malvina of brittany-第21章

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slave　in　the　time　of　the　Pharaohs；　a　priest　in　Babylon；　had　clung　to
the　swaying　ladders　in　the　sack　of　Rome；　had　won　his　way　into　the
councils　when　Europe　was　a　battlefield　of　contending　tribes；　had
climbed　to　power　in　the　days　of　the　Borgias。

To　most　of　us；　I　suppose；　there　come　at　odd　moments　haunting
thoughts　of　strangely　familiar；　far…off　things；　and　one　wonders
whether　they　are　memories　or　dreams。　　We　dismiss　them　as　we　grow
older　and　the　present　with　its　crowding　interests　shuts　them　out；
but　in　youth　they　were　more　persistent。　　With　him　they　appeared　to
have　remained；　growing　in　reality。　　His　recent　existence；　closed
under　the　white　sheet　in　the　hut　behind　me　as　I　read；　was　only　one
chapter　of　the　story；　he　was　looking　forward　to　the　next。

He　wondered；　so　the　letter　ran；　whether　he　would　have　any　voice　in
choosing　it。　　In　either　event　he　was　curious　of　the　result。　　What　he
anticipated　confidently　were　new　opportunities；　wider　experience。
In　what　shape　would　these　come　to　him？

The　letter　ended　with　a　strange　request。　　It　was　that；　on　returning
to　England；　I　should　continue　to　think　of　him：　　not　of　the　dead　man
I　had　known；　the　Jewish　banker；　the　voice　familiar　to　me；　the　trick
of　speech；　of　mannerall　such　being　but　the　changing　clothesbut
of　the　man　himself；　the　soul　of　him；　that　would　seek　and　perhaps
succeed　in　revealing　itself　to　me。

A　postscript　concluded　the　letter；　to　which　at　the　time　I　attached
no　importance。　　He　had　made　a　purchase　of　the　hut　in　which　he　had
died。　　After　his　removal　it　was　to　remain　empty。

I　folded　the　letter　and　placed　it　among　other　papers；　and　passing
into　the　hut　took　a　farewell　glance　at　the　massive；　rugged　face。
The　mask　might　have　served　a　sculptor　for　the　embodiment　of
strength。　　He　gave　one　the　feeling　that　having　conquered　death　he
was　sleeping。

I　did　what　he　had　requested　of　me。　　Indeed；　I　could　not　help　it。　　I
thought　of　him　constantly。　　That　may　have　been　the　explanation　of
it。

I　was　bicycling　through　Norfolk；　and　one　afternoon；　to　escape　a
coming　thunderstorm；　I　knocked　at　the　door　of　a　lonely　cottage　on
the　outskirts　of　a　common。　　The　woman；　a　kindly　bustling　person；
asked　me　in；　and　hoping　I　would　excuse　her；　as　she　was　busy　ironing；
returned　to　her　work　in　another　room。　　I　thought　myself　alone；　and
was　standing　at　the　window　watching　the　pouring　rain。　　After　a
while；　without　knowing　why；　I　turned。　　And　then　I　saw　a　child　seated
on　a　high　chair　behind　a　table　in　a　dark　corner　of　the　room。　　A　book
of　pictures　was　open　before　it；　but　it　was　looking　at　me。　　I　could
hear　the　sound　of　the　woman　at　her　ironing　in　the　other　room。
Outside　there　was　the　steady　thrashing　of　the　rain。　　The　child　was
looking　at　me　with　large；　round　eyes　filled　with　a　terrible　pathos。
I　noticed　that　the　little　body　was　misshapen。　　It　never　moved；　it
made　no　sound；　but　I　had　the　feeling　that　out　of　those　strangely
wistful　eyes　something　was　trying　to　speak　to　me。　　Something　was
forming　itself　before　menot　visible　to　my　sight；　but　it　was　there；
in　the　room。　　It　was　the　man　I　had　last　looked　upon　as；　dying；　he
sat　beside　me　in　the　hut　below　the　Jungfrau。　　But　something　had
happened　to　him。　　Moved　by　instinct　I　went　over　to　him　and　lifted
him　out　of　his　chair；　and　with　a　sob　the　little　wizened　arms　closed
round　my　neck　and　he　clung　to　me　cryinga　pitiful；　low；　wailing
cry。

Hearing　his　cry；　the　woman　came　back。　　A　comely；　healthy…looking
woman。　　She　took　him　from　my　arms　and　comforted　him。

〃He　gets　a　bit　sorry　for　himself　at　times；〃　she　explained。　　〃At
least；　so　I　fancy。　　You　see；　he　can't　run　about　like　other　children；
or　do　anything　without　getting　pains。〃

〃Was　it　an　accident？〃　I　asked。

〃No；〃　she　answered；　〃and　his　father　as　fine　a　man　as　you　would　find
in　a　day's　march。　　Just　a　visitation　of　God；　as　they　tell　me。　　Sure
I　don't　know　why。　　There　never　was　a　better　little　lad；　and　clever；
too；　when　he's　not　in　pain。　　Draws　wonderfully。〃

The　storm　had　passed。　　He　grew　quieter　in　her　arms；　and　when　I　had
promised　to　come　again　and　bring　him　a　new　picture…book；　a　little
grateful　smile　flickered　across　the　drawn　face；　but　he　would　not
talk。

I　kept　in　touch　with　him。　　Mere　curiosity　would　have　made　me　do
that。　　He　grew　more　normal　as　the　years　went　by；　and　gradually　the
fancy　that　had　come　to　me　at　our　first　meeting　faded　farther　into
the　background。　　Sometimes；　using　the　very　language　of　the　dead
man's　letter；　I　would　talk　to　him；　wondering　if　by　any　chance　some
flash　of　memory　would　come　back　to　him；　and　once　or　twice　it　seemed
to　me　that　into　the　mild；　pathetic　eyes　there　came　a　look　that　I　had
seen　before；　but　it　passed　away；　and　indeed；　it　was　difficult　to
think　of　this　sad　little　human　oddity；　with　its　pleading
helplessness；　in　connection　with　the　strong；　swift；　conquering
spirit　that　I　had　watched　passing　away　amid　the　silence　of　the
mountains。

The　one　thing　that　brought　joy　to　him　was　his　art。　　I　cannot　help
thinking　that；　but　for　his　health；　he　would　have　made　a　name　for
himself。　　His　work　was　always　clever　and　original；　but　it　was　the
work　of　an　invalid。

〃I　shall　never　be　great；〃　he　said　to　me　once。　　〃I　have　such
wonderful　dreams；　but　when　it　comes　to　working　them　out　there　is
something　that　hampers　me。　　It　always　seems　to　me　as　if　at　the　last
moment　a　hand　was　stretched　out　that　clutched　me　by　the　feet。　　I
long　so；　but　I　have　not　the　strength。　　It　is　terrible　to　be　one　of
the　weaklings。〃

It　clung　to　me；　that　word　he　had　used。　　For　a　man　to　know　he　is
weak；　it　sounds　a　paradox；　but　a　man　must　be　strong　to　know　that。
And　dwelling　upon　this；　and　upon　his　patience　and　his　gentleness；
there　came　to　me　suddenly　remembrance　of　that　postscript；　the
significance　of　which　I　had　not　understood。

He　was　a　young　man　of　about　three…　or　four…and…twenty　at　the　time。
His　father　had　died；　and　he　was　living　in　poor　lodgings　in　the　south
of　London；　supporting　himself　and　his　mother　by　strenuous；　ill…paid
work。

〃I　want　you　to　come　with　me　for　a　few　days'　holiday；〃　I　told　him。

I　had　some　difficulty　in　getting　him　to　accept　my　help；　for　he　was
very　proud　in　his　sensitive；　apologetic　way。　　But　I　succeeded
eventually；　persuading　him　it　would　be　good　for　his　work。
Physically　the　journey　must　have　cost　him　dear；　for　he　could　never
move　his　body　without　pain；　but　the　changing　landscapes　and　the
strange　cities　more　than　repaid　him；　and　when　one　morning　I　woke　him
early　and　he　saw　for　the　first　time　the　distant　mountains　clothed　in
dawn；　there　came　a　new　light　into　his　eyes。

We　reached　the　hut　late　in　the　afternoon。　　I　had　made　my
arrangements　so　that　we　should　be　there　alone。　　Our　needs　were
simple；　and　in　various　wanderings　I　had　learnt　to　be　independent。　　I
did　not　tell　him　why　I　had　brought　him　there；　beyond　the　beauty　and
stillness　of　the　place。　　Purposely　I　left　him　much　alone　there；
making　ever…lengthening　walks　my　excuse；　and　though　he　was　always
glad　of　my　return　I　felt　that　the　desire　was　growing　upon　him　to　be
there　by　himself。

One　evening；　having　climbed　farther　than　I　had　intended；　I　lost　my
way。　　It　was　not　safe　in　that　neighbourhood　to　try　new　pathways　in
the　dark；　and　chancing　upon　a　deserted　shelter；　I　made　myself　a　bed
upon　the　straw。

I　found　him　seated　outside　the　hut　when　I　returned；　and　he　greeted
me　as　if　he　had　been　expecting　me　just　at　that　moment　and　not
before。　　He　guessed　just　what　had　happened；　he　told　me；　and　had　not
been　alarmed。　　During　the　day　I　found　him　watching　me；　and　in　the
evening；　as　we　sat　in　his　favourite　place　outside　the　hut；　he　turned
to　me。

〃You　think　it　true？〃　he　said。　　〃That　you　and　I　sat　here　years　ago
and　talked？〃

〃I　cannot　tell；〃　I　answered。　　〃I　only　know　that　he　died　here；　if
there　be　such　a　thing　as　deaththat　no　one　has　ever　lived　here
since。　　I　doubt　if　the　door　has　ever　been　opened　till　we　came。〃

〃They　have　always　been　with　me；〃　he　continued；　〃these　dreams。　　But　I
have　always　dismissed　them。　　They　seemed　so　ludicrous。　　Always　there
came　to　me　wealth；　power；　victory。　　Life　was　so　easy。〃

He　laid　his　thin　hand　on　mine。　　A　strange　new　look　came　into　his
eyesa　look　of　hope；　almost　of　joy。

〃Do　you　know　what　it　seems　to　me？〃　he　said。　　〃You　will　laugh
perhaps；　but　the　thought　has　come　to　me　up　here　that　God　has　some
fine　use　for　me。　　Success　was　making　me　feeble。　　He　has　given　me
weakness　and　failure　that　I　may　learn　strength。　　The　great　thing　is
to　be　strong。〃




SYLVIA　OF　THE　LETTERS。




Old　Ab　Herrick；　so　most　people　called　him。　　Not　that　he　was　actually
old；　the　term　was　an　expression　of　liking　rather　than　any　reflection
on　his　years。　　He　lived　in　an　old…fashioned　houseold…fashioned；
that　is；　for　New　Yorkon　the　south　side　of　West　Twentieth　Street：
once　upon　a　time；　but　that　was　long　ago；　quite　a　fashionable
quarter。　　The　house；　together　with　Mrs。　Travers；　had　been　left　him
by　a　maiden　aunt。　　An　〃apartment〃　would；　of　course；　have　been　more
suitable　to　a　bachelor　of　simple　habits；　but　the　situation　was
convenient　from　a　journalistic　point　of　view；　and　for　fifteen　years
Abner　Herrick　had　lived　and　worked　there。

Then　one　evening；　after　a　three　days'　absence；　Abner　Herrick
returned　to　West　Twentieth　Street；　bringing　with　him　a　little　girl
wrapped　up　in　a　shawl；　and　a　wooden　box　tied　with　a　piece　of　cord。
He　put　the　box　on　the　table；　and　the　young　lady；　loosening　her
shawl；　walked　to　the　window　and　sat　down　facing　the　room。

Mrs。　Travers　took　the　box　off　the　table　and　put　it　on　the　floorit
was　quite　a　little　boxand　waited。

〃This　young　lady；〃　explained　Abner　Herrick；　〃is　Miss　Ann　Kavanagh；
daughter　ofof　an　old　friend　of　mine。〃

〃Oh！〃　said　Mrs。　Travers；　and　remained　still　expectant。

〃Miss　Kavanagh；〃　continued　Abner　Herrick；　〃will　be　staying　with　us
for〃　　He　appeared　to　be　uncertain　of　the　length　of　Miss　Kavanagh's
visit。　　He　left　the　sentence　unfinished　and　took　refuge　in　more
pressing　questions。

〃What　about　the　bedroom　on　the　second　floor？　　Is　it　ready？　　Sheets
airedall　that　sort　of　thing？〃

〃It　can　be；〃　replied　Mrs。　Travers。　　The　tone　was　suggestive　of
judgment　reserved。

〃I　think；　if　you　don't　mind；　Mrs。　Travers；　that　we'd　like　to　go　to
bed　as　soon　as　possible。〃　　From　force　of　habit　Abner　S。　Herrick　in
speaking　employed　as　a　rule　the　editorial　〃we。〃　　〃We　have　been
travelling　all　day　and　we　are　very　tired。　　To…morrow　morning〃

〃I'd　like　some　supper；〃　said　Miss　Kavanagh　from　her　seat　in　the
window；　without　moving。

〃Of　course；〃　agreed　Miss　Kavanagh's　host；　with　a　feeble　pretence
that　the　subject　had　been　on　the　tip　of　his　tongue。　　As　a　matter　of
fact；　he　really　had　forgotten　all　about　it。　　〃We　might　have　it　up
here　while　the　room　is　being　got　ready。　　Perhaps　a　little〃

〃A　soft　boiled　egg　and　a　glass　of　milk；　if　you　please；　Mrs。
Travers；〃　interrupted　Miss　Kavanagh；　still　from　her　seat　at　the
window。

〃I'll　see　about　it；〃　said　Mrs。　Travers；　and　went　out；　taking　the
quite　small　box　with　her。

Such　was　the　coming　into　this　story　of　Ann　Kavanagh　at　the　age　of
eight　years；　or；　as　Miss　Kavanagh　herself　would　have　explained；　had
the　question　been　put　to　her；　eight　years　and　seven　months；　for　Ann
Kavanagh　was　a　precise　young　lady。　　She　was　not　beautifulnot　the