The Second Christmas Megapack. Гарриет Бичер-Стоу
calculations.
Flashing his lamp for a last survey a letter propped against a lamp on the table arrested his eye. He dropped to the floor and crawled into a corner where he turned his light upon the note and read, not without difficulty, the following:
Seven o’clock.
Dear Roger
I’ve just got back from father’s where I spent the last three hours talking over our troubles. I didn’t tell you I was going, knowing you would think it foolish, but it seemed best, dear, and I hope you’ll forgive me. And now I find that you’ve gone off with Billie, and I’m guessing that you’ve gone to your father’s to see what you can do. I’m taking the trolley into New Haven to ask Mamie Palmer about that cook she thought we might get, and if possible I’ll bring the girl home with me. Don’t trouble about me, as I’ll be perfectly safe, and, as you know, I rather enjoy prowling around at night. You’ll certainly get back before I do, but if I’m not here don’t be alarmed.
We are so happy in each other, dear, and if only we could get our foolish fathers to stop hating each other, how beautiful everything would be! And we could all have such a merry, merry Christmas!
MURIEL
The Hopper’s acquaintance with the epistolary art was the slightest, but even to a mind unfamiliar with this branch of literature it was plain that Shaver’s parents were involved in some difficulty that was attributable, not to any lessening of affection between them, but to a row of some sort between their respective fathers. Muriel, running into the house to write her note, had failed to see Roger’s letter in the studio, and this was very fortunate for The Hopper; but Muriel might return at any moment, and it would add nothing to the plausibility of the story he meant to tell if he were found in the house.
VI.
Anxious and dejected at the increasing difficulties that confronted him, he was moving toward the door when a light, buoyant step sounded on the veranda. In a moment the living-room lights were switched on from the entry and a woman called out sharply:
“Stop right where you are or I’ll shoot!”
The authoritative voice of the speaker, the quickness with which she had grasped the situation and leveled her revolver, brought The Hopper to an abrupt halt in the middle of the room, where he fell with a discordant crash across the keyboard of a grand piano. He turned, cowering, to confront a tall, young woman in a long ulster who advanced toward him slowly, but with every mark of determination upon her face. The Hopper stared beyond the gun, held in a very steady hand, into a pair of fearless dark eyes. In all his experiences he had never been cornered by a woman, and he stood gaping at his captor in astonishment. She was a very pretty young woman, with cheeks that still had the curve of youth, but with a chin that spoke for much firmness of character. A fur toque perched a little to one side gave her a boyish air.
This undoubtedly was Shaver’s mother who had caught him prowling in her house, and all The Hopper’s plans for explaining her son’s disappearance and returning him in a manner to win praise and gratitude went glimmering. There was nothing in the appearance of this Muriel to encourage a hope that she was either embarrassed or alarmed by his presence. He had been captured many times, but the trick had never been turned by any one so cool as this young woman. She seemed to be pondering with the greatest calmness what disposition she should make of him. In the intentness of her thought the revolver wavered for an instant, and The Hopper, without taking his eyes from her, made a cat-like spring that brought him to the window he had raised against just such an emergency.
“None of that!” she cried, walking slowly toward him without lowering the pistol. “If you attempt to jump from that window I’ll shoot! But it’s cold in here and you may lower it.”
The Hopper, weighing the chances, decided that the odds were heavily against escape, and lowered the window.
“Now,” said Muriel, “step into that corner and keep your hands up where I can watch them.”
The Hopper obeyed her instructions strictly. There was a telephone on the table near her and he expected her to summon help; but to his surprise she calmly seated herself, resting her right elbow on the arm of the chair, her head slightly tilted to one side, as she inspected him with greater attention along the blueblack barrel of her automatic. Unless he made a dash for liberty this extraordinary woman would, at her leisure, turn him over to the police as a housebreaker and his peaceful life as a chicken farmer would be at an end. Her prolonged silence troubled The Hopper. He had not been more nervous when waiting for the report of the juries which at times had passed upon his conduct, or for judges to fix his term of imprisonment.
“Yes’m,” he muttered, with a view to ending a silence that had become intolerable.
Her eyes danced to the accompaniment of her thoughts, but in no way did she betray the slightest perturbation.
“I ain’t done nothin’; hones’ to God, I ain’t!” he protested brokenly.
“I saw you through the window when you entered this room and I was watching while you read that note,” said his captor. “I thought it funny that you should do that instead of packing up the silver. Do you mind telling me just why you read that note?”
“Well, miss, I jes’ thought it kind o’ funny there wuzn’t nobody round an’ the letter was layin’ there all open, an’ I didn’t see no harm in lookin’.”
“It was awfully clever of you to crawl into the corner so nobody could see your light from the windows,” she said with a tinge of admiration. “I suppose you thought you might find out how long the people of the house were likely to be gone and how much time you could spend here. Was that it?”
“I reckon ut wuz some thin’ like that,” he agreed.
This was received with the noncommittal “Um” of a person whose thoughts are elsewhere. Then, as though she were eliciting from an artist or man of letters a frank opinion as to his own ideas of his attainments and professional standing, she asked, with a meditative air that puzzled him as much as her question:
“Just how good a burglar are you? Can you do a job neatly and safely?”
The Hopper, staggered by her inquiry and overcome by modesty, shrugged his shoulders and twisted about uncomfortably.
“I reckon as how you’ve pinched me I ain’t much good,” he replied, and was rewarded with a smile followed by a light little laugh. He was beginning to feel pleased that she manifested no fear of him. In fact, he had decided that Shaver’s mother was the most remarkable woman he had ever encountered, and by all odds the handsomest. He began to take heart. Perhaps after all he might hit upon some way of restoring Shaver to his proper place in the house of Talbot without making himself liable to a long term for kidnapping.
“If you’re really a successful burglar—one who doesn’t just poke abound in empty houses as you were doing here, but clever and brave enough to break into houses where people are living and steal things without making a mess of it; and if you can play fair about it—then I think—I think—maybe—we can come to terms!”
“Yes’m!” faltered The Hopper, beginning to wonder if Mary and Humpy had been right in saying that he had lost his mind. He was so astonished that his arms wavered, but she was instantly on her feet and the little automatic was again on a level with his eyes.
“Excuse me, miss, I didn’t mean to drop ’em. I weren’t goin’ to do nothin’. Hones’ I wuzn’t!” he pleaded with real contrition. “It jes’ seemed kind o’ funny what ye said.”
He grinned sheepishly. If she knew that her Billie, alias Shaver, was not with her husband at his father’s house, she would not be dallying in this fashion. And if the young father, who painted pictures, and left notes in his studio in a blind faith that his wife would find them—if that trusting soul knew that Billie was asleep in a house all of whose inmates had done penance behind prison bars, he would very quickly become a man of action. The Hopper had never heard of such careless parenthood! These people were children! His heart warmed