 | CHAPTER XXI.
GIOVANNI'S ROOM. Outpost |  |
21. CHAPTER XXI.
GIOVANNI'S ROOM.
“Ochone! an' it's weary work climbin' thim stairs,”
groaned Mrs. Ginniss, pausing upon the landing outside the
organ-grinder's door.
“An' mabbe she's wid him still. Anyway, I'll see, an'
save the coomin' down agin.”
With these words, Mrs. Ginniss gave a modest rap upon
the door, and, as it remained unanswered, a somewhat
louder one, calling at the same time, —
“Misther Jovarny! Misther Jovarny, I say! Is it out
yees still are?”
The question remaining unanswered, the good woman
waited no longer, but, climbing the remaining flight of stairs,
took the key of her room from the shelf in Teddy's closet
where it had been left, and unlocked the door.
“Cherry, darlint, be ye widin?” asked she, throwing it
open; and then, recollecting herself, added, —
“An' sure how could she be, widout she kim in trew
the day long?”
So saying, Mrs. Ginniss threw up the window, and looked
anxiously down the street in the direction where Giovanni
and Cherry had that morning disappeared.
Nothing was to be seen of them; but, just turning the
corner, came Teddy, his straw-hat pushed back upon his
forehead, and his steps slow and undecided. He was
thinking wearily, as he often thought of late, that the time
had come when he could no longer withhold his little sister
from the friends to whom she really belonged; and it was
not alone the heat of the August night that brought the
great drops of perspiration to the boy's forehead, or drew
the white line around his mouth.
“It's quicker nor that you'll stip, my b'y, whin you hear
the little sisther's not in yit, an' it's wid Jovarny she is,”
muttered Mrs. Ginniss; and, half dreading the entrance of
her son, she applied herself so diligently to making a fire in
preparation for supper, that she did not appear to notice
him.
“Good-evening, mother. Where's Cherry?” asked
Teddy, throwing himself wearily into a chair just inside the
door.
“An' is it yersilf, gossoon? An' it's the big hate is in it
intirely.”
“Yes: it's hot enough. Where's Cherry?”
“Takin' a little walk, honey. You wouldn't be shuttin'
the poor child into the house this wedder, sure?”
“Taking a walk! — what, alone!” exclaimed Teddy, sitting
upright very suddenly.
“Of coorse not. Misther Jovarny was perlite enough to
ax her; an' she wor that wild to go, I couldn't say her no.”
“I wish you had said no, mother. I hate to let her be
with that fellow, anyway. I'd have taken her to walk myself,
if I was twice as tired. How long have they been
gone?”
And Teddy, in his turn, looked anxiously out at the window,
but saw nothing more than the squalid street weltering
in the last rays of the August sun; a knot of children fighting
in the gutter over the body of a dead cat; an old-clothes
man sauntering wearily along the pavement, and a dog, with
lolling tongue and blood-shot eyes, following close at his
heels.
“How long have they been out?” asked Teddy again, as
he drew in his head, and looked full at his mother, whose
confusion struck him with a sudden dismay.
“O mother!” cried he, “what is it? There's more than
you're telling me amiss. How long is she gone?”
“Sure an' I didn't mind the clock whin they wint,” said
Mrs. Ginniss, still struggling to avoid the shock she felt
approaching.
“No, no; but you can tell! O mother! do speak out,
for the love of God! I can see how scared you are, though
you won't say it. Tell me right out all there is to tell.”
“An' it's no great there is to till, Teddy darlint; on'y
this mornin', whin I was sint for to Ann Dolan (an' she
that bad it's dead we thought she wor one spell, but for
Docther Wintworth), Jovarny kim up, an' axed might the
child go for a walk to the Gardens wid him; an' I jist puttin'
on me shawl to go out, an' not wantin' to take the little
crather in wid a sick woman, nor yet to lock the door on
her, an' lave her to fret. So I says she might go wid him;
and, whin she coom home, I tould Jovarny to open the door
wid the kay an' let her in, an' showed her the dinner on the
shelf by: an' if it's harm that's coom to her, it's harder on
me than on yersilf it'll fall; an' my heart is bruck, is bruck
intirely.”
Throwing her apron over her head, Mrs. Ginniss fell into
a chair, and gave way to the agitation and alarm she had so
of his mother, only stared at her blankly, and repeated, —
“This morning! How early this morning?”
“I wor jist afther washin' the bit breakfast-dishes,”
sobbed Mrs. Ginniss.
“Twelve hours or near!” exclaimed Teddy in dismay.
“And is it to the Gardens he said he'd take her?”
“Shure an' did he!”
“To the Public Gardens, the City Gardens, just by the
Commons?” persisted Teddy.
“Jist the Gardens wor all he said; an' towld me the
shwans that wor in it, an' the bit posies.”
“Yes: there's swans there, and posies enough,” muttered
Teddy, and, snatching the hat he had thrown upon a chair
as he entered, rushed out of the room and down the stairs at
headlong speed.
But, before he could possibly have reached the Garden, the
sun had set, all visitors were excluded, and the gate-keeper
had gone home. Nothing daunted, Teddy scaled the high
iron fence; ran rapidly through all the paths, arbors, nooks,
and corners of the place; and finally returned over the fence,
just in time to be collared by a policeman, who had been
watching him: but so sincere was the boy's tone and
but was looking for his little sister, who had been taken
away from home, and, as he feared, lost, that the guardian
of the public peace not only released him, but inquired with
some interest into the particulars of the case; saying that
he had been upon his beat nearly all day, and should have
been likely to notice any one remaining in the Garden longer
than usual.
Teddy, with anxious minuteness, described the appearance
both of the lost child and the “organ-fellow,” as he
called Giovanni; and gave the particulars of their leaving
home as his mother had given them to him. The policeman
listened attentively, but shook his head at the end.
“Haven't seen any sich,” said he. “Them I-talian
fellers is a bad lot; and I shouldn't wonder if he'd took off
the child to learn her to play a tambourine, and go round
picking up coppers for him. You'd better wait till morning;
and, if they don't turn up, her mother can go and tell the
chief about it.”
“Chief of police?” asked Teddy.
“Yes; but it ain't always he can do any thing. There
was that little gal, a year ago pretty nigh, belonged to a man
by the name of Legrange. She was lost, and they offered a
heard from. You see, there's sich a many children all
about: and come to change their clothes, and crop their
hair, it's hard to tell t'other from which,” said the policeman
meditatively; and then, suddenly resuming his official
dignity, added, “You mustn't never get over that fence again,
though: mind that, young man.”
“Thank you, sir,” said Teddy, turning away to hide the
guilty confusion of his face; and, as he hurried home, he
anxiously revolved the idea of applying to the police for aid,
should Cherry remain absent after the next morning. But
Teddy knew something of the law, and had too often seen
better hidden secrets than his own ferreted out and brought
to the light by its searching finger, to wish to trust himself
within its grasp; at any rate, just yet.
“If I find her, I'll give her up, and tell all, and never
touch the reward; but how can I go and say she's lost
again?” thought Teddy, with a sick heart. And when, running
up the stairs, his quick eyes caught sight of his mother's
face, his own turned so ghastly white, that she ran toward
him, crying, —
“An' is it dead you've found her, Teddy?”
“Worse; for she's lost; and all that comes to her is on
the door, looking hungrily about the room, as if he hoped,
in some forgotten corner, to light upon his lost treasure.
“Did Jovarny take his organ and the monkey?” asked
he suddenly.
“Sure, and he didn't; for I mind luckin' afther him
going down the street.”
“Then he'll be back!” exclaimed the boy eagerly; but
the next moment the new hope died out of his face, and he
muttered, —
“He might have taken them before. Anyway, I'll soon
see;” and, running down the stairs, Teddy applied his
sturdy shoulder and knee to the rickety door of the Italian's
room. Neither door nor lock was fitted to withstand much
force; and, with a sharp sound of rending wood and breaking
iron, they flew apart; and Teddy, stepping over the threshold,
glanced eagerly around. The room was stripped of
every thing except the poor furniture, which Teddy knew
the Italian had hired with it, and the wooden box where he
had kept his clothes. Of this the key remained in the lock;
and the boy, lifting the lid, soon discovered that a few worthless
rags were all that remained.
“He's gone, and she with him!” groaned Teddy, dropping
through the deserted room. His mother stood in the doorway.
“Och, Teddy! an' it's desaved us intirely he has, — the
black-hearted crather; an' may the cuss o' Crom'ell stick to
him day an' night, an' turn his sleep to wakin', an' his mate
to pizen, till all I wish him is wished out!”
“It's no good cursing or wishing, mother,” said Teddy
bitterly. “If there was, I'd curse myself the first; for it's
on me it had ought to fall.”
“Sorra a bit of that, thin, Teddy mavourneen; for iver
an' always it was yersilf that wor tinder an' careful uv her
that's gone; an' yersilf it wor that saved the life of her the
night she first come home to us; an' it's none but good that
iver yees did her in all the days of yer life; an', if there's
any blame to be had betwixt us, it's on yer poor owld
mother it should be laid, — her that loved the purty darlint
as if she'd been her own, an', if she's lost, will carry a
brucken heart to her grave wid mournin' afther her. O
wurra, wurra, acushla machree! Och the heavy day an'
the black night that's in it! Holy Jasus, have mercy on us!
Spake the good word for us, blissid Vargin! Saint Bridget
if iver; for black is the nade we have uv help.”
Falling upon her knees, and pulling a rosary of wooden
beads from her bosom, the Irish woman pursued her petitions,
mingling them with tears and exclamations more or
less pathetic and grotesque; while Teddy, seated upon the
Italian's empty box, his head between his hands, his elbows
upon his knees, his eyes fixed steadily upon the floor, gave
up his young heart a prey to such remorse as might fitly punish
even a heavier crime than that of which his conscience
accused him.
| CHAPTER XXI.
GIOVANNI'S ROOM. Outpost | |