The Horror Of Christmas. Джером К. Джером

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      The fire, to which he had directed the boy last night, shining brightly through the glass, made an illuminated place upon the ground. Instinctively avoiding this, and going round it, he looked in at the window. At first, he thought that there was no one there, and that the blaze was reddening only the old beams in the ceiling and the dark walls; but peering in more narrowly, he saw the object of his search coiled asleep before it on the floor. He passed quickly to the door, opened it, and went in.

      The creature lay in such a fiery heat, that, as the Chemist stooped to rouse him, it scorched his head. So soon as he was touched, the boy, not half awake, clutching his rags together with the instinct of flight upon him, half rolled and half ran into a distant corner of the room, where, heaped upon the ground, he struck his foot out to defend himself.

      “Get up!” said the Chemist. “You have not forgotten me?”

      “You let me alone!” returned the boy. “This is the woman’s house—not yours.”

      The Chemist’s steady eye controlled him somewhat, or inspired him with enough submission to be raised upon his feet, and looked at.

      “Who washed them, and put those bandages where they were bruised and cracked?” asked the Chemist, pointing to their altered state.

      “The woman did.”

      “And is it she who has made you cleaner in the face, too?”

      “Yes, the woman.”

      Redlaw asked these questions to attract his eyes towards himself, and with the same intent now held him by the chin, and threw his wild hair back, though he loathed to touch him. The boy watched his eyes keenly, as if he thought it needful to his own defence, not knowing what he might do next; and Redlaw could see well that no change came over him.

      “Where are they?” he inquired.

      “The woman’s out.”

      “I know she is. Where is the old man with the white hair, and his son?”

      “The woman’s husband, d’ye mean?” inquired the boy.

      “Ay. Where are those two?”

      “Out. Something’s the matter, somewhere. They were fetched out in a hurry, and told me to stop here.”

      “Come with me,” said the Chemist, “and I’ll give you money.”

      “Come where? and how much will you give?”

      “I’ll give you more shillings than you ever saw, and bring you back soon. Do you know your way to where you came from?”

      “You let me go,” returned the boy, suddenly twisting out of his grasp. “I’m not a-going to take you there. Let me be, or I’ll heave some fire at you!”

      He was down before it, and ready, with his savage little hand, to pluck the burning coals out.

      What the Chemist had felt, in observing the effect of his charmed influence stealing over those with whom he came in contact, was not nearly equal to the cold vague terror with which he saw this baby-monster put it at defiance. It chilled his blood to look on the immovable impenetrable thing, in the likeness of a child, with its sharp malignant face turned up to his, and its almost infant hand, ready at the bars.

      “Listen, boy!” he said. “You shall take me where you please, so that you take me where the people are very miserable or very wicked. I want to do them good, and not to harm them. You shall have money, as I have told you, and I will bring you back. Get up! Come quickly!” He made a hasty step towards the door, afraid of her returning.

      “Will you let me walk by myself, and never hold me, nor yet touch me?” said the boy, slowly withdrawing the hand with which he threatened, and beginning to get up.

      “I will!”

      “And let me go, before, behind, or anyways I like?”

      “I will!”

      “Give me some money first, then, and go.”

      The Chemist laid a few shillings, one by one, in his extended hand. To count them was beyond the boy’s knowledge, but he said “one,” every time, and avariciously looked at each as it was given, and at the donor. He had nowhere to put them, out of his hand, but in his mouth; and he put them there.

      Redlaw then wrote with his pencil on a leaf of his pocket-book, that the boy was with him; and laying it on the table, signed to him to follow. Keeping his rags together, as usual, the boy complied, and went out with his bare head and naked feet into the winter night.

      Preferring not to depart by the iron gate by which he had entered, where they were in danger of meeting her whom he so anxiously avoided, the Chemist led the way, through some of those passages among which the boy had lost himself, and by that portion of the building where he lived, to a small door of which he had the key. When they got into the street, he stopped to ask his guide—who instantly retreated from him—if he knew where they were.

      The savage thing looked here and there, and at length, СКАЧАТЬ