Little Novels. Wilkie CollinsЧитать онлайн книгу.
room, and called to her lodger over their heads: “Take care what you say to this man, Mrs. Zant! He thinks you’re mad.”
Mrs. Zant turned round on the landing, and looked at him. Not a word fell from her lips. She suffered, she feared, in silence. Something in the sad submission of her face touched the springs of innocent pity in Lucy’s heart. The child burst out crying.
That artless expression of sympathy drew Mrs. Zant down the few stairs which separated her from Lucy.
“May I kiss your dear little girl?” she said to Mr. Rayburn. The landlady, standing on the mat below, expressed her opinion of the value of caresses, as compared with a sounder method of treating young persons in tears: “If that child was mine,” she remarked, “I would give her something to cry for.”
In the meantime, Mrs. Zant led the way to her rooms.
The first words she spoke showed that the landlady had succeeded but too well in prejudicing her against Mr. Rayburn.
“Will you let me ask your child,” she said to him, “why you think me mad?”
He met this strange request with a firm answer.
“You don’t know yet what I really do think. Will you give me a minute’s attention?”
“No,” she said positively. “The child pities me, I want to speak to the child. What did you see me do in the Gardens, my dear, that surprised you?” Lucy turned uneasily to her father; Mrs. Zant persisted. “I first saw you by yourself, and then I saw you with your father,” she went on. “When I came nearer to you, did I look very oddly—as if I didn’t see you at all?”
Lucy hesitated again; and Mr. Rayburn interfered.
“You are confusing my little girl,” he said. “Allow me to answer your questions—or excuse me if I leave you.”
There was something in his look, or in his tone, that mastered her. She put her hand to her head.
“I don’t think I’m fit for it,” she answered vacantly. “My courage has been sorely tried already. If I can get a little rest and sleep, you may find me a different person. I am left a great deal by myself; and I have reasons for trying to compose my mind. Can I see you tomorrow? Or write to you? Where do you live?”
Mr. Rayburn laid his card on the table in silence. She had strongly excited his interest. He honestly desired to be of some service to this forlorn creature—abandoned so cruelly, as it seemed, to her own guidance. But he had no authority to exercise, no sort of claim to direct her actions, even if she consented to accept his advice. As a last resource he ventured on an allusion to the relative of whom she had spoken downstairs.
“When do you expect to see your brother-in-law again?” he said.
“I don’t know,” she answered. “I should like to see him—he is so kind to me.”
She turned aside to take leave of Lucy.
“Good-by, my little friend. If you live to grow up, I hope you will never be such a miserable woman as I am.” She suddenly looked round at Mr. Rayburn. “Have you got a wife at home?” she asked.
“My wife is dead.”
“And you have a child to comfort you! Please leave me; you harden my heart. Oh, sir, don’t you understand? You make me envy you!”
Mr. Rayburn was silent when he and his daughter were out in the street again. Lucy, as became a dutiful child, was silent, too. But there are limits to human endurance—and Lucy’s capacity for self-control gave way at last.
“Are you thinking of the lady, papa?” she said.
He only answered by nodding his head. His daughter had interrupted him at that critical moment in a man’s reflections, when he is on the point of making up his mind. Before they were at home again Mr. Rayburn had arrived at a decision. Mrs. Zant’s brother-in-law was evidently ignorant of any serious necessity for his interference—or he would have made arrangements for immediately repeating his visit. In this state of things, if any evil happened to Mrs. Zant, silence on Mr. Rayburn’s part might be indirectly to blame for a serious misfortune. Arriving at that conclusion, he decided upon running the risk of being rudely received, for the second time, by another stranger.
Leaving Lucy under the care of her governess, he went at once to the address that had been written on the visiting-card left at the lodging-house, and sent in his name. A courteous message was returned. Mr. John Zant was at home, and would be happy to see him.
IV.
MR. RAYBURN was shown into one of the private sitting-rooms of the hotel.
He observed that the customary position of the furniture in a room had been, in some respects, altered. An armchair, a side-table, and a footstool had all been removed to one of the windows, and had been placed as close as possible to the light. On the table lay a large open roll of morocco leather, containing rows of elegant little instruments in steel and ivory. Waiting by the table, stood Mr. John Zant. He said “Good-morning” in a bass voice, so profound and so melodious that those two commonplace words assumed a new importance, coming from his lips. His personal appearance was in harmony with his magnificent voice—he was a tall, finely-made man of dark complexion; with big brilliant black eyes, and a noble curling beard, which hid the whole lower part of his face. Having bowed with a happy mingling of dignity and politeness, the conventional side of this gentleman’s character suddenly vanished; and a crazy side, to all appearance, took its place. He dropped on his knees in front of the footstool. Had he forgotten to say his prayers that morning, and was he in such a hurry to remedy the fault that he had no time to spare for consulting appearances? The doubt had hardly suggested itself, before it was set at rest in a most unexpected manner. Mr. Zant looked at his visitor with a bland smile, and said:
“Please let me see your feet.”
For the moment, Mr. Rayburn lost his presence of mind. He looked at the instruments on the side-table.
“Are you a corn-cutter?” was all he could say.
“Excuse me, sir,” returned the polite operator, “the term you use is quite obsolete in our profession.” He rose from his knees, and added modestly: “I am a Chiropodist.”
“I beg your pardon.”
“Don’t mention it! You are not, I imagine, in want of my professional services. To what motive may I attribute the honor of your visit?”
By this time Mr. Rayburn had recovered himself.
“I have come here,” he answered, “under circumstances which require apology as well as explanation.”
Mr. Zant’s highly polished manner betrayed signs of alarm; his suspicions pointed to a formidable conclusion—a conclusion that shook him to the innermost recesses of the pocket in which he kept his money.
“The numerous demands on me—” he began.
Mr. Rayburn smiled.
“Make your mind easy,” he replied. “I don’t want money. My object is to speak with you on the subject of a lady who is a relation of yours.”
“My sister-in-law!” Mr. Zant exclaimed. “Pray take a seat.”
Doubting if he had chosen a convenient time for his visit, Mr. Rayburn hesitated.
“Am I likely to be in the way of persons who wish to consult you?” he asked.
“Certainly not. My morning hours of attendance on my clients are from eleven to one.” The clock on the mantelpiece struck the quarter-past one as he spoke. “I hope you don’t bring me bad news?” he said, very earnestly. “When I called on Mrs. Zant this morning, I heard that she had gone out for a walk. Is it indiscreet to ask how you became acquainted with her?”
Mr. Rayburn at once mentioned what he had seen and heard in Kensington Gardens; not forgetting to add a few words, which described