the unbearable bassington-第33节

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knew　what　had　happened。



〃I　wish　I　could　say　something；　I　can't。〃　　Lady　Caroline　spoke　in　a　

harsh；　grunting　voice　that　few　people　had　ever　heard　her　use。



Francesca　crossed　the　Mall　and　the　carriage　drove　on。



〃Heaven　help　that　poor　woman；〃　said　Lady　Caroline；　which　was；　for　

her；　startlingly　like　a　prayer。



As　Francesca　entered　the　hall　she　gave　a　quick　look　at　the　table；　

several　packages；　evidently　an　early　batch　of　Christmas　presents；　

were　there；　and　two　or　three　letters。　　On　a　salver　by　itself　was　

the　cablegram　for　which　she　had　waited。　　A　maid；　who　had　evidently　

been　on　the　lookout　for　her；　brought　her　the　salver。　　The　servants　

were　well　aware　of　the　dreadful　thing　that　was　happening；　and　there　

was　pity　on　the　girl's　face　and　in　her　voice。



〃This　came　for　you　ten　minutes　ago；　ma'am；　and　Mr。　Greech　has　been　

here；　ma'am；　with　another　gentleman；　and　was　sorry　you　weren't　at　

home。　　Mr。　Greech　said　he　would　call　again　in　about　half…an…hour。〃



Francesca　carried　the　cablegram　unopened　into　the　drawing…room　and　

sat　down　for　a　moment　to　think。　　There　was　no　need　to　read　it　yet；　

for　she　knew　what　she　would　find　written　there。　　For　a　few　pitiful　

moments　Comus　would　seem　less　hopelessly　lost　to　her　if　she　put　off　

the　reading　of　that　last　terrible　message。　　She　rose　and　crossed　

over　to　the　windows　and　pulled　down　the　blinds；　shutting　out　the　

waning　December　day；　and　then　reseated　herself。　　Perhaps　in　the　

shadowy　half…light　her　boy　would　come　and　sit　with　her　again　for　

awhile　and　let　her　look　her　last　upon　his　loved　face；　she　could　

never　touch　him　again　or　hear　his　laughing；　petulant　voice；　but　

surely　she　might　look　on　her　dead。　　And　her　starving　eyes　saw　only　

the　hateful　soulless　things　of　bronze　and　silver　and　porcelain　that　

she　had　set　up　and　worshipped　as　gods；　look　where　she　would　they　

were　there　around　her；　the　cold　ruling　deities　of　the　home　that　

held　no　place　for　her　dead　boy。　　He　had　moved　in　and　out　among　

them；　the　warm；　living；　breathing　thing　that　had　been　hers　to　love；　

and　she　had　turned　her　eyes　from　that　youthful　comely　figure　to　

adore　a　few　feet　of　painted　canvas；　a　musty　relic　of　a　long　

departed　craftsman。　　And　now　he　was　gone　from　her　sight；　from　her　

touch；　from　her　hearing　for　ever；　without　even　a　thought　to　flash　

between　them　for　all　the　dreary　years　that　she　should　live；　and　

these　things　of　canvas　and　pigment　and　wrought　metal　would　stay　

with　her。　　They　were　her　soul。　　And　what　shall　it　profit　a　man　if　

he　save　his　soul　and　slay　his　heart　in　torment？



On　a　small　table　by　her　side　was　Mervyn　Quentock's　portrait　of　her　

…　the　prophetic　symbol　of　her　tragedy；　the　rich　dead　harvest　of　

unreal　things　that　had　never　known　life；　and　the　bleak　thrall　of　

black　unending　Winter；　a　Winter　in　which　things　died　and　knew　no　

re…awakening。



Francesca　turned　to　the　small　envelope　lying　in　her　lap；　very　

slowly　she　opened　it　and　read　the　short　message。　　Then　she　sat　numb　

and　silent　for　a　long；　long　time；　or　perhaps　only　for　minutes。　　The　

voice　of　Henry　Greech　in　the　hall；　enquiring　for　her；　called　her　to　

herself。　Hurriedly　she　crushed　the　piece　of　paper　out　of　sight；　he　

would　have　to　be　told；　of　course；　but　just　yet　her　pain　seemed　too　

dreadful　to　be　laid　bare。　　〃Comus　is　dead〃　was　a　sentence　beyond　

her　power　to　speak。



〃I　have　bad　news　for　you；　Francesca；　I'm　sorry　to　say；〃　Henry　

announced。　　Had　he　heard；　too？



〃Henneberg　has　been　here　and　looked　at　the　picture；〃　he　continued；　

seating　himself　by　her　side；　〃and　though　he　admired　it　immensely　as　

a　work　of　art　he　gave　me　a　disagreeable　surprise　by　assuring　me　

that　it's　not　a　genuine　Van　der　Meulen。　　It's　a　splendid　copy；　but　

still；　unfortunately；　only　a　copy。〃



Henry　paused　and　glanced　at　his　sister　to　see　how　she　had　taken　the　

unwelcome　announcement。　　Even　in　the　dim　light　he　caught　some　of　

the　anguish　in　her　eyes。



〃My　dear　Francesca；〃　he　said　soothingly；　laying　his　hand　

affectionately　on　her　arm；　〃I　know　that　this　must　be　a　great　

disappointment　to　you；　you've　always　set　such　store　by　this　

picture；　but　you　mustn't　take　it　too　much　to　heart。　　These　

disagreeable　discoveries　come　at　times　to　most　picture　fanciers　and　

owners。　　Why；　about　twenty　per　cent。　of　the　alleged　Old　Masters　in　

the　Louvre　are　supposed　to　be　wrongly　attributed。　　And　there　are　

heaps　of　similar　cases　in　this　country。　　Lady　Dovecourt　was　telling　

me　the　other　day　that　they　simply　daren't　have　an　expert　in　to　

examine　the　Van　Dykes　at　Columbey　for　fear　of　unwelcome　

disclosures。　　And　besides；　your　picture　is　such　an　excellent　copy　

that　it's　by　no　means　without　a　value　of　its　own。　　You　must　get　

over　the　disappointment　you　naturally　feel；　and　take　a　

philosophical　view　of　the　matter。　。　。　〃



Francesca　sat　in　stricken　silence；　crushing　the　folded　morsel　of　

paper　tightly　in　her　hand　and　wondering　if　the　thin；　cheerful　voice　

with　its　pitiless；　ghastly　mockery　of　consolation　would　never　stop。









End