Then， suddenly， as he rested there， the room was filled with the strong，
sweet odour of mignonette. It came as upon a single buffet of wind with such
sureness and fragrance and emphasis that it almost seemed a living visitant. And
the man cried aloud： “What， dear?” as if he had been called， and sprang up and
faced about. The rich odour clung to him and wrapped him around. He reached out
his arms for it， all his senses for the time confused and commingled. How could
one be peremptorily called by an odour? Surely it must have been a sound. But，
was it not the sound that had touched， that had caressed him?
“She has been in this room，” he cried， and he sprang to wrest from it a
token， for he knew he would recognize the smallest thing that had belonged to
her or that she had touched. This enveloping scent of mignonette， the odour that
she had loved and made her own——whence came it?
The room had been but carelessly set in order. Scattered upon the flimsy
dresser scarf were half a dozen hairpins——those discreet， indistinguishable
friends of womankind， feminine of gender， infinite of mood and uncommunicative
of tense. These he ignored， conscious of their triumphant lack of identity.
Ransacking the drawers of the dresser he came upon a discarded， tiny， ragged
handkerchief. He pressed it to his face. It was racy and insolent with
heliotrope; he hurled it to the floor. In another drawer he found odd buttons， a
theatre programme， a pawnbroker's card， two lost marshmallows， a book on the
divination of dreams. In the last was a woman's black satin hair bow， which
halted him， poised between ice and fire. But the black satin hairbow also is
femininity's demure， impersonal， common ornament， and tells no tales.
And then he traversed the room like a hound on the scent， skimming the
walls， considering the corners of the bulging matting on his hands and knees，
rummaging mantel and tables， the curtains and hangngs， the drunken cabinet in
the corner， for a visible sign， unable to perceive that she was there beside，
around， against， within， above him， clinging to him， wooing him， calling him so
poignantly through the finer senses that even his grosser ones became cognisant
of the call. Once again he answered loudly： “Yes， dear!” and turned， wild-eyed，
to gaze on vacancy， for he could not yet discern form and colour and love and
outstretched arms in the odour of mnignonette. Oh， God! whence that odour， and
since when have odours had a voice to call? Thus he groped.
He burrowed in crevices and corners， and found corks and cigarettes. These
he passed in passive contempt. But once he found in a fold of the matting a
half-smoked cigar， and this he ground beneath his heel with a green and
trenchant oath. He sifted the room from end to end. He found dreary and ignoble
small records of many a peripatetic tenant; but of her whom he sought， and who
may have lodged there， and whose spirit seemed to hover there， he found no
trace.
And then he thought of the housekeeper.
He ran from the haunted room downstairs and to a door that showed a crack
of light. She came out to his knock. He smothered his excitement as best he
could.
“Will you tell me， madam，” he besought her， “who occupied the room I have
before I came?”
“Yes， sir. I can tell you again. 'Twas Sprowls and Mooney， as I said. Miss
B'retta Sprowls it was in the theatres， but Missis Mooney she was. My house is
well known for respectability. The marriage certificate hung， framed， on a nail
over——”
“What kind of a lady was Miss Sprowls——in looks， I mean?”
Why， black-haired， sir， short， and stout， with a comical face. They left a
week ago Tuesday.“
“And before they occupied it?”
“Why， there was a single gentleman connected with the draying business. He
left owing me a week. Before him was Missis Crowder and her two children， that
stayed four months; and back of them was old Mr. Doyle， whose sons paid for him.
He kept the room six months. That goes back a year， sir， and further I do not
remember.”
He thanked her and crept back to his room. The room was dead. The essence
that had vivified it was gone. The perfume of mignonette had departed. In its
place was the old， stale odour of mouldy house furniture， of atmosphere in
storage.
The ebbing of his hope drained his faith. He sat staring at the yellow，
singing gaslight. Soon he walked to the bed and began to tear the sheets into
strips. With the blade of his knife he drove them tightly into every crevice
around windows and door. When all was snug and taut he turned out the light，
turned the gas full on again and laid himself gratefully upon the bed.
* * * * * * *
It was Mrs. McCool's night to go with the can for beer. So she fetched it
and sat with Mrs. Purdy in one of those subterranean retreats where
house-keepers foregather and the worm dieth seldom.
“I rented out my third floor， back， this evening，” said Mrs. Purdy， across
a fine circle of foam. “A young man took it. He went up to bed two hours
ago.”
“Now， did ye， Mrs. Purdy， ma'am?” said Mrs. McCool， with intense
admiration. “You do be a wonder for rentin' rooms of that kind. And did ye tell
him， then?” she concluded in a husky whisper， laden with mystery.
“Rooms，” said Mrs. Purdy， in her furriest tones， “are furnished for to
rent. I did not tell him， Mrs. McCool.”
“'Tis right ye are， ma'am; 'tis by renting rooms we kape alive. Ye have the
rale sense for business， ma'am. There be many people will rayjict the rentin' of
a room if they be tould a suicide has been after dyin' in the bed of it.”
“As you say， we has our living to be making，” remarked Mrs. Purdy.
“Yis， ma'am; 'tis true. 'Tis just one wake ago this day I helped ye lay out
the third floor， back. A pretty slip of a colleen she was to be killin' herself
wid the gas——a swate little face she had， Mrs. Purdy， ma'am.”
“She'd a-been called handsome， as you say，” said Mrs. Purdy， assenting but
critical， “but for that mole she had a-growin' by her left eyebrow. Do fill up
your glass again， Mrs. McCool.”
发表于 2016-7-10 11:23:04