Home > Authors Index > Robert W. Chambers > Gay Rebellion > This page
The Gay Rebellion, a novel by Robert W. Chambers |
||
Chapter 25 |
||
| < Previous |
Table of content |
Next > |
|
________________________________________________
_ CHAPTER XXV IT was in early June when she arrived in town again. He was in the lobby as usual; he lunched at the table by the window as usual. There seemed to be nothing changed about him except that he was a handsomer man than she had supposed him. She ate very little luncheon. As usual, he glanced at her once--a perfectly pleasant and inoffensive glance--and resumed his luncheon and his newspaper. He was always quiet, always alone. There seemed to be a curious sort of stillness which radiated from him, laying a spell upon his environment for a few paces on every side of him. She had felt this; she felt it now. Downtown her business was finally transacted; she went to a matinee all by herself, and found herself staring beyond the painted curtain and the mummers--beyond the bedizened scenery--out into the world somewhere and into two dark, boyish eyes that looked so pleasantly back at her. And suddenly her own eyes filled; she bent her head and touched them with her handkerchief. No, she must never again come to the Hotel Aurora Borealis. There were reasons. Besides, it was no longer necessary for her to come to town at all. She _must_ not come any more. . . . And yet, if she could only know what became of him--whether salvation ever found him---- The curtain fell; she rose and pinned on her hat, gathered her trifles, and moved out with the others into the afternoon sunshine of Broadway. That evening she dined in her room. She had brought no luggage. About ten o'clock the cab was announced. As she walked through the nearly deserted lobby she looked around for him. He stood near the door, talking to the hotel detective. Halting a moment to button her gloves, she heard the detective say: "Never mind the whys and whats! You fade away! Understand?" "By what authority do you forbid me entrance to this hotel?" asked the young man coolly. "Well, it's good enough for you that I tell you to keep out!" "I can not comply with your suggestion. I have an appointment here in half an hour." "Now you go along quietly," said the detective. "We've had our eyes on you. We know all about you. And when the hotel gets wise to a guy like you we tip him off and he beats it!" "We can discuss that to-morrow; I tell you I have an appointment----" "G'wan out o' here!" growled the detective. The young man quietly fell into step beside him, but on the sidewalk he turned on him, white and desperate. "I tell you I've _got_ to keep that appointment." He stood aside as the girl passed him, head lowered, and halted to wait for her cab. "I tell you I've got to go back----" "Here, you!" The detective seized his arm as he attempted to pass; the young man wheeled and flung him aside, and the next instant reeled back as the detective struck him again with his billy, knocking him halfway into the street. "You damned dead-beat!" he panted, "I'll show you!" The young man stood swaying, his hands against his head; porters, cabmen, and the detective saw him stagger and fall heavily. And the next moment the girl was kneeling beside him. "Let him alone, lady," said somebody. "That bum isn't hurt." The "bum," in fact, was getting to his feet, groping for some support; and the girl's arm was offered and he leaned on it a moment, clearing his eyes with a gloved hand. Suddenly he made a movement so quick that she never understood how she wrenched the short, dull-blue weapon from his hand. "Pick up your hat!" she gasped. "Do what I tell you!" He looked at her, dazed, then the blood blotted his dark eyes again. She stooped swiftly, caught up his hat, and, holding tightly to his arm, opened the other door of the taxicab. "They'll kill you here," she whispered. "Come with me. I've got to talk to you!" "Lady--are you crazy?" demanded the tall head-porter, aghast. But she had got him into the cab. "Drive on," she said through clenched teeth. And the chauffeur laughed and started east. In the swaying cab the man beside her sat bent over, his face in his hands, blood striping the fingers of his gloves. With a shudder she placed the automatic weapon on the cushion beside her and shrank back, staring at him. But his senses seemed to be returning, for presently he sat up, found his handkerchief, staunched the rather insignificant abrasion, and settled back into his corner. Without looking at her he said: "Would you mind if I thank you? You have been very kind." She could not utter a word. Presently he turned; and as he looked at her for the first time a faint flicker of humour seemed to touch his eyes. "Where are we going--if you don't mind?" he said pleasantly. Then the breathless words came, haltingly. "I've got to tell you something; I've _got_ to! I can't stand aside--I _can't_ pass by on the other side!" "Thank you," he said, smiling, "but Lazarus is all right now." "I mean--something else!" Her voice fell to a whisper. "I _must_ speak!" He looked pleasantly perplexed, smiling. "Is there anything--except a broken head--that could possibly permit me the opportunity of listening to you?" "I--have seen you before." "And I you." She leaned against her window, head resting on her hand, her heart a chaos. "Where are you going when--when I leave you?" she said. He did not answer. "Where?" She turned to look at him. "Are you going back to that hotel?" And, as he made no reply: "Do you wish to become a murderer, too?" she said tremulously. "I have your pistol. I ask you not to go back there." After a moment he said: "No, I won't go back. . . . Where is the pistol?" "You shall not have it." "I think perhaps it would be safer with me." "No!" "Very well." "And--I--I ask you to keep away from that man!" She grew unconsciously dramatic. "I ask you--if you have any memory which you hold sacred--to promise me on that memory not to--to----" "I won't shoot him," he said, watching her curiously. "Is that what you mean?" "Y-yes." "Then I promise--on my most sacred memory--the memory of a young girl who saved me from committing--what I meant to do. . . . And I thank her very deeply." She said: "I _did_ save you from--_that_!" "You did--God knows." He himself was trembling a little; his face had turned very white. "Then--then----" she forced her courage--lifted her frightened eyes, braving mockery and misconstruction--"then--is there a chance of my--helping you--further?" For a moment her flushed face and timid question perplexed him; then the quick blood reddened his face, and he stared at her in silence. "I--I can't help it," she faltered. "I believe in you--and in--salvation. . . . Please don't say anything to--hurt me." "No," he said, still staring, "no, of course not. And--and thank you. You are very kind. . . . You are _very_ kind. . . . I suppose you heard somebody say--what I am." "Yes. . . . But that was long ago." "Oh, you knew--you have known--for some time?" "Yes." He sat thinking for a while. Presently they both noticed that the cab had stopped--had probably been standing for some time in front of the station; and that several red-capped porters were watching them. "My name is Lily Hollis," she said, "and I live at Whitebrook Farm, Westchester. . . . I am not coming to New York again--and never again to that hotel. . . . But I would like to talk to you--a little." He thought a moment. "Do you want a gambler to call on you, Miss Hollis?" "Yes," she said. "Then he will do it. When?" "To-morrow." He passed his hand over his marred young face. "Yes," he said quietly, "to-morrow." He looked up and met her eyes, smiled, opened the door, and stepped to the sidewalk. Then he went with her to her train. She turned at the gates and held out her hand to him; and, hat in hand, he bent his battered head and touched her gloves with twitching lips. "To-morrow?" "Certainly." She said, wistfully: "May I trust in you?" "Yes. Tell me that you trust me." "I trust you," she said; and laid the pistol in his hands. His face altered subtly. "I did not mean in that way," he said. "How could I trust you more?" "With--yourself." "That is a--lesser trust," she said faintly. "It is for you that I have been afraid." He saw the colour deepen in her cheeks, looked, bit his lip in silence. "To-morrow?" she said under her breath. "Yes." "Good-bye till then." "Good-bye." _ |
||