Five Tales. John GalsworthyЧитать онлайн книгу.
had called out: “Bravo, Darrant! That was a squeak! Congratulations!” And with a bitter little smile Keith thought: 'Congratulations! I!'
At the first possible moment the hurried back to the Strand, and hailing a cab, he told the man to put him down at a turning near to Borrow Street.
It was the girl who opened to his knock. Startled, clasping her hands, she looked strange to Keith in her black skirt and blouse of some soft velvety stuff the colour of faded roses. Her round, rather long throat was bare; and Keith noticed fretfully that she wore gold earrings. Her eyes, so pitch dark against her white face, and the short fair hair, which curled into her neck, seemed both to search and to plead.
“My brother?”
“He is not in, sir, yet.”
“Do you know where he is?”
“No.”
“He is living with you here now?”
“Yes.”
“Are you still as fond of him as ever, then?”
With a movement, as though she despaired of words, she clasped her hands over her heart. And he said:
“I see.”
He had the same strange feeling as on his first visit to her, and when through the chink in the curtains he had watched her kneeling—of pity mingled with some faint sexual emotion. And crossing to the fire he asked:
“May I wait for him?”
“Oh! Please! Will you sit down?”
But Keith shook his head. And with a catch in her breath, she said:
“You will not take him from me. I should die.”
He turned round on her sharply.
“I don't want him taken from you. I want to help you keep him. Are you ready to go away, at any time?”
“Yes. Oh, yes!”
“And he?”
She answered almost in a whisper:
“Yes; but there is that poor man.”
“That poor man is a graveyard thief; a hyena; a ghoul—not worth consideration.” And the rasp in his own voice surprised him.
“Ah!” she sighed. “But I am sorry for him. Perhaps he was hungry. I have been hungry—you do things then that you would not. And perhaps he has no one to love; if you have no one to love you can be very bad. I think of him often—in prison.”
Between his teeth Keith muttered: “And Laurence?”
“We do never speak of it, we are afraid.”
“He's not told you, then, about the trial?”
Her eyes dilated.
“The trial! Oh! He was strange last night. This morning, too, he got up early. Is it-is it over?”
“Yes.”
“What has come?”
“Guilty.”
For a moment Keith thought she was going to faint. She had closed her eyes, and swayed so that he took a step, and put his hands on her arms.
“Listen!” he said. “Help me; don't let Laurence out of your sight. We must have time. I must see what they intend to do. They can't be going to hang this man. I must have time, I tell you. You must prevent his giving himself up.”
She stood, staring in his face, while he still held her arms, gripping into her soft flesh through the velvety sleeves.
“Do you understand?”
“Yes-but if he has already!”
Keith felt the shiver which ran through her. And the thought rushed into his mind: 'My God! Suppose the police come round while I'm here!' If Larry had indeed gone to them! If that Policeman who had seen him here the night after the murder should find him here again just after the verdict! He said almost fiercely:
“Can I trust you not to let Larry out of your sight? Quick! Answer!”
Clasping her hands to her breast, she answered humbly:
“I will try.”
“If he hasn't already done this, watch him like a lynx! Don't let him go out without you. I'll come to-morrow morning early. You're a Catholic, aren't you? Swear to me that you won't let him do anything till he's seen me again.”
She did not answer, looking past him at the door; and Keith heard a key in the latch. There was Laurence himself, holding in his hand a great bunch of pink lilies and white narcissi. His face was pale and haggard. He said quietly:
“Hallo, Keith!”
The girl's eyes were fastened on Larry's face; and Keith, looking from one to the other, knew that he had never had more need for wariness.
“Have you seen?” he said.
Laurence nodded. His expression, as a rule so tell-tale of his emotions, baffled Keith utterly.
“Well?”
“I've been expecting it.”
“The thing can't stand—that's certain. But I must have time to look into the report. I must have time to see what I can do. D'you understand me, Larry—I must have time.” He knew he was talking at random. The only thing was to get them away at once out of reach of confession; but he dared not say so.
“Promise me that you'll do nothing, that you won't go out even till I've seen you to-morrow morning.”
Again Laurence nodded. And Keith looked at the girl. Would she see that he did not break that promise? Her eyes were still fixed immovably on Larry's face. And with the feeling that he could get no further, Keith turned to go.
“Promise me,” he said.
Laurence answered: “I promise.”
He was smiling. Keith could make nothing of that smile, nor of the expression in the girl's eyes. And saying: “I have your promise, I rely on it!” he went.
IX
To keep from any woman who loves, knowledge of her lover's mood, is as hard as to keep music from moving the heart. But when that woman has lived in suffering, and for the first time knows the comfort of love, then let the lover try as he may to disguise his heart—no use! Yet by virtue of subtler abnegation she will often succeed in keeping it from him that she knows.
When Keith was gone the girl made no outcry, asked no questions, managed that Larry should not suspect her intuition; all that evening she acted as if she knew of nothing preparing within him, and through him, within herself.
His words, caresses, the very zest with which he helped her to prepare the feast, the flowers he had brought, the wine he made her drink, the avoidance of any word which could spoil their happiness, all—all told her. He was too inexorably gay and loving. Not for her—to whom every word and every kiss had uncannily the desperate value of a last word and kiss—not for her to deprive herself of these by any sign or gesture which might betray her prescience. Poor soul—she took all, and would have taken more, a hundredfold. She did not want to drink the wine he kept tilting into her glass, but, with the acceptance learned by women who have lived her life, she did not refuse. She had never refused him anything. So much had been required of her by the detestable, that anything required by a loved one was but an honour.
Laurence drank deeply; but he had never felt clearer, never seen things more clearly. The wine gave him