villa rubein and other stories-第56节

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sometimes　fell　asleep；　his　square；　pale　old　face　nodding　to　one　side。

He　dreamed　that　he　was　gazing　at　the　picture　over　the　fireplace；　of

an　old　statesman　with　a　high　collar；　supremely　finished　face；　and

sceptical　eyebrowsthe　picture；　smooth；　and　reticent　as　sealing…wax；

of　one　who　seemed　for　ever　exhaling　the　narrow　wisdom　of　final

judgments。　　All　round　him；　his　fellow　members　were　chattering。　　Only

he　himself；　the　old　sick　member；　was　silent。　　If　fellows　only　knew

what　it　was　like　to　sit　by　yourself　and　feel　ill　all　the　time！　　What

they　were　saying　he　had　heard　a　hundred　times。　　They　were　talking　of

investments；　of　cigars；　horses；　actresses；　machinery。　　What　was　that？

A　foreign　patent　for　cleaning　boilers？　　There　was　no　such　thing；

boilers　couldn't　be　cleaned；　any　fool　knew　that！　　If　an　Englishman

couldn't　clean　a　boiler；　no　foreigner　could　clean　one。　　He　appealed

to　the　old　statesman's　eyes。　　But　for　once　those　eyes　seemed

hesitating；　blurred；　wanting　in　finality。　　They　vanished。　　In　their

place　were　Rozsi's　little　deep…set　eyes；　with　their　wide　and　far…off

look；　and　as　he　gazed　they　seemed　to　grow　bright　as　steel；　and　to

speak　to　him。　　Slowly　the　whole　face　grew　to　be　there；　floating　on

the　dark　background　of　the　picture；　it　was　pink；　aloof；　unfathomable；

enticing；　with　its　fluffy　hair　and　quick　lips；　just　as　he　had　last

seen　it。　　〃Are　you　looking　for　something？〃　she　seemed　to　say：　〃I

could　show　you。〃



〃I　have　everything　safe　enough；〃　answered　Swithin；　and　in　his　sleep

he　groaned。



He　felt　the　touch　of　fingers　on　his　forehead。　　'I'm　dreaming；'　he

thought　in　his　dream。



She　had　vanished；　and　far　away；　from　behind　the　picture；　came　a　sound

of　footsteps。



Aloud；　in　his　sleep；　Swithin　muttered：　〃I've　missed　it。〃



Again　he　heard　the　rustling　of　those　light　footsteps；　and　close　in

his　ear　a　sound；　like　a　sob。　　He　awoke；　the　sob　was　his　own。　　Great

drops　of　perspiration　stood　on　his　forehead。　　'What　is　it？'　he

thought；　'what　have　I　lost？'　　Slowly　his　mind　travelled　over　his

investments；　he　could　not　think　of　any　single　one　that　was　unsafe。

What　was　it；　then；　that　he　had　lost？　　Struggling　on　his　pillows；　he

clutched　the　wine…glass。　　His　lips　touched　the　wine。　　'This　isn't　the

〃Heidseck〃！'　he　thought　angrily；　and　before　the　reality　of　that

displeasure　all　the　dim　vision　passed　away。　　But　as　he　bent　to　drink；

something　snapped；　and；　with　a　sigh；　Swithin　Forsyte　died　above　the

bubbles。。。。



When　James　Forsyte　came　in　again　on　his　way　home；　the　valet；

trembling　took　his　hat　and　stick。



〃How's　your　master？〃



〃My　master　is　dead；　sir！〃



〃Dead！　He　can't　be！　　I　left　him　safe　an　hour　ago。



On　the　bed　Swithin's　body　was　doubled　like　a　sack；　his　hand　still

grasped　the　glass。



James　Forsyte　paused。　　〃Swithin！〃　he　said；　and　with　his　hand　to　his

ear　he　waited　for　an　answer；　but　none　came；　and　slowly　in　the　glass　a

last　bubble　rose　and　burst。



December　1900。















To



MY　SISTER



MABEL　EDITH　REYNOLDS











THE　SILENCE



I



In　a　car　of　the　Naples　express　a　mining　expert　was　diving　into　a　bag

for　papers。　　The　strong　sunlight　showed　the　fine　wrinkles　on　his

brown　face　and　the　shabbiness　of　his　short；　rough　beard。　　A　newspaper

cutting　slipped　from　his　fingers；　he　picked　it　up；　thinking：　'How　the

dickens　did　that　get　in　here？'　　It　was　from　a　colonial　print　of　three

years　back；　and　he　sat　staring；　as　if　in　that　forlorn　slip　of　yellow

paper　he　had　encountered　some　ghost　from　his　past。



These　were　the　words　he　read：　〃We　hope　that　the　setback　to

civilisation；　the　check　to　commerce　and　development；　in　this

promising　centre　of　our　colony　may　be　but　temporary；　and　that　capital

may　again　come　to　the　rescue。　　Where　one　man　was　successful；　others

should　surely　not　fail？　　We　are　convinced　that　it　only　needs。。。。〃

And　the　last　words：　〃For　what　can　be　sadder　than　to　see　the　forest

spreading　its　lengthening　shadows；　like　symbols　of　defeat；　over　the

untenanted　dwellings　of　men；　and　where　was　once　the　merry　chatter　of

human　voices；　to　pass　by　in　the　silence。。。。〃



On　an　afternoon；　thirteen　years　before；　he　had　been　in　the　city　of

London；　at　one　of　those　emporiums　where　mining　experts　perch；　before

fresh　flights；　like　sea…gulls　on　some　favourite　rock。　　A　clerk　said

to　him：　〃Mr。　Scorrier；　they　are　asking　for　you　downstairsMr。

Hemmings　of　the　New　Colliery　Company。〃



Scorrier　took　up　the　speaking　tube。　　〃Is　that　you；　Mr。　Scorrier？　　I

hope　you　are　very　well；　sir；　I　amHemmingsI　amcoming　up。〃



In　two　minutes　he　appeared；　Christopher　Hemmings；　secretary　of　the

New　Colliery　Company；　known　in　the　City…behind　his　backas　〃Down…by…

the…starn〃　Hemmings。　　He　grasped　Scorrier's　handthe　gesture　was

deferential；　yet　distinguished。　　Too　handsome；　too　capable；　too

important；　his　figure；　the　cut　of　his　iron…grey　beard；　and　his

intrusively　fine　eyes；　conveyed　a　continual　courteous　invitation　to

inspect　their　infallibilities。　　He　stood；　like　a　City　〃Atlas；〃　with

his　legs　apart；　his　coat…tails　gathered　in　his　hands；　a　whole　globe

of　financial　matters　deftly　balanced　on　his　nose。　　〃Look　at　me！〃　he

seemed　to　say。　　〃It's　heavy；　but　how　easily　I　carry　it。　　Not　the　man

to　let　it　down；　Sir　！〃



〃I　hope　I　see　you　well；　Mr。　Scorrier；〃　he　began。　　〃I　have　come　round

about　our　mine。　　There　is　a　question　of　a　fresh　field　being　opened

upbetween　ourselves；　not　before　it's　wanted。　　I　find　it　difficult

to　get　my　Board　to　take　a　comprehensive　view。　　In　short；　the　question

is：　Are　you　prepared　to　go　out　for　us；　and　report　on　it？　　The　fees

will　be　all　right。〃　　His　left　eye　closed。　　〃Things　have　been　very

erdicky；　we　are　going　to　change　our　superintendent。　　I　have　got

little　Pippinyou　know　little　Pippin？〃



Scorrier　murmured；　with　a　feeling　of　vague　resentment：　〃Oh　yes。　　He's

not　a　mining　man！〃



Hemmings　replied：　〃We　think　that　he　will　do。〃　　'Do　you？'　thought

Scorrier；　'that's　good　of　you！'



He　had　not　altogether　shaken　off　a　worship　he　had　felt　for　Pippin

〃King〃　Pippin　he　was　always　called；　when　they　had　been　boys　at　the

Camborne　Grammar…school。　　〃King〃　Pippin！　the　boy　with　the　bright

colour；　very　bright　hair；　bright；　subtle；　elusive　eyes；　broad

shoulders；　little　stoop　in　the　neck；　and　a　way　of　moving　it　quickly

like　a　bird；　the　boy　who　was　always　at　the　top　of　everything；　and

held　his　head　as　if　looking　for　something　further　to　be　the　top　of。

He　remembered　how　one　day　〃King〃　Pippin　had　said　to　him　in　his　soft

way；　〃Young　Scorrie；　I'll　do　your　sums　for　you〃；　and　in　answer　to　his

dubious；　〃Is　that　all　right？〃　had　replied；　〃Of　courseI　don't　want

you　to　get　behind　that　beast　Blake；　he's　not　a　Cornishman〃　（the　beast

Blake　was　an　Irishman　not　yet　twelve）。　　He　remembered；　too；　an

occasion　when　〃King〃　Pippin　with　two　other　boys　fought　six　louts　and

got　a　licking；　and　how　Pippin　sat　for　half　an　hour　afterwards；　all

bloody；　his　head　in　his　hands；　rocking　to　and　fro；　and　weeping　tears

of　mortification；　and　how　the　next　day　he　had　sneaked　off　by　himself；

and；　attacking　the　same　gang；　got　frightfully　mauled　a　second　time。



Thinking　of　these　things　he　answered　curtly：　〃When　shall　I　start？〃



〃Down…by…the…starn〃　Hemmings　replied　with　a　sort　of　fearful

sprightliness：　〃There's　a　good　fellow！　　I　will　send　instructions；　so

glad　to　see　you　well。〃　　Conferring　on　Scorrier　a　lookfine　to　the

verge　of　vulgarityhe　withdrew。　　Scorrier　remained；　seated；　heavy

with　insignificance　and　vague　oppression；　as　if　he　had　drunk　a

tumbler　of　sweet　port。



A　week　later；　in　company　with　Pippin；　he　was　on　board　a　liner。



The　〃King〃　Pippin　of　his　school…days　was　now　a　man　of　forty…four。　　He

awakened　in　Scorrier　the　uncertain　wonder　with　which　men　look

backward　at　their　uncomplicated　teens；　and　staggering　up　and　down　the

decks　in　the　long　Atlantic　roll；　he　would　steal　glances　at　his

companion；　as　if　he　expected　to　find　out　from　them　something　about

himself。　　Pippin　had　still　〃King〃　Pippin's　bright；　fine　hair；　and

dazzling　streaks　in　his　short　beard；　he　had　still　a　bright　colour　and

suave　voice；　and　what　there　were　of　wrinkles　suggested　only

subtleties　of　humour　and　ironic　sympathy。　　From　the　first；　and

apparently　without　negotiation；　he　had　his　seat　at　the　captain's

table；　to　which　on　the　second　day　Scorrier　too　found　himself

translated；　and　had　to　sit；　as　he　expressed　it　ruefully；　〃among　the

big…wigs。〃



During　the　voyage　only　one　incident　impressed　itself　on　Scorrier's

memory；　and　that　for　a　disconcerting　reason。　　In　the　forecastle　were

the　usual　complement　of　emigrants。　　One　evening；　leaning　across　the

rail　to　watch　them；　he　felt　a　touch　on　his　arm；　and；　looking　round；

saw　Pippin's　face　and　beard　quivering　in　the　lamplight。　　〃Poor

people！〃　he　said。　　The　idea　flashed　on　Scorrier　that　he　was　like　some

fine　wire　sound…recording　instrument。



'Suppose　he　were　to　snap！'　he　thought。　　Impelled　to　justify　this

fancy；