The Complete Works of Frances Hodgson Burnett. Frances Hodgson Burnett

Чтение книги онлайн.

СКАЧАТЬ that the first part of The Rat’s imaginings had not seemed quite like a game to him, and now—even now—he was not listening as if he were listening to the details of mere exaggerated fancies. It was as if the thing he was hearing was not wildly impossible. Marco’s knowledge of Continental countries and of methods of journeying helped him to enter into much detail and give realism to his plans.

      “Sometimes we could pretend we knew nothing but English,” he said. “Then, though The Rat could not understand, I could. I should always understand in each country. I know the cities and the places we should want to go to. I know how boys like us live, and so we should not do anything which would make the police angry or make people notice us. If any one asked questions, I would let them believe that I had met The Rat by chance, and we had made up our minds to travel together because people gave more money to a boy who sang if he was with a cripple. There was a boy who used to play the guitar in the streets of Rome, and he always had a lame girl with him, and every one knew it was for that reason. When he played, people looked at the girl and were sorry for her and gave her soldi. You remember.”

      “Yes, I remember. And what you say is true,” Loristan answered.

      Marco leaned forward across the table so that he came closer to him. The tone in which the words were said made his courage leap like a flame. To be allowed to go on with this boldness was to feel that he was being treated almost as if he were a man. If his father had wished to stop him, he could have done it with one quiet glance, without uttering a word. For some wonderful reason he did not wish him to cease talking. He was willing to hear what he had to say—he was even interested.

      “You are growing older,” he had said the night he had revealed the marvelous secret. “Silence is still the order, but you are man enough to be told more.”

      Was he man enough to be thought worthy to help Samavia in any small way—even with boyish fancies which might contain a germ of some thought which older and wiser minds might make useful? Was he being listened to because the plan, made as part of a game, was not an impossible one—if two boys who could be trusted could be found? He caught a deep breath as he went on, drawing still nearer and speaking so low that his tone was almost a whisper.

      “If the men of the Secret Party have been working and thinking for so many years—they have prepared everything. They know by this time exactly what must be done by the messengers who are to give the signal. They can tell them where to go and how to know the secret friends who must be warned. If the orders could be written and given to—to some one who has—who has learned to remember things!” He had begun to breathe so quickly that he stopped for a moment.

      Loristan looked up. He looked directly into his eyes.

      “Some one who has been TRAINED to remember things?” he said.

      “Some one who has been trained,” Marco went on, catching his breath again. “Some one who does not forget—who would never forget—never! That one, even if he were only twelve—even if he were only ten—could go and do as he was told.” Loristan put his hand on his shoulder.

      “Comrade,” he said, “you are speaking as if you were ready to go yourself.”

      Marco’s eyes looked bravely straight into his, but he said not one word.

      “Do you know what it would mean, Comrade?” his father went on. “You are right. It is not a game. And you are not thinking of it as one. But have you thought how it would be if something betrayed you—and you were set up against a wall to be SHOT?”

      Marco stood up quite straight. He tried to believe he felt the wall against his back.

      “If I were shot, I should be shot for Samavia,” he said. “And for YOU, Father.”

      Even as he was speaking, the front doorbell rang and Lazarus evidently opened it. He spoke to some one, and then they heard his footsteps approaching the back sitting-room.

      “Open the door,” said Loristan, and Marco opened it.

      “There is a boy who is a cripple here, sir,” the old soldier said. “He asked to see Master Marco.”

      “If it is The Rat,” said Loristan, “bring him in here. I wish to see him.”

      Marco went down the passage to the front door. The Rat was there, but he was not upon his platform. He was leaning upon an old pair of crutches, and Marco thought he looked wild and strange. He was white, and somehow the lines of his face seemed twisted in a new way. Marco wondered if something had frightened him, or if he felt ill.

      “Rat,” he began, “my father—”

      “I’ve come to tell you about MY father,” The Rat broke in without waiting to hear the rest, and his voice was as strange as his pale face. “I don’t know why I’ve come, but I—I just wanted to. He’s dead!”

      “Your father?” Marco stammered. “He’s—”

      “He’s dead,” The Rat answered shakily. “I told you he’d kill himself. He had another fit and he died in it. I knew he would, one of these days. I told him so. He knew he would himself. I stayed with him till he was dead—and then I got a bursting headache and I felt sick—and I thought about you.”

      Marco made a jump at him because he saw he was suddenly shaking as if he were going to fall. He was just in time, and Lazarus, who had been looking on from the back of the passage, came forward. Together they held him up.

      “I’m not going to faint,” he said weakly, “but I felt as if I was. It was a bad fit, and I had to try and hold him. I was all by myself. The people in the other attic thought he was only drunk, and they wouldn’t come in. He’s lying on the floor there, dead.”

      “Come and see my father,” Marco said. “He’ll tell us what do do. Lazarus, help him.”

      “I can get on by myself,” said The Rat. “Do you see my crutches? I did something for a pawnbroker last night, and he gave them to me for pay.”

      But though he tried to speak carelessly, he had plainly been horribly shaken and overwrought. His queer face was yellowish white still, and he was trembling a little.

      Marco led the way into the back sitting-room. In the midst of its shabby gloom and under the dim light Loristan was standing in one of his still, attentive attitudes. He was waiting for them.

      “Father, this is The Rat,” the boy began. The Rat stopped short and rested on his crutches, staring at the tall, reposeful figure with widened eyes.

      “Is that your father?” he said to Marco. And then added, with a jerky half-laugh, “He’s not much like mine, is he?”

      X

      THE RAT—AND SAMAVIA

      What The Rat thought when Loristan began to speak to him, Marco wondered. Suddenly he stood in an unknown world, and it was Loristan who made it so because its poverty and shabbiness had no power to touch him. He looked at the boy with calm and clear eyes, he asked him practical questions gently, and it was plain that he understood many things without asking questions at all. Marco thought that perhaps he had, at some time, seen drunken men die, in his life in strange places. He seemed to know the terribleness of the night through СКАЧАТЬ