At the second peal of the door-bell, Brother Soulsby sat up in bed.It was still pitch-dark, and the memory of the first ringing fluttered musically in his awakening consciousness as a part of some dream he had been having.
"Who the deuce can that be?" he mused aloud, in querulous resentment at the interruption.
"Put your head out of the window, and ask,"suggested his wife, drowsily.
The bell-pull scraped violently in its socket, and a third outburst of shrill reverberations clamored through the silent house.
"Whatever you do, I'd do it before he yanked the whole thing to pieces," added the wife, with more decision.
Brother Soulsby was wide awake now.He sprang to the floor, and, groping about in the obscurity, began drawing on some of his clothes.He rapped on the window during the process, to show that the house was astir, and a minute afterward made his way out of the room and down the stairs, the boards creaking under his stockinged feet as he went.
Nearly a quarter of an hour passed before he returned.
Sister Soulsby, lying in sleepy quiescence, heard vague sounds of voices at the front door, and did not feel interested enough to lift her head and listen.A noise of footsteps on the sidewalk followed, first receding from the door, then turning toward it, this second time marking the presence of more than one person.
There seemed in this the implication of a guest, and she shook off the dozing impulses which enveloped her faculties, and waited to hear more.There came up, after further muttering of male voices, the undeniable chink of coins striking against one another.Then more footsteps, the resonant slam of a carriage door out in the street, the grinding of wheels turning on the frosty road, and the racket of a vehicle and horses going off at a smart pace into the night.Somebody had come, then.
She yawned at the thought, but remained well awake, tracing idly in her mind, as various slight sounds rose from the lower floor, the different things Soulsby was probably doing.Their spare room was down there, directly underneath, but curiously enough no one seemed to enter it.The faint murmur of conversation which from time to time reached her came from the parlor instead.
At last she heard her husband's soft tread coming up the staircase, and still there had been no hint of employing the guest-chamber.What could he be about?
she wondered.
Brother Soulsby came in, bearing a small lamp in his hand, the reddish light of which, flaring upward, revealed an unlooked-for display of amusement on his thin, beardless face.He advanced to the bedside, shading the glare from her blinking eyes with his palm, and grinned.
"A thousand guesses, old lady," he said, with a dry chuckle, "and you wouldn't have a ghost of a chance.
You might guess till Hades froze over seven feet thick, and still you wouldn't hit it."She sat up in turn."Good gracious, man," she began, "you don't mean--" Here the cheerful gleam in his small eyes reassured her, and she sighed relief, then smiled confusedly.
"I half thought, just for the minute," she explained, "it might be some bounder who'd come East to try and blackmail me.But no, who is it--and what on earth have you done with him?"Brother Soulsby cackled in merriment."It's Brother Ware of Octavius, out on a little bat, all by himself.
He says he's been on the loose only two days; but it looks more like a fortnight.""OUR Brother Ware?" she regarded him with open-eyed surprise.
"Well, yes, I suppose he's OUR Brother Ware--some,"returned Soulsby, genially."He seems to think so, anyway.""But tell me about it!" she urged eagerly."What's the matter with him? How does he explain it?""Well, he explains it pretty badly, if you ask me,"said Soulsby, with a droll, joking eye and a mock-serious voice.
He seated himself on the side of the bed, facing her, and still considerately shielding her from the light of the lamp he held."But don't think I suggested any explanations.I've been a mother myself.
He's merely filled himself up to the neck with rum, in the simple, ordinary, good old-fashioned way.
That's all.What is there to explain about that?"She looked meditatively at him for a time, shaking her head.
"No, Soulsby," she said gravely, at last."This isn't any laughing matter.You may be sure something bad has happened, to set him off like that.I'm going to get up and dress right now.What time is it?""Now don't you do anything of the sort," he urged persuasively.
"It isn't five o'clock; it'll be dark for nearly an hour yet.
Just you turn over, and have another nap.He's all right.
I put him on the sofa, with the buffalo robe round him.
You'll find him there, safe and sound, when it's time for white folks to get up.You know how it breaks you up all day, not to get your full sleep.""I don't care if it makes me look as old as the everlasting hills,"she said."Can't you understand, Soulsby? The thing worries me--gets on my nerves.I couldn't close an eye, if I tried.I took a great fancy to that young man.
I told you so at the time."
Soulsby nodded, and turned down the wick of his lamp a trifle."Yes, I know you did," he remarked in placidly non-contentious tones."I can't say I saw much in him myself, but I daresay you're right." There followed a moment's silence, during which he experimented in turning the wick up again.
"But, anyway," he went on, "there isn't anything you can do.He'll sleep it off, and the longer he's left alone the better.It isn't as if we had a hired girl, who'd come down and find him there, and give the whole thing away.He's fixed up there perfectly comfortable;and when he's had his sleep out, and wakes up on his own account, he'll be feeling a heap better."The argument might have carried conviction, but on the instant the sound of footsteps came to them from the room below.
The subdued noise rose regularly, as of one pacing to and fro.
"No, Soulsby, YOU come back to bed, and get YOUR sleep out.
