The Mystery of Murray Davenport | Page 9

and hard to please, And variable as the shade By the light quivering aspen made.'
I've sometimes had reason to recall those lines." Mr. Larcher sighed at certain memories of Miss Hill's variableness. "But then, you know,--
'When pain and anguish wring the brow, A ministering angel them.'"
"I can't speak in regard to pain and anguish," said Davenport. "I've experienced both, of course, but not so as to learn their effect on women. But suppose, if you can, a woman who should look kindly on an undeserving, but not ill-meaning, individual like myself. Suppose that, after a time, she happened to hear of the reputation of bad luck that clung to him. What would she do then?"
"Undertake to be his mascot, I suppose, and neutralize the evil influence," replied Larcher, laughingly.
"Well, if I were to predict on my own experience, I should say she would take flight as fast as she could, to avoid falling under the evil influence herself. The man would never hear of her again, and she would doubtless live happy ever after."
For the first time in the conversation, Davenport sighed, and the faintest cloud of bitterness showed for a moment on his face.
"And the man, perhaps, would 'bury himself in his books,'" said Larcher, looking around the room; he made show to treat the subject gaily, lest he might betray his inquisitive purpose.
"Yes, to some extent, though the business of making a bare living takes up a good deal of time. You observe the signs of various occupations here. I have amused myself a little in science, too,--you see the cabinet over there. I studied medicine once, and know a little about surgery, but I wasn't fitted--or didn't care--to follow that profession in a money-making way."
"You are exceedingly versatile."
"Little my versatility has profited me. Which reminds me of business. When are these illustrations to be ready, Mr. Larcher? And how many are wanted? I'm afraid I've been wasting your time."
In their brief talk about the task, Larcher, with the private design of better acquaintance, arranged that he should accompany the artist to certain riverside localities described in the text. Business details settled, Larcher observed that it was about dinnertime, and asked:
"Have you any engagement for dining?"
"No," said Davenport, with a faint smile at the notion.
"Then you must dine with me. I hate to eat alone."
"Thank you, I should be pleased. That is to say--it depends on where you dine."
"Wherever you like. I dine at restaurants, and I'm not faithful to any particular one."
"I prefer to dine as Addison preferred,--on one or two good things well cooked, and no more. Toiling through a ten-course _table d'h?te_ menu is really too wearisome--even to a man who is used to weariness."
"Well, I know a place--Giffen's chop-house--that will just suit you. As a friend of mine, Barry Tompkins, says, it's a place where you get an unsurpassable English mutton-chop, a perfect baked potato, a mug of delicious ale, and afterward a cup of unexceptionable coffee. He says that, when you've finished, you've dined as simply as a philosopher and better than most kings; and the whole thing comes to forty-five cents."
"I know the place, and your friend is quite right."
Davenport took up a soft felt hat and a plain stick with a curved handle. When the young men emerged from the gloomy hallway to the street, which in that part was beginning to be shabby, the street lights were already heralding the dusk. The two hastened from the region of deteriorating respectability to the grandiose quarter westward, and thence to Broadway and the clang of car gongs. The human crowd was hurrying to dinner.
"What a poem a man might write about Broadway at evening!" remarked Larcher.
Davenport replied by quoting, without much interest:
'The shadows lay along Broadway, 'Twas near the twilight tide-- And slowly there a lady fair Was walking in her pride.'
"Poe praised those lines," he added. "But it was a different Broadway that Willis wrote them about."
"Yes," said Larcher, "but in spite of the skyscrapers and the incongruities, I love the old street. Don't you?"
"I used to," said Davenport, with a listlessness that silenced Larcher, who fell into conjecture of its cause. Was it the effect of many failures? Or had it some particular source? What part in its origin had been played by the woman to whose fickleness the man had briefly alluded? And, finally, had the story behind it anything to do with Edna Hill's reasons for seeking information?
Pondering these questions, Larcher found himself at the entrance to the chosen dining-place. It was a low, old-fashioned doorway, on a level with the sidewalk, a little distance off Broadway. They were just about to enter, when they heard Davenport's name called out in a nasal, overbearing voice. A look of displeasure crossed Davenport's brow, as both young men turned around.