them my own — instead. Quick, quick — there is no time to lose. Is it an hour yet, since I left him?” She ran along, and Schmidt found it hard to keep beside her without running, too. At last he broke into a sort of jog-trot. In five minutes they were at the door of the café.

  The Count was sitting at a small table near the door, an empty coffee-cup before him, staring with a fixed look at the opposite wall. There were few people in the place, as the performances at the theatres had already begun. Vjera entered alone.

  “I have brought you the money,” she said, joyfully, as she stood beside him and laid a hand upon his arm to attract his attention, for he had not noticed her coming.

  “The money?” he said, excitedly. “The fifty marks? You have got it?”

  She sat down at the table, and began to count the gold and silver, producing it from her pocket in instalments of four or five coins, and making little heaps of them before him.

  “It is all there — every penny of it,” she said, counting the piles again.

  The poor man’s eyes seemed starting from his head, as he leaned eagerly forward over the money.

  “Is it real? Is it true?” he asked in a low voice. “Oh, Vjera, do not laugh at me — is it really true, child?”

  “Really true — fifty marks.” Her pale face beamed with pleasure. “And now you can go and pay Fischelowitz at once,” she added.

  But he leaned back a moment in his chair, looking at her intently. Then his eyes grew moist, and, when he spoke, his voice quivered.

  “May God forgive me for taking it of you,” he said. “You have saved me, Vjera — saved my honour, my life — all. God bless you, dear, God bless you! I am very, very thankful.”

  He put the coins carefully together and wrapped them in his silk handkerchief, and rose from his seat. He had already paid for his cup of coffee. They went out together. The Cossack had disappeared.

  “You have saved my life and my honour — my honour and my life,” repeated the Count, softly and dwelling on the words in a dreamy way.

  “I will wait outside,” said Vjera as they reached the tobacconist’s shop, a few seconds later.

  The Count turned to her and laid both hands upon her shoulders, looking into her face.

  “You cannot understand what you have done for me,” he said earnestly.

  He stooped, for he was much taller than she, and closing his tired eyes for a moment, he pressed his lips upon her waxen forehead. Before he had seen the bright blush that glowed in her cheeks, he had entered the shop.

  Akulina was seated in one corner, apparently in a bad humour, for her dark face was flushed, and her small eyes looked up savagely at the Count. Her husband was leaning over the counter, smoking and making a series of impressions in violet ink upon the back of an old letter, with an india-rubber stamp in which the word “Celebrated Manufactory” held a prominent place. He nodded familiarly.

  “Herr Fischelowitz,” said the Count, regaining suddenly his dignity of manner and bearing, “in the course of the conversation last evening, I said that I would to-day refund the fifty marks which you once lent to that atrocious young man who wore green glasses. I daresay you remember the circumstance?”

  “I had quite forgotten it,” said Fischelowitz. “Please do not allow it to trouble you, my dear Count. I never considered you responsible for it, and of course you cannot—”

  “It is a shame!” Akulina broke in, angrily. “You ought to make him pay it out of what he earns, since he took the Gigerl!”

  “Madam,” said the Count, addressing her with great civility, “if it is agreeable to you, we will not discuss the matter. I only reminded Herr Fischelowitz of what took place because—”

  “Because you have no money — of course!” interrupted Akulina.

  “On the contrary, because I have brought the money, and shall be obliged to you if you will count it.”

  Akulina’s jaw dropped, and Fischelowitz looked up in amazement. The Count produced his knotted handkerchief and laid it on the table.

  “I only wish you to understand,” he said, speaking to Akulina, “that when a gentleman gives his word he keeps it. Will you do me the favour to count the money?”

  “Of course, it is no business of ours to find out how he got it,” observed Akulina, rising and coming forward.

  “None whatever, madam,” answered the Count, spreading out the coins which had been collected by loving hands from so many sources. “The only question is, to ascertain whether there are fifty marks here or not.”

  Fischelowitz stood looking on. He had not yet recovered from his surprise, and was half afraid that there might be something wrong. But the practical Akulina lost no time in assuring herself that the sum was complete. As she realised this fact, her features relaxed into a pleasant smile.

  “Well, Count,” she said, “we are very much obliged to you for this. It is very honest of you, for of course, you were not exactly called upon—”

  “I understood you to say that I was,” replied the Count, gravely.

  “Oh, that was yesterday, and I am very sorry if I annoyed you. But let bygones be bygones! I hope there is no ill-will between us?”

  “Oh, none at all,” returned the other indifferently. “I have the honour to wish you a very good evening.” Without waiting for more, the Count bowed and left the shop.

  “Akulina,” said Fischelowitz, thoughtfully, as the door closed, “that man is a gentleman, say what you please.”

  “A pretty gentleman,” laughed Akulina, putting the money into the till. “A gentleman indeed — why, look at his coat!”

  “And you are a fool, Akulina,” added Fischelowitz, handling his india-rubber stamp.

  “Thank you; but for my foolery you would be fifty marks poorer to-night, Christian Gregorovitch. A gentleman, pah!”

  The Count had drawn Vjera’s willing arm through his, and they were walking slowly away together.

  “I must be going home,” she said, reluctantly. “The little sister will be crying for me. I cannot leave her any longer.”

  “Not till I have th
anked you, dear,” he answered, pressing her arm to his side. “But I will go with you to your door, and thank you all the way — though the way is far too short for all I have to say.”

  “I have done nothing — it has really cost me nothing.” Vjera squeezed her limp parcel under her shawl, and felt that she was speaking the truth.

  “I cannot believe that, Vjera,” said the Count. “You could not have found so much money so quickly, without making some great sacrifice. But I will give it back to you—”

  “Oh no — no,” she cried, earnestly. “Make no promises to me. Think what this promise has cost you. When you have the money, you may give it back if you choose — but it would make me so unhappy if you promised.”

  “Would it, child? And yet, my friends are waiting for me, and they have money for me, too. Then, I will only say that I will give it back to you as soon as possible. Is that right?”

  “Yes — and nothing more than that. And as for thanking me — what have I done that needs thanks? Would you not have done as much for me if — if, for instance, I had been ill, and could not pay the rent of the room? And then — think of the happiness I have had!”

  The words were spoken so simply and it was so clear that they were true, that the Count found it hard to answer. Not because he had nothing to express, but because the words for the expression could not be found. Again he pressed her arm.

  “Vjera,” he said, when they had walked some distance farther, “it is of no use to speak of this. There is that between you and me which makes speech contemptible and words ridiculous. There is only one thing that I can do, Vjera dearest. I can love you, dear, with all my heart. Will you take my love for thanks — and my devotion for gratitude? Will you, dear? Will you remember what you promised and what I promised last night? As soon as all is right, to-morrow, will you be my wife?”

  “If it could ever be!” sighed the poor girl, recalled suddenly to the remembrance of his pitiful infirmity.

  “It can be, it shall be and it will be,” he answered in tones of conviction. “They are waiting for me now, Vjera, in my little room — but they may wait, for I will not lose a moment of your dear company for them all. They are waiting for me with the money and the papers and the orders. I have waited long for them, they can afford to have a little patience now. And to-morrow, at this time, we shall be together, Vjera, in the train — I will have a special carriage for you and me, and then, a night and a day and another night and we shall be at home — for ever. How happy we shall be! Will you not be happy with me, darling? Why do you sigh?”