Rudyard Kipling : The Complete Novels and Stories. Редьярд Джозеф Киплинг

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      ‘What? Say that again.’ The man’s hand had closed on her wrist.

      ‘I rubbed it out with turps and the knife,’ faltered Bessie. ‘I thought you’d only have to do it over again. You did do it over again, didn’t you? Oh, let go of my wrist; you’re hurting me.’

      ‘Isn’t there anything left of the thing?’

      ‘N’nothing that looks like anything. I’m sorry—I didn’t know you’d take on about it; I only meant to do it in fun. You aren’t going to hit me?’

      ‘Hit you! No! Let’s think.’

      He did not relax his hold upon her wrist but stood staring at the carpet. Then he shook his head as a young steer shakes it when the lash of the stock-whip cross his nose warns him back to the path on to the shambles that he would escape. For weeks he had forced himself not to think of the Melancolia, because she was a part of his dead life. With Bessie’s return and certain new prospects that had developed themselves, the Melancolia—lovelier in his imagination than she had ever been on canvas—reappeared. By her aid he might have procured mor money wherewith to amuse Bess and to forget Maisie, as well as another taste of an almost forgotten success. Now, thanks to a vicious little housemaid’s folly, there was nothing to look for—not even the hope that he might some day take an abiding interest in the housemaid. Worst of all, he had been made to appear ridiculous in Maisie’s eyes. A woman will forgive the man who has ruined her life’s work so long as he gives her love; a man may forgive those who ruin the love of his life, but he will never forgive the destruction of his work.

      ‘Tck—tck—tck,’ said Dick between his teeth, and then laughed softly. ‘It’s an omen, Bessie, and—a good many things considered, it serves me right for doing what I have done. By Jove! that accounts for Maisie’s running away. She must have thought me perfectly mad—small blame to her! The whole picture ruined, isn’t it so? What made you do it?’

      ‘Because I was that angry. I’m not angry now—I’m awful sorry.’

      ‘I wonder.—It doesn’t matter, anyhow. I’m to blame for making the mistake.’

      ‘What mistake?’

      ‘Something you wouldn’t understand, dear. Great heavens! to think that a little piece of dirt like you could throw me out of stride!’ Dick was talking to himself as Bessie tried to shake off his grip on her wrist.

      ‘I ain’t a piece of dirt, and you shouldn’t call me so! I did it ‘cause I hated you, and I’m only sorry now ‘cause you’re—’cause you’re——’

      ‘Exactly—because I’m blind. There’s noting like tact in little things.’

      Bessie began to sob. She did not like being shackled against her will; she was afraid of the blind face and the look upon it, and was sorry too that her great revenge had only made Dick laugh.

      ‘Don’t cry,’ he said, and took her into his arms. ‘You only did what you thought right.’

      ‘I—I ain’t a little piece of dirt, and if you say that I’ll never come to you again.’

      ‘You don’t know what you’ve done to me. I’m not angry—indeed, I’m not. Be quiet for a minute.’

      Bessie remained in his arms shrinking. Dick’s first thought was connected with Maisie, and it hurt him as white-hot iron hurts an open sore.

      Not for nothing is a man permitted to ally himself to the wrong woman. The first pang—the first sense of things lost is but the prelude to the play, for the very just Providence who delights in causing pain has decreed that the agony shall return, and that in the midst of keenest pleasure. They know this pain equally who have forsaken or been forsaken by the love of their life, and in their new wives’ arms are compelled to realise it. It is better to remain alone and suffer only the misery of being alone, so long as it is possible to find distraction in daily work. When that resource goes the man is to be pitied and left alone.

      These things and some others Dick considered while he was holding Bessie to his heart.

      ‘Though you mayn’t know it,’ he said, raising his head, ‘the Lord is a just and a terrible God, Bess; with a very strong sense of humour. It serves me right—how it serves me right! Torp could understand it if he were here; he must have suffered something at your hands, child, but only for a minute or so. I saved him. Set that to my credit, some one.’

      ‘Let me go,’ said Bess, her face darkening. ‘Let me go.’

      ‘All in good time. Did you ever attend Sunday school?’

      ‘Never. Let me go, I tell you; you’re making fun of me.’

      ‘Indeed, I’m not. I’m making fun of myself…. Thus. “He saved others, himself he cannot save.” It isn’t exactly a school-board text.’ He released her wrist, but since he was between her and the door, she could not escape. ‘What an enormous amount of mischief one little woman can do!’

      ‘I’m sorry; I’m awful sorry about the picture.’

      ‘I’m not. I’m grateful to you for spoiling it…. What were we talking about before you mentioned the thing?’

      ‘About getting away—and money. Me and you going away.’

      ‘Of course. We will get away—that is to say, I will.’

      ‘And me?’

      ‘You shall have fifty whole pounds for spoiling a picture.’

      ‘Then you won’t——?’

      ‘I’m afraid not, dear. Think of fifty pounds for pretty things all to yourself.’

      ‘You said you couldn’t do anything without me.’

      ‘That was true a little while ago. I’m better now, thank you. Get me my hat.’

      ‘S’pose I don’t?’

      ‘Beeton will, and you’ll lose fifty pounds. That’s all. Get it.’

      Bessie cursed under her breath. She had pitied the man sincerely, had kissed him with almost equal sincerity, for he was not unhandsome; it pleased her to be in a way and for a time his protector, and above all there were four thousand pounds to be handled by some one. Now through a slip of the tongue and a little feminine desire to give a little, not too much, pain she had lost the money, the blessed idleness and the pretty things, the companionship, and the chance of looking outwardly as respectable as a real lady.

      ‘Now fill me a pipe. Tobacco doesn’t taste, but it doesn’t matter, and I’ll think things out. What’s the day of the week, Bess?’

      ‘Tuesday.’

      ‘Then Thursday’s mail-day. What a fool—what a blind fool I have been! Twenty-two pounds covers my passage home again. Allow ten for additional expenses. We must put up at Madam Binat’s for old time’s sake. Thirty-two pounds altogether. Add a hundred for the cost of the last trip—Gad, won’t Torp stare to see me!—a hundred and thirty-two leaves seventy-eight for СКАЧАТЬ