The White Peacock. D. H. Lawrence

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СКАЧАТЬ to look—but I must. It was the man I had seen in the woods—with the puffiness gone from his face. I felt the great wild pity, and a sense of terror, and a sense of horror, and a sense of awful littleness and loneliness among a great empty space. I felt beyond myself as if I were a mere fleck drifting unconsciously through the dark. Then I felt my mother's arm round my shoulders, and she cried pitifully, "Oh, my son, my son!"

      I shivered, and came back to myself. There were no tears in my mother's face, only a great pleading. "Never mind, mother—never mind," I said incoherently.

      She rose and covered the face again, and went round to the old lady, and held her still, and stayed her little wailings. The woman wiped from her cheeks the few tears of old age, and pushed her grey hair smooth under the velvet network.

      "Where are all his things?" asked mother.

      "Eh?" said the old lady, lifting up her ear.

      "Are all his things here?" repeated mother in a louder tone.

      "Here?"—the woman waved her hand round the room. It contained the great mahogany bedstead naked of hangings, a desk, and an oak chest, and two or three mahogany chairs. "I couldn't get him upstairs; he's only been here about a three week."

      "Where's the key to the desk?" said my mother loudly in the woman's ear.

      "Yes," she replied—"it's his desk." She looked at us, perplexed and doubtful, fearing she had misunderstood us. This was dreadful.

      "Key!" I shouted. "Where is the key?"

      Her old face was full of trouble as she shook her head. I took it that she did not know.

      "Where are his clothes? Clothes" I repeated pointing to my coat. She understood, and muttered, "I'll fetch 'em ye."

      We should have followed her as she hurried upstairs through a door near the head of the bed, had we not heard a heavy footstep in the kitchen, and a voice saying: "Is the old lady going to drink with the Devil? Hullo, Mrs. May, come and drink with me!" We heard the tinkle of the liquor poured into a glass, and almost immediately the light tap of the empty tumbler on the table.

      "I'll see what the old girl's up to," he said, and the heavy tread came towards us. Like me, he stumbled at the little step, but escaped collision with the table.

      "Damn that fool's step," he said heartily. It was the doctor—for he kept his hat on his head, and did not hesitate to stroll about the house. He was a big, burly, red-faced man.

      "I beg your pardon," he said, observing my mother. My mother bowed.

      "Mrs. Beardsall?" he asked, taking off his hat.

      My mother bowed.

      "I posted a letter to you. You are a relative of his—of poor old Carlin's?"—he nodded sideways towards the bed.

      "The nearest," said my mother.

      "Poor fellow—he was a bit stranded. Comes of being a bachelor, Ma'am."

      "I was very much surprised to hear from him," said my mother.

      "Yes, I guess he's not been much of a one for writing to his friends. He's had a bad time lately. You have to pay some time or other. We bring them on ourselves—silly devils as we are.—I beg your pardon."

      There was a moment of silence, during which the doctor sighed, and then began to whistle softly.

      "Well—we might be more comfortable if we had the blind up," he said, letting daylight in among the glimmer of the tapers as he spoke.

      "At any rate," he said, "you won't have any trouble settling up—no debts or anything of that. I believe there's a bit to leave—so it's not so bad. Poor devil—he was very down at the last; but we have to pay at one end or the other. What on earth is the old girl after?" he asked, looking up at the raftered ceiling, which was rumbling and thundering with the old lady's violent rummaging.

      "We wanted the key of his desk," said my mother.

      "Oh—I can find you that—and the will. He told me where they were, and to give them you when you came. He seemed to think a lot of you. Perhaps he might ha' done better for himself——"

      Here we heard the heavy tread of the old lady coming downstairs. The doctor went to the foot of the stairs.

      "Hello, now—be careful!" he bawled. The poor old woman did as he expected, and trod on the braces of the trousers she was trailing, and came crashing into his arms. He set her tenderly down, saying, "Not hurt, are you?—no!" and he smiled at her and shook his head.

      "Eh, doctor—Eh, doctor—bless ye, I'm thankful ye've come. Ye'll see to 'em now, will ye?"

      "Yes—" he nodded in his bluff, winning way, and hurrying into the kitchen, he mixed her a glass of whisky, and brought one for himself, saying to her, "There you are—'twas a nasty shaking for you."

      The poor old woman sat in a chair by the open door of the staircase, the pile of clothing tumbled about her feet. She looked round pitifully at us and at the daylight struggling among the candle light, making a ghostly gleam on the bed where the rigid figure lay unmoved; her hand trembled so that she could scarcely hold her glass.

      The doctor gave us the keys, and we rifled the desk and the drawers, sorting out all the papers. The doctor sat sipping and talking to us all the time.

      "Yes," he said, "he's only been here about two years. Felt himself beginning to break up then, I think. He'd been a long time abroad; they always called him Frenchy." The doctor sipped and reflected, and sipped again, "Ay—he'd run the rig in his day—used to dream dreadfully. Good thing the old woman was so deaf. Awful, when a man gives himself away in his sleep; played the deuce with him, knowing it." Sip, sip, sip—and more reflections—and another glass to be mixed.

      "But he was a jolly decent fellow—generous, open-handed. The folks didn't like him, because they couldn't get to the bottom of him; they always hate a thing they can't fathom. He was close, there's no mistake—save when he was asleep sometimes." The doctor looked at his glass and sighed.

      "However—we shall miss him—shan't we, Mrs. May?" he bawled suddenly, startling us, making us glance at the bed.

      He lit his pipe and puffed voluminously in order to obscure the attraction of his glass. Meanwhile we examined the papers. There were very few letters—one or two addressed to Paris. There were many bills, and receipts, and notes—business, all business.

      There was hardly a trace of sentiment among all the litter. My mother sorted out such papers as she considered valuable; the others, letters and missives which she glanced at cursorily and put aside, she took into the kitchen and burned. She seemed afraid to find out too much.

      The doctor continued to colour his tobacco smoke with a few pensive words.

      "Ay," he said, "there are two ways. You can burn your lamp with a big draught, and it'll flare away, till the oil's gone, then it'll stink and smoke itself out. Or you can keep it trim on the kitchen table, dirty your fingers occasionally trimming it up, and it'll last a long time, and sink out mildly." Here he turned to his glass, and finding it empty, was awakened to reality.

      "Anything I can do, Madam?" he asked.

      "No, СКАЧАТЬ