Mrs. Jukes received him, and he enquired2 if the plate had been locked up. Then he visited his own room and examined his bank-book to see if it were safe and untampered with; then he had a glass of ginger3 wine for his stomach's sake.
"Where are you off to now?" asked Mrs. Jukes.
"On business for the master," replied Mudd. "I've some law papers to take to an address. Lord! look at those brasses4! Haven't the girls no hands? Place going to rack and ruin if I leave it two instant minits. And look at that fender—sure you put the chain on the hall door last night?"
"Sure."
"Well, be sure you do it, for there's another Jack-the-Ripper chap goin' about the West End, I've heard, and he may be in on you if you don't."
Having frightened Mrs. Jukes into the sense of the necessity for chains as well as bolts, Mudd put on his hat, blew his nose, and departed, banging the door behind him and making sure it was shut.
There is a flower shop in the street at the end of King Charles Street. He entered, bought his bouquet5, and with it in his hand left the establishment. He was looking for a cab to hide himself in; he found none, but he met a fellow butler, Judge Ponsonby's man.
"Hello, Mr. Mudd," said the other; "going courting?"
"Mrs. Jukes asked me to take them to a female friend that's goin' to be married," said Mudd.
The bouquet was not extraordinarily6 large, but it seemed to grow larger.
Condemned7 to take an omnibus in lieu of a cab, it seemed to fill the omnibus; people looked at it and then at Mudd. It seemed to him that he was condemned to carry Simon's folly8 bare in the face of the world. Then he remembered what he had said about the recipient9 going to be married. Was that an omen1?
Mudd believed in omens10. If his elbow itched11—and it had itched yesterday—he was going to sleep in a strange bed; he never killed spiders, and he tested "strangers" in the tea-cup to see if they were male or female.
The omen was riding him now, and he got out of the omnibus and sought the street of his destination, feeling almost as though he were a fantastic bridesmaid at some nightmare wedding, with Simon in the r?le of groom12.
That Simon should select a wife in this gloomy street off Leicester Square, and in this drab-looking house at whose door he was knocking, did not occur to Mudd. What did occur to him was that some hussy living in this house had put her spell on Simon and might select him for a husband, marry him at a registrar13 office before his temporary youth had departed, and come and reign14 at Charles Street.
Mudd's dreaded15 imaginary mistress had always figured in his mind's eye as a stout16 lady—eminently a lady—who would interfere17 with his ideas of how the brasses ought to be polished, interfere with tradesmen, order Mudd about, and make herself generally a nuisance; this new imaginary horror was a "painted slut," who would bring ridicule18 and disgrace on Simon and all belonging to him.
Mudd had the fine feelings of an old maid on matters like this, backed by a fine knowledge of what elderly men are capable of in the way of folly with women.
Did not Mr. Justice Thurlow marry his cook?
He rang at the dingy19 hall door and it was opened by a dingy little girl in a print dress.
"Does Miss Rosinol live here?" asked Mudd.
"Yus."
"Can I see her?"
"Wait a minit," said the dingy one. She clattered20 up the stairs; she seemed to wear hobnailed boots to judge by the noise. A minute elapsed, and then she clattered down again.
"Come in, plaaze," said the little girl.
Mudd obeyed and followed upstairs, holding on to the shaky banister with his left hand,[Pg 148] carrying the bouquet in his right, feeling as though he were a vicious man walking upstairs in a dream; feeling no longer like Mudd.
The little girl opened a door, and there was the "painted hussy"—old Madame Rossignol sitting at a table with books spread open before her and writing.
She translated—as before said—English books into French, novels mostly.
The bouquet of last night had been broken up; there were flowers in vases and about the room; despite its shabbiness, there was an atmosphere of cleanliness and high decency21 that soothed22 the stricken soul of Mudd.
"I'm Mr. Pettigrew's man," said Mudd, "and he asked me to bring you these flowers."
"Ah, Monsieur Seemon Pattigrew," cried the old lady, her face lighting23. "Come in, monsieur. Cerise!—Cerise!—a gentilmon from Mr. Pattigrew. Will you not take a seat, monsieur?"
Mudd, handing over the flowers, sat down, and at that moment in came Cerise from the bedroom adjoining. Cerise, fresh and dainty, with wide blue eyes that took in Mudd and the flowers, that seemed to take in at the same time the whole of spring and summer.
"Poor, but decent," said Mudd to himself.
"Monsieur," said the old lady, as Cerise ran off to get a bowl to put the flowers in, "you are as welcome to us as your good kind master who saved my daughter yesterday. Will you convey to him our deepest respects and our thanks?"
"Saved her?" said Mudd.
Madame explained. Cerise, arranging the flowers, joined in; they waxed enthusiastic. Never had Mudd been so chattered24 to before. He saw the whole business and guessed how the land lay now. He felt deeply relieved. Madame inspired him with instinctive25 confidence; Cerise in her youth and innocence26 repelled27 any idea of marriage between herself and Simon. But they'd got to be warned, somehow, that Simon was off the spot. He began the warning seated there before the women and rubbing his knees gently, his eyes wandering about as though seeking inspiration from the furniture.
Mr. Pettigrew was a very good master, but he had to be took care of; his health wasn't what it might be. He was older than he looked, but lately he had had an illness that had made him suddenly grow young again, as you might say; the doctors could not make it out, but he was just like a child sometimes, as you might say.
"I said it," cut in Madame. "A boy—that is his charm."
Well, Mudd did not know anything about charms, but he was often very anxious about Mr. Pettigrew. Then, little by little, the confidence the women inspired opened his flood-gates and his suppressed emotions came out.
London was not good for Mr. Pettigrew's health—that was the truth; he ought to be got away quiet and out of excitement—doorknockers rose up before him as he said this—but he was very self-willed. It was strange a gentleman getting young again like this, and a great perplexity and trouble to an old man like him, Mudd.
"Ah, monsieur, he has been always young," said Madame; "that heart could never grow old."
Mudd shook his head.
"I've known him for forty year," said he, "and it has hit me cruel hard, his doing things he's never done before—not much; but there you are—he's different."
"I have known an old gentleman," said Madame—"Monsieur de Mirabole—he, too, changed to be quite gay and young, as though spring had come to him. He wrote me verses," laughed Madame. "Me, an old woman! I humoured him, did I not, Cerise? But I never read his verses; I could not humour him to that point."
"What happened to him?" asked Mudd gloomily.
"Oh dear, he fell in love with Cerise," said Madame. "He was very rich; he wanted to marry Cerise, did he not, Cerise?"
"Oui, maman," replied Cerise, finishing the flowers.
All this hit Mudd pleasantly. Sincere as sunshine, patently, obviously, truthful28, this pair of females were beyond suspicion on the charge of setting nets for Simon. Also, and for the first time in his life, he came to know the comfort of a female mind when in trouble. His troubles up to this had been mostly about uncleaned brasses, corked29 wine, letters forgotten to be posted. In this whirlpool of amazement30, like Poe's man in the descent of the maelstrom31, who, clinging to a barrel, found that he was being sucked down slower, Mudd, clinging now to the female saving-something—sense, clarity of outlook, goodness, call it what you will—found comfort.
He had opened his mind, the nightmare had lifted somewhat. Opening his mind to Bobby had not relieved him in the least; on the contrary, talking with Bobby, the situation had seemed more insane than ever. The two rigid32 masculine minds had followed one another, incapable33 of mutual34 help; the buoyant female
Something incapable of strict definition was now to Mudd as the supporting barrel. He clutched at the idea of old Monsieur de Mirabole, who had got young again without coming to much mischief35; he felt that Simon in falling upon these two females had fallen amongst pillows. He told them of Simon's message, that he would call upon them later in the day, and they laughed.
"He will be safe with us," said Madame; "we will not let him come to 'arm. Do not be alarmed, Monsieur Mudd, the bon Dieu will surely protect an innocent so charming, so good—so much goodness may walk alone, even amongst tigers, even amongst lions; it will come to no 'arm. We will see that he returns to the Sharing Cross 'Otel—I will talk to 'im."
Mudd departed, relieved, so great is the power of goodness, even though it shines in the persons of an impoverished36 old French lady and a girl whose innocence is her only strength.
But his relief was not to be of long duration, for on entering the hotel, as before said, he met Bobby. "He's gone," said Bobby; "given me the slip; and he has two hundred-pound bank-notes with him, to say nothing of the rest."
"Oh, Lord!" said Mudd.
"Can he have gone to see that girl? What's her address?"
"What girl?" asked Mudd.
"The girl you took the flowers to."
"I've just been," said Mudd. "No, he wasn't there. Wish he was; it's an old lady."
"Old lady!"
"And her daughter. They're French folk, poor but honest, not a scrap37 of harm in them." He explained the Rossignol affair.
"Well, there's nothing to be done but sit down and wait," said Bobby.
"It's easy to say that. Me, with my nerves near gone."
"I know; mine are nearly as bad. 'Pon my soul, it's just as if one had lost a child. Mudd, we've got to get him out of London; we've got to do it."
"Get him back first," said Mudd. "Get him back alive with all that money in his pocket. He'll be murdered before night, that's my opinion, I know London; or gaoled—and he'll give his right name."
"We'll tip the reporters if he is," said Bobby, "and keep it out of the papers. I was run in once and I know the ropes. Cheer up, Mudd, and go and have a whisky-and-soda; you want bucking38 up, and so do I."
"Bucking up!" said Mudd.
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1
omen
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| n.征兆，预兆；vt.预示 | |
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2
enquired
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| 打听( enquire的过去式和过去分词 )； 询问； 问问题； 查问 | |
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3
ginger
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| n.姜，精力，淡赤黄色；adj.淡赤黄色的；vt.使活泼，使有生气 | |
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4
brasses
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| n.黄铜( brass的名词复数 )；铜管乐器；钱；黄铜饰品（尤指马挽具上的黄铜圆片） | |
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5
bouquet
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| n.花束，酒香 | |
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6
extraordinarily
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| adv.格外地；极端地 | |
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7
condemned
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| adj. 被责难的, 被宣告有罪的 动词condemn的过去式和过去分词 | |
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8
folly
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| n.愚笨，愚蠢，蠢事，蠢行，傻话 | |
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recipient
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| a.接受的,感受性强的 n.接受者,感受者,容器 | |
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10
omens
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| n.前兆，预兆( omen的名词复数 ) | |
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11
itched
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| v.发痒( itch的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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12
groom
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| vt.给（马、狗等）梳毛，照料，使...整洁 | |
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13
registrar
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| n.记录员，登记员；(大学的)注册主任 | |
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14
reign
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| n.统治时期，统治，支配，盛行；v.占优势 | |
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15
dreaded
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| adj.令人畏惧的；害怕的v.害怕，恐惧，担心( dread的过去式和过去分词) | |
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17
interfere
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| v.(in)干涉，干预；(with)妨碍，打扰 | |
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18
ridicule
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| v.讥讽，挖苦；n.嘲弄 | |
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19
dingy
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| adj.昏暗的，肮脏的 | |
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20
clattered
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| 发出咔哒声（clatter的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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21
decency
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| n.体面，得体，合宜，正派，庄重 | |
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22
soothed
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| v.安慰( soothe的过去式和过去分词 )；抚慰；使舒服；减轻痛苦 | |
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23
lighting
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| n.照明，光线的明暗，舞台灯光 | |
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24
chattered
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| （人）喋喋不休( chatter的过去式 )； 唠叨； （牙齿）打战； （机器）震颤 | |
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25
instinctive
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| adj.(出于)本能的；直觉的；(出于)天性的 | |
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26
innocence
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| n.无罪；天真；无害 | |
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27
repelled
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| v.击退( repel的过去式和过去分词 )；使厌恶；排斥；推开 | |
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28
truthful
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| adj.真实的，说实话的，诚实的 | |
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29
corked
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| adj.带木塞气味的，塞着瓶塞的v.用瓶塞塞住( cork的过去式 ) | |
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30
amazement
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| n.惊奇，惊讶 | |
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31
maelstrom
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| n.大乱动；大漩涡 | |
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32
rigid
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| adj.严格的，死板的；刚硬的，僵硬的 | |
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33
incapable
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| adj.无能力的，不能做某事的 | |
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34
mutual
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| adj.相互的，彼此的；共同的，共有的 | |
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35
mischief
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| n.损害，伤害，危害；恶作剧，捣蛋，胡闹 | |
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36
impoverished
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| adj.穷困的，无力的，用尽了的v.使（某人）贫穷( impoverish的过去式和过去分词 )；使（某物）贫瘠或恶化 | |
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37
scrap
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| n.碎片；废料；v.废弃，报废 | |
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38
bucking
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| v.（马等）猛然弓背跃起( buck的现在分词 )；抵制；猛然震荡；马等尥起后蹄跳跃 | |
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