the unbearable bassington-第26章

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travelling　through　interminable　forest…tracks　a　weariness　to　be　

deferred　as　long　as　possible。　　The　bearers　were　nothing　loth　to　let　

another　half…hour　or　so　slip　by；　and　Comus　dragged　a　battered　

paper…covered　novel　from　the　pocket　of　his　coat。　　It　was　a　story　

dealing　with　the　elaborately　tangled　love　affairs　of　a　surpassingly　

uninteresting　couple；　and　even　in　his　almost　bookless　state　Comus　

had　not　been　able　to　plough　his　way　through　more　than　two…thirds　of　

its　dull　length；　bound　up　with　the　cover；　however；　were　some　pages　

of　advertisement；　and　these　the　exile　scanned　with　a　hungry　

intentness　that　the　romance　itself　could　never　have　commanded。　　The　

name　of　a　shop；　of　a　street；　the　address　of　a　restaurant；　came　to　

him　as　a　bitter　reminder　of　the　world　he　had　lost；　a　world　that　ate　

and　drank　and　flirted；　gambled　and　made　merry；　a　world　that　debated　

and　intrigued　and　wire…pulled；　fought　or　compromised　political　

battles　…　and　recked　nothing　of　its　outcasts　wandering　through　

forest　paths　and　steamy　swamps　or　lying　in　the　grip　of　fever。　　

Comus　read　and　re…read　those　few　lines　of　advertisement；　just　as　he　

treasured　a　much…crumpled　programme　of　a　first…night　performance　at　

the　Straw　Exchange　Theatre；　they　seemed　to　make　a　little　more　real　

the　past　that　was　already　so　shadowy　and　so　utterly　remote。　　For　a　

moment　he　could　almost　capture　the　sensation　of　being　once　again　in　

those　haunts　that　he　loved；　then　he　looked　round　and　pushed　the　

book　wearily　from　him。　　The　steaming　heat；　the　forest；　the　rushing　

river　hemmed　him　in　on　all　sides。



The　two　boys　who　had　been　splitting　wood　ceased　from　their　labours　

and　straightened　their　backs；　suddenly　the　smaller　of　the　two　gave　

the　other　a　resounding　whack　with　a　split　lath　that　he　still　held　

in　his　hand；　and　flew　up　the　hillside　with　a　scream　of　laughter　and　

simulated　terror；　the　bigger　lad　following　in　hot　pursuit。　　Up　and　

down　the　steep　bush…grown　slope　they　raced　and　twisted　and　dodged；　

coming　sometimes　to　close　quarters　in　a　hurricane　of　squeals　and　

smacks；　rolling　over　and　over　like　fighting　kittens；　and　breaking　

away　again　to　start　fresh　provocation　and　fresh　pursuit。　　Now　and　

again　they　would　lie　for　a　time　panting　in　what　seemed　the　last　

stage　of　exhaustion；　and　then　they　would　be　off　in　another　wild　

scamper；　their　dusky　bodies　flitting　through　the　bushes；　

disappearing　and　reappearing　with　equal　suddenness。　　Presently　two　

girls　of　their　own　age；　who　had　returned　from　the　water…fetching；　

sprang　out　on　them　from　ambush；　and　the　four　joined　in　one　joyous　

gambol　that　lit　up　the　hillside　with　shrill　echoes　and　glimpses　of　

flying　limbs。　　Comus　sat　and　watched；　at　first　with　an　amused　

interest；　then　with　a　returning　flood　of　depression　and　heart…ache。　　

Those　wild　young　human　kittens　represented　the　joy　of　life；　he　was　

the　outsider；　the　lonely　alien；　watching　something　in　which　he　

could　not　join；　a　happiness　in　which　he　had　no　part　or　lot。　　He　

would　pass　presently　out　of　the　village　and　his　bearers'　feet　would　

leave　their　indentations　in　the　dust；　that　would　be　his　most　

permanent　memorial　in　this　little　oasis　of　teeming　life。　　And　that　

other　life；　in　which　he　once　moved　with　such　confident　sense　of　his　

own　necessary　participation　in　it；　how　completely　he　had　passed　out　

of　it。　　Amid　all　its　laughing　throngs；　its　card　parties　and　race…

meetings　and　country…house　gatherings；　he　was　just　a　mere　name；　

remembered　or　forgotten；　Comus　Bassington；　the　boy　who　went　away。　　

He　had　loved　himself　very　well　and　never　troubled　greatly　whether　

anyone　else　really　loved　him；　and　now　he　realised　what　he　had　made　

of　his　life。　　And　at　the　same　time　he　knew　that　if　his　chance　were　

to　come　again　he　would　throw　it　away　just　as　surely；　just　as　

perversely。　　Fate　played　with　him　with　loaded　dice；　he　would　lose　

always。



One　person　in　the　whole　world　had　cared　for　him；　for　longer　than　he　

could　remember；　cared　for　him　perhaps　more　than　he　knew；　cared　for　

him　perhaps　now。　　But　a　wall　of　ice　had　mounted　up　between　him　and　

her；　and　across　it　there　blew　that　cold…breath　that　chills　or　kills　

affection。



The　words　of　a　well…known　old　song；　the　wistful　cry　of　a　lost　

cause；　rang　with　insistent　mockery　through　his　brain：





〃Better　loved　you　canna　be；

Will　ye　ne'er　come　back　again？〃





If　it　was　love　that　was　to　bring　him　back　he　must　be　an　exile　for　

ever。　　His　epitaph　in　the　mouths　of　those　that　remembered　him　would　

be；　Comus　Bassington；　the　boy　who　never　came　back。



And　in　his　unutterable　loneliness　he　bowed　his　head　on　his　arms；　

that　he　might　not　see　the　joyous　scrambling　frolic　on　yonder　

hillside。







CHAPTER　XVII







THE　bleak　rawness　of　a　grey　December　day　held　sway　over　St。　James's　

Park；　that　sanctuary　of　lawn　and　tree　and　pool；　into　which　the　

bourgeois　innovator　has　rushed　ambitiously　time　and　again；　to　find　

that　he　must　take　the　patent　leather　from　off　his　feet；　for　the　

ground　on　which　he　stands　is　hallowed　ground。



In　the　lonely　hour　of　early　afternoon；　when　the　workers　had　gone　

back　to　their　work；　and　the　loiterers　were　scarcely　yet　gathered　

again；　Francesca　Bassington　made　her　way　restlessly　along　the　

stretches　of　gravelled　walk　that　bordered　the　ornamental　water。　　

The　overmastering　unhappiness　that　filled　her　heart　and　stifled　her　

thinking　powers　found　answering　echo　in　her　surroundings。　　There　is　

a　sorrow　that　lingers　in　old　parks　and　gardens　that　the　busy　

streets　have　no　leisure　to　keep　by　them；　the　dead　must　bury　their　

dead　in　Whitehall　or　the　Place　de　la　Concorde；　but　there　are　

quieter　spots　where　they　may　still　keep　tryst　with　the　living　and　

intrude　the　memory　of　their　bygone　selves　on　generations　that　have　

almost　forgotten　them。　　Even　in　tourist…trampled　Versailles　the　

desolation　of　a　tragedy　that　cannot　die　haunts　the　terraces　and　

fountains　like　a　bloodstain　that　will　not　wash　out；　in　the　Saxon　

Garden　at　Warsaw　there　broods　the　memory　of　long…dead　things；　

coeval　with　the　stately　trees　that　shade　its　walks；　and　with　the　

carp　that　swim　to…day　in　its　ponds　as　they　doubtless　swam　there　

when　〃Lieber　Augustin〃　was　a　living　person　and　not　as　yet　an　

immortal　couplet。　　And　St。　James's　Park；　with　its　lawns　and　walks　

and　waterfowl；　harbours　still　its　associations　with　a　bygone　order　

of　men　and　women；　whose　happiness　and　sadness　are　woven　into　its　

history；　dim　and　grey　as　they　were　once　bright　and　glowing；　like　

the　faded　pattern　worked　into　the　fabric　of　an　old　tapestry。　　It　

was　here　that　Francesca　had　made　her　way　when　the　intolerable　

inaction　of　waiting　had　driven　her　forth　from　her　home。　　She　was　

waiting　for　that　worst　news　of　all；　the　news　which　does　not　kill　

hope；　because　there　has　been　none　to　kill；　but　merely　ends　

suspense。　　An　early　message　had　said　that　Comus　was　ill；　which　

might　have　meant　much　or　little；　then　there　had　come　that　morning　a　

cablegram　which　only　meant　one　thing；　in　a　few　hours　she　would　get　

a　final　message；　of　which　this　was　the　preparatory　forerunner。　　She　

already　knew　as　much　as　that　awaited　message　would　tell　her。　　She　

knew　that　she　would　never　see　Comus　again；　and　she　knew　now　that　

she　loved　him　beyond　all　things　that　the　world　could　hold　for　her。　　

It　was　no　sudden　rush　of　pity　or　compunction　that　clouded　her　

judgment　or　gilded　her　recollection　of　him；　she　saw　him　as　he　was；　

the　beautiful；　wayward；　laughing　boy；　with　his　naughtiness；　his　

exasperating　selfishness；　his　insurmountable　folly　and　

perverseness；　his　cruelty　that　spared　not　even　himself；　and　as　he　

was；　as　he　always　had　been；　she　knew　that　he　was　the　one　thing　that　

the　Fates　had　willed　that　she　should　love。　　She　did　not　stop　to　

accuse　or　excuse　herself　for　having　sent　him　forth　to　what　was　to　

prove　his　death。　　It　was；　doubtless；　right　and　reasonable　that　he　

should　have　gone　out　there；　as　hundreds　of　other　men　went　out；　in　

pursuit　of　careers；　the　terrible　thing　was　that　he　would　never　come　

back。　　The　old　cruel　hopelessness　that　had　always　chequered　her　

pride　and　pleasure　in　his　good　looks　and　high　spirits　and　fitfully　

charming　ways　had　dealt　her　a　last　crushing　blow；　he　was　dying　

somewhere　thousands　of　miles　away　without　hope　of　recovery；　without　

a　word　of　love　to　comfort　him；　and　without　hope　or　shred　of　

consolation　she　was　waiting　to　hear　of　the　end。　　The　end；　that　last　

dreadful　piece　of　news　which　would　write　〃nevermore〃　across　his　

life　and　hers。



The　lively　bustle　in　the　streets　had　been　a　torture　that　she　could　

not　bear。　　It　wanted　but　two　days　to　Christmas　and　the　gaiety　of　

the　season；　forced　or　genuine；　rang　out　everywhere。　　Christmas　

shopping；　with　its　anxious　solicitude　or　self…centred　absorption；　

overspread　the　West　End　and　made　the　pavements　scarcely　passable　at　

certain　favoured　points。　　Proud　parents；　parcel…laden　and　

surrounded　by　escorts　of　their　young　people；　compared　notes　with　

one　another　on　the　looks　and　qualities　of　their　offspring　and　

exchanged　loud　hurried　confidences　on　the　difficulty　or　success　

which　each　had　experienced　in　getting　the　right　presents　for　one　

and　all。　　Shouted　directions　where　to　find　this　or　that　article　at　

its　best　mingled　with　salvos　of　Christmas　good　wishes。　　To　

Francesca；　making　her　way　frantically　through　the　carnival　of　

happiness　with　that　lonely　deathbed　in　her　eyes；　it　had　seemed　a　

callous　mockery　of　her　pain；　could　not　people　remember　that　there　

were　crucifixions　as　well　as　joyous　birthdays　in　the　world？　　Every　

mother　that　she　passed　happy　in　the　company　of　a　fresh…looking　

clean…limbed　schoolboy　son　sent　a　fresh　stab　at　her　heart；　and　the　

very　shops　had　their　bitter　memories。　　There　was　the　tea…shop　where　

he　and　she　had　often　taken　tea　together；　or；　in　the　days　of　their　

estrangement；　sat　with　their　separate　friends　at　separate　tables。　　

There　were　other　shops　where　extravagantly…incurred　bills　had　

furnished　material　for　those　frequently　recurring　scenes　of　

recrimination；　and　the　Colonial　outfitters；　where；　as　he　had　

phrased　it　in　whimsical　mockery；　he　had　bought　grave…clothes　for　

his　burying…alive。　　The　〃oubliette！〃　　She　remembered　the　bitter　

petulant　name　he　had　flung　at　his　destined　exile。　　There　at　least　

he　had　been　harder　on　himself　than　the　Fates　were　pleased　to　will；　

never；　as　long　as　Francesca　lived　and　had　a　brain　that　served　her；　

would　she　be　able　to　forget。　　That　narcotic　would　never　be　given　to　

her。　　Unrelenting；　unsparing　memory　would　be　with　her　always　to　

remind　her　of　those　last　days　of　tragedy。　　Already　her　mind　was　

dwelling　on　the　details　of　that　ghastly　farewell　dinner…party　and　

recalling　one　by　one　the　incidents　of　ill…omen　that　had　marked　it；　

how　they　had　sat　down　seven　to　table　and　how　one　liqueur　glass　in　

the　set　of　seven　had　been　shivered　into　fragments；　how　her　glass　

had　slipped　from　her　hand　as　s