The Definite Object. Jeffery Farnol

"Fer me? Land sakes, Mr. Geoffrey, I—I—" Here, very abruptly, she turned about and vanished into the kitchen.

      Mr. Ravenslee, lounging upon his white bed, was taking languid stock of his purchases when Mrs. Trapes suddenly reappeared, clutching a toasting fork.

      "Mr. Geoffrey," she said, glaring still, "them candies must ha' cost you a sight o' money?"

      "True, certain monies were expended, Mrs. Trapes."

      "They must ha' cost you well nigh a dollar-fifty, I reckon?"

      "They did!" nodded Mr. Ravenslee, smiling.

      "My land!" exclaimed Mrs. Trapes, and vanished again.

      Mr. Ravenslee was sighing over a hideously striped shirt when Mrs. Trapes was back again, flourishing a very large tablespoon.

      "Mr. Geoffrey," said she, "it's nigh forty years since any one bought me a box o' chocolates! An' now they look so cute all done up in them gold an' silver wrappings as I don't wanter eat 'em—seems a sin, it do. But—Mr. Geoffrey I—I'd like to—thank ye—" and lo, she was gone again!

      Mr. Ravenslee had just pitched the striped shirt out of the window when behold, Mrs. Trapes was back yet once more, this time grasping a much battered but more bepolished dish cover.

      "Mr. Geoffrey," said she, "I ain't good at thankin' folks, no, I ain't much on gratitood—never having had much to gratify over—but them candies is goin' to be consoomed slow an' reverent and in a proper sperrit o' gratitood. And now if you're ready to eat your supper, your supper's a-waitin' to be ate!"

      So saying, she led the way into the parlour, where upon a snowy cloth, in a dish tastefully garnished with fried tomatoes, the English mutton chop reposed, making the very most of itself; the which Mr. Ravenslee forthwith proceeded to attack with surprising appetite and gusto.

      "Is it tender?" enquired Mrs. Trapes anxiously. "Heaven pity that butcher if it ain't! Is it tasty, kind of?"

      "It's delicious," nodded her lodger. "Really, Hell's Kitchen seems to suit me; I eat and sleep like a new man!"

      "So you ain't lived here long, Mr. Geoffrey?" queried Mrs. Trapes, eagle-eyed.

      "Not long enough to—er—sigh for pastures new. Don't go, Mrs. Trapes, I love to hear folks talk; sit down and tell me tales of dead kings and—er—I mean, converse of our neighbours, will you?"

      "I will so, an' thank ye kindly, Mr. Geoffrey, if you don't mind me sucking a occasional candy?"

      "Pray do, Mrs. Trapes," he said heartily; whereupon, having fetched her chocolates, Mrs. Trapes ensconced herself in the easy chair and opening the box, viewed its contents with glistening eyes.

      "You're an Englishman, ain't you?" she enquired after a while, munching luxuriously.

      "No, but my mother was born in England."

      "You don't say!" exclaimed Mrs. Trapes. "So was I—born in the Old Kent Road, Mr. Geoffrey. I came over to N' York thirty long years ago as cook general to Hermy Chesterton's ma. When she went and married again, I left her an' got married myself to Trapes—a foreman, Mr. Geoffrey, with a noble 'eart as 'ad wooed me long!" Here Mrs. Trapes opened the candy box again and, after long and careful deliberation, selected a chocolate with gentle, toil-worn fingers, and putting it in her mouth, sighed her approbation. "They sure are good!" she murmured. "But talkin' o' Hermy Chesterton's ma," she went on after a blissful interval, "I been wondering where you came to meet that b'y Arthur?"

      "Ah, Mrs. Trapes," sighed Ravenslee, leaning back in his chair and shaking a rueful head, "you touch on gloomy matters. As the story books say, 'thereby hangs a tale'—the dismal tale of a miserable wretch whose appetite was bad, whose sleep was worse, and whose temper was worst of all—oh, a very wretched wretch indeed!"

      "My land!" exclaimed Mrs. Trapes, stopping abruptly in the act of masticating a large chocolate walnut, "so bad as that, Mr. Geoffrey?"

      "Worse!" he nodded gloomily. "It is indeed a gloomy tale, a tale dark and dismal that I love not the telling of, for, Mrs. Trapes, that more than hopeless wretch stands, or rather sits, before you!"

      "Save us!" ejaculated Mrs. Trapes, "meanin' yourself?"

      "My unworthy self!"

      "Lord!" she whispered, "what you been a-doin' of?"

      "Wasting a promising life, Mrs. Trapes!"

      "You mean," she questioned in a harsh whisper, "you mean as you've—killed some one—accidental?"

      "Oh, no, the life was mine own, Mrs. Trapes."

      "Land sakes, Mr. Geoffrey, you give me quite a turn! Y' see, sometimes folks gets theirselves killed around here—an' it's always accidental—sure!" and Mrs. Trapes nodded meaningly and went on chewing. "But say," she demanded, suddenly sharp of eye, "where does Arthur come in?"

      "Arthur comes in right here, Mrs. Trapes! In fact, Arthur broke into my—er—life just when things were at their darkest generally. Arthur found me very depressed and gloomy. Arthur taught me that life might yet have its uses. Arthur lifted me out of the Slough of Despond. Arthur brought me—to you! And behold! life is good and perchance shall be even better if—ah yes, if! So you see, my dear Mrs. Trapes, Arthur has done much for me, consequently I have much to thank Arthur for. Indeed, I look upon Arthur—"

      "Shucks!" exclaimed Mrs. Trapes, "that'll be about enough about Arthur—Arthur, indeed! You oughter know his sister!" Now at this her lodger started and glanced at her so suddenly, and with eyes so unexpectedly keen that once again she suspended mastication.

      "Now, in the name of all that's wonderful, Mrs. Trapes, why mention her?"

      "Why, because she's worth knowin'! Because she's the best, the bravest, the sweetest thing that ever went in petticoats. She's beautiful inside and out—mind, I've nursed her in these arms years ago an' I know she's—oh, well, you ought to meet Hermy!"

      "Mrs. Trapes, I have!"

      "Eh? You have? My lan'!" Mrs. Trapes bolted a caramel in her astonishment and thereafter stared at Ravenslee with watering eyes. "An' you to set there an' never tell me!" quoth she, "an' Hermy never told me—well, well! When did ye meet her? Whereabouts? How?"

      "About half an hour ago! Coming up the stairs! I carried her grip!"

      "Well!" exclaimed Mrs. Trapes, staring, "well, well!" and she continued to munch candy and to stare and say "well!" at intervals until arrested by a new thought. "That b'y!" she exclaimed. "Was Arthur with her?"

      "No," answered Ravenslee, wrinkling his brows, "I lost him on my way home."

      Mrs. Trapes sighed and shook her head.

      "The sun sure rises and sets for her in that b'y—an' him only her stepbrother at that!"

      "Her stepbrother?"

      "Yes!" nodded Mrs. Trapes emphatically. "Hermy's ma were a lady, same as Hermy is; so were her pa, I mean a gentleman, of course. But Hermy's father died, an' then her ma, poor soul, goes an' marries a good-lookin' loafer way beneath her, a man as weren't fit to black her shoes, let alone take 'em off! And Arthur's his father's child. Oh, a good enough b'y as b'ys go, but wild, now and then, and rough, like his dad."

      "I see!" nodded her hearer, thoughtfully.

      "Now me, though married ten long year, never 'ad no children, so ever since Hermy's mother died, I've tried to watch over her and help her as much as I could. She's had a mighty hard struggle, one thing and another, Mr. Geoffrey, an' now I've known her an' loved her so long it kind o' seems as if she belonged to me—almost!"

      "She looks very good and—brave!" said Mr. Ravenslee.

      "Good!" cried Mrs. Trapes, and snorted. "I tell you she's jest a angel o' light, Mr. Geoffrey. If you'd seen her, like I have, goin' from one poor little sick child to another, kissing their little hot faces, tellin' 'em stories, payin' for doctor's stuff out of