The City of Masks Part 11

"G.o.d bless my soul!" said Mr. Bramble, blinking at de Bosky. Here was an unforeseen complication.

Miss Emsdale was resourceful. "I stopped in to inquire, Mr.

Bramble,--this is Mr. Bramble, isn't it?--if you have a copy of--"

"Please close the door, Trotter, there's a good fellow," interrupted Mr.

Bramble, frowning significantly at the young man.

"It is closed," said Mr. Trotter, tactlessly. He was looking intently, inquiringly into the blue eyes of Miss Emsdale.

"I closed it as I came in," chattered de Bosky.

"Oh, did you?" said Mr. Bramble. "People always leave it open. I am so in the habit of having people leave the door open that I never notice when they close it. I--ahem! Step right this way, please, Miss Ems--ahem! I think we have just the book you want."

"I am not in any haste, Mr. Bramble," said she, regarding de Bosky with pitying eyes. "Let us all go back to the stove and--and--" She hesitated, biting her lip. The poor chap undoubtedly was sensitive. They always are.

"Good!" said Mr. Bramble eagerly. "And we'll have some tea. Bless my soul, how fortunate! I always have it at five o'clock. Trotter and I were just on the point of--so glad you happened in just at the right moment, Miss Emsdale. Ahem! And you too, de Bosky. Most extraordinary.

You may leave your pipe on that shelf, Trotter. It smells dreadfully.

No, no,--I wouldn't even put it in my pocket if I were you. Er--ahem!

You have met Mr. Trotter, haven't you, Miss Emsdale?"

"You poor old b.o.o.b," said Trotter, laying his arm over Bramble's shoulder in the most affectionate way. "Isn't he a b.o.o.b, Miss Emsdale?"

"Not at all," said she severely. "He is a dear."

"Bless my soul!" murmured Mr. Bramble, doing as well as could be expected. He blessed it again before he could catch himself up.

"Sit here by the stove, Mr. de Bosky," said Miss Emsdale, a moment later. "Just as close as you can get to it."

"I have but a moment to stay," said de Bosky, a wistful look in his dark eyes.

"You'll have tea, de Bosky," said Mr. Bramble firmly. "Is the water boiling, Trotter?"

A few minutes later, warmed by the cup of tea and a second slice of toast, de Bosky turned to Trotter.

"Thanks again, my dear fellow, for speaking to your employer about my playing. This little affair tonight may be the beginning of an era of good fortune for me. I shall never forget your interest--"

"Oh, that's off," said Trotter carelessly.

"Off? You mean?" cried de Bosky.

"I'm fired, and he has gone to Atlantic City for the week-end."

"He--he isn't going to have his party in the private dining-room at,--you said it was to be a private dining-room, didn't you, with a few choice spirits--"

"He has gone to Atlantic City with a few choice spirits," said Trotter, and then stared hard at the musician's face. "Oh, by Jove! I'm sorry,"

he cried, struck by the look of dismay, almost of desperation, in de Bosky's eyes. "I didn't realize it meant so much to--"

"It is really of no consequence," said de Bosky, lifting his chin once more and straightening his back. The tea-cup rattled ominously in the saucer he was clutching with tense fingers.

"Never mind," said Mr. Bramble, antic.i.p.ating a crash and inspired by the kindliest of motives; "between us we've smashed half a dozen of them, so don't feel the least bit uncomfortable if you _do_ drop--"

"What are you talking about, Bramby?" demanded Trotter, scowling at the unfortunate bookseller. "Have some more tea, de Bosky. Hand up your cup.

Little hot water, eh?"

Mr. Bramble was perspiring. Any one with half an eye could see that it _was_ of consequence to de Bosky. The old bookseller's heart was very tender.

"Don't drink too much of it," he warned, his face suddenly beaming.

"You'll spoil your appet.i.te for dinner." To the others: "Mr. de Bosky honours my humble board with his presence this evening. The finest porterhouse steak in New York--Eh, what?"

"It is I," came a crisp voice from the bottom of the narrow stairway that led up to the living-quarters above. Monsieur Mirabeau, his whiskers neatly brushed and twisted to a point, his velvet lounging jacket adorned with a smart little boutonniere, his shoes polished till they glistened, approached the circle and, bending his gaunt frame with gallant disdain for the crick in his back, kissed the hand of the young lady. "I observed your approach, my dear Miss Emsdale. We have been expecting you for ages. Indeed, it has been the longest afternoon that any of us has ever experienced."

Mr. Bramble frowned. "Ahem!" he coughed.

"I am sorry if I have intruded," began de Bosky, starting to arise.

"Sit still," said Thomas Trotter. He glanced at Miss Emsdale. "You're not in the way, old chap."

"You mentioned a book, Miss Emsdale," murmured Mr. Bramble. "When you came in, you'll remember."

She looked searchingly into Trotter's eyes, and finding her answer there, remarked:

"Ample time for that, Mr. Bramble. Mr. de Bosky is my good friend. And as for dear M. Mirabeau,--ah, what shall I say of him?" She smiled divinely upon the grey old Frenchman.

"I commend your modesty," said M. Mirabeau. "It prevents your saying what every one knows,--that I am your adorer!"

Tom Trotter was pacing the floor. He stopped in front of her, a scowl on his handsome face.

"Now, tell us just what the infernal dog said to you," he said.

She started. "You--you have already heard something?" she cried, wonderingly.

"Ah, what did I tell you?" cried M. Mirabeau triumphantly, glancing first at Trotter and then at Bramble. "He _is_ in love with her, and this is what comes of it. He resorts to--"

"Is this magic?" she exclaimed.

"Not a bit of it," said Trotter. "We've been putting two and two together, the three of us. Begin at the beginning," he went on, encouragingly. "Don't hold back a syllable of it."

"You must promise to be governed by my advice," she warned him. "You must be careful,--oh, so very careful."

"He will be good at any rate," said Mr. Bramble, fixing the young man with a look. Trotter's face went crimson.

"Ahem!" came guardedly from M. Mirabeau. "Proceed, my dear. We are most impatient."

The old Frenchman's deductions were not far from right. Young Mr.

Smith-Parvis, unaccustomed to opposition and believing himself to be ent.i.tled to everything he set his heart on having, being by nature predatory, sustained an incredible shock when the pretty and desirable governess failed utterly to come up to expectations. Not only did she fail to come up to expectations but she took the wind completely out of his sails, leaving him adrift in a void so strange and unusual that it was hours before he got his bearings again. Some of the things she said to him got under a skin so thick and unsensitive that nothing had ever been sharp enough to penetrate it before.

The smartting of the pain from these surprising jabs at his egotism put him into a state of fury that knew no bounds. He went so far as to accuse her of deliberately trying to be a lady,--a most ridiculous a.s.sumption that didn't fool him for an instant. She couldn't come that sort of thing with him! The sooner she got off her high-horse the better off she'd be. It had never entered the head of Smith-Parvis Jr. that a wage-earning woman could be a lady, any more than a wage-earning man could be a gentleman.

The spirited encounter took place on the afternoon following her midnight adventure with Thomas Trotter. Stuyvesant lay in wait for her when she went out at five o'clock for her daily walk in the Park.