The Collected Works of W. Somerset Maugham (33 Works in One Edition). Уильям Сомерсет Моэм

Чтение книги онлайн.

СКАЧАТЬ

      After all, he could not be surprised at the family's general happiness. Six months had passed since Reggie's death, and they could not remain in perpetual mourning. It was very natural that the living should forget the dead, otherwise life would be too horrible; and it was possibly only the Larchers' nature to laugh and to talk more loudly than most people. James saw that it was a united, affectionate household, homely and kind, cursed with no particular depth of feeling; and if they had not resigned themselves to the boy's death, they were doing their best to forget that he had ever lived. It was obviously the best thing, and it would be cruel—too cruel—to expect people never to regain their cheerfulness.

      "I think I must be off," said James, after a while; "the trains run so awkwardly to Tunbridge Wells."

      They made polite efforts to detain him, but James fancied they were not sorry for him to go.

      "You must come and see us another day when we're alone," said Mrs. Larcher. "We want to have a long talk with you."

      "It's very kind of you to ask me," he replied, not committing himself.

      Mrs. Larcher accompanied him back to the drawing-room, followed by her husband.

      "I thought you might like a photograph of Reggie," she said.

      This was her first mention of the dead son, and her voice neither shook nor had in it any unwonted expression.

      "I should like it very much."

      It was on Jamie's tongue to say how fond he had been of the boy, and how he regretted his sad end; but he restrained himself, thinking if the wounds of grief were closed, it was cruel and unnecessary to reopen them.

      Mrs. Larcher found the photograph and gave it to James. Her husband stood by, saying nothing.

      "I think that's the best we have of him."

      She shook hands, and then evidently nerved herself to say something further.

      "We're very grateful to you, Captain Parsons, for what you did. And we're glad they gave you the Victoria Cross."

      "I suppose you didn't bring it to-day?" inquired Mr. Larcher.

      "I'm afraid not."

      They showed him out of the front door.

      "Mind you come and see us again. But let us know beforehand, if you possibly can."

       Shortly afterwards James received from the Larchers a golden cigarette-case, with a Victoria Cross in diamonds on one side and an inscription on the other. It was much too magnificent for use, evidently expensive, and not in very good taste.

      "I wonder whether they take that as equal in value to their son?" said James.

      Mary was rather dazzled.

      "Isn't it beautiful!" she cried, "Of course, it's too valuable to use; but it'll do to put in our drawing-room."

      "Don't you think it should be kept under a glass case?" asked James, with his grave smile.

      "It'll get so dirty if we leave it out, won't it?" replied Mary, seriously.

      "I wish there were no inscription. It won't fetch so much if we get hard-up and have to pop our jewels."

      "Oh, James," cried Mary, shocked, "you surely wouldn't do a thing like that!"

      James was pleased to have seen the Larchers. It satisfied and relieved him to know that human sorrow was not beyond human endurance: as the greatest of their gifts, the gods have vouchsafed to man a happy forgetfulness.

      In six months the boy's family were able to give parties, to laugh and jest as if they had suffered no loss at all; and the thought of this cleared his way a little. If the worst came to the worst—and that desperate step of which he had spoken seemed his only refuge—he could take it with less apprehension. Pain to those he loved was inevitable, but it would not last very long; and his death would trouble them far less than his dishonour.

      Time was pressing, and James still hesitated, hoping distractedly for some unforeseen occurrence that would at least delay the marriage. The House of Death was dark and terrible, and he could not walk rashly to its dreadful gates: something would surely happen! He wanted time to think—time to see whether there was really no escape. How horrible it was that one could know nothing for certain! He was torn and rent by his indecision.

      Major Forsyth had been put off by several duchesses, and was driven to spend a few economical weeks at Little Primpton; he announced that since Jamie's wedding was so near he would stay till it was over. Finding also that his nephew had not thought of a best man, he offered himself; he had acted as such many times—at the most genteel functions; and with a pleasant confusion of metaphor, assured James that he knew the ropes right down to the ground.

      "Three weeks to-day, my boy!" he said heartily to James one morning, on coming down to breakfast.

      "Is it?" replied James.

      "Getting excited?"

      "Wildly!"

      "Upon my word, Jamie, you're the coolest lover I've ever seen. Why, I've hardly known how to keep in some of the fellows I've been best man to."

      "I'm feeling a bit seedy to-day, Uncle William."

      James thanked his stars that ill-health was deemed sufficient excuse for all his moodiness. Mary spared him the rounds among her sick and needy, whom, notwithstanding the approaching event, she would on no account neglect. She told Uncle William he was not to worry her lover, but leave him quietly with his books; and no one interfered when he took long, solitary walks in the country. Jamie's reading now was a pretence; his brain was too confused, he was too harassed and uncertain to understand a word; and he spent his time face to face with the eternal problem, trying to see a way out, when before him was an impassable wall, still hoping blindly that something would happen, some catastrophe which should finish at once all his perplexities, and everything else besides.

      XXII

       Table of Contents

       In solitary walks James had found his only consolation. He knew even in that populous district unfrequented parts where he could wander without fear of interruption. Among the trees and the flowers, in the broad meadows, he forgot himself; and, his senses sharpened by long absence, he learnt for the first time the exquisite charm of English country. He loved the spring, with its yellow, countless buttercups, spread over the green fields like a cloth of gold, whereon might fitly walk the angels of Messer Perugino. The colours were so delicate that one could not believe it possible for paints and paint-brush to reproduce them; the atmosphere visibly surrounded things, softening their outlines. Sometimes from a hill higher than the rest James looked down at the plain, bathed in golden sunlight. The fields of corn, the fields of clover, the roads and the rivulets, formed themselves in that flood of light into an harmonious pattern, luminous and ethereal. A pleasant reverie filled his mind, unanalysable, a waking dream of half-voluptuous sensation.

      On the other side of the common, James knew a wood of tall fir trees, dark and ragged, their sombre green veiled in a silvery mist, as though, like a chill vapour, the hoar-frost СКАЧАТЬ