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

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СКАЧАТЬ Harvey could feel the land close round him once more, with all its thousands of people asleep, and the smell of earth after rain, and the familiar noise of a switching-engine coughing to herself in a freight-yard; and all those things made his heart beat and his throat dry up as he stood by the foresheet. They heard the anchor-watch snoring on a lighthouse tug, nosed into a pocket of darkness where a lantern glimmered on either side; somebody waked with a grunt, threw them a rope, and they made fast to a silent wharf flanked with great iron-roofed sheds full of warm emptiness, and lay there without a sound.

      Then Harvey sat down by the wheel, and sobbed and sobbed as though his heart would break, and a tall woman who had been sitting on a weigh-scale dropped down into the schooner and kissed Dan once on the cheek; for she was his mother, and she had seen the We’re Here by the lightning flashes. She took no notice of Harvey till he had recovered himself a little, and Disko had told her his story. Then they went to Disko’s house together as the dawn was breaking; and until the telegraph office was open and he could wire to his folk, Harvey Cheyne was perhaps the loneliest boy in all America. But the curious thing was that Disko and Dan seemed to think none the worse of him for crying.

      Wouverman was not ready for Disko’s prices till Disko, sure that the We’re Here was at least a week ahead of any other Gloucester boat, had given him a few days to swallow them; so all hands played about the streets, and Long Jack stopped the Rocky Neck trolley, on principle, as he said, till the conductor let him ride free. But Dan went about with his freckled nose in the air, bung-full of mystery and most haughty to his family.

      ‘Dan, I’ll hev to lay inter you ef you act this way,’ said Troop pensively. ‘Sence we’ve come ashore this time you’ve bin a heap too fresh.’

      ‘I’d lay into him naow ef he was mine,’ said Uncle Salters sourly. He and Penn boarded with the Troops.

      ‘Oho!’ said Dan, shuffling with the accordion round the back-yard, ready to leap the fence if the enemy advanced. ‘Dad, you’re welcome to your own jedgment, but remember I’ve warned ye. Your own flesh an’ blood ha’ warned ye! ’Taint any o’ my fault ef you’re mistook, but I’ll be on deck to watch ye. An’ ez fer yeou, Uncle Salters, Pharaoh’s chief butler ain’t in it ’longside o’ you! You watch aout an’ wait. You’ll be ploughed under like your own blamed clover; but me—Dan Troop—I’ll flourish like a green bay-tree because I warn’t stuck on my own opinion.’

      Disko was smoking in all his shore dignity and a pair of beautiful carpet slippers. ‘You’re gettin’ ez crazy as poor Harve. You two go araound gigglin’ an’ squinchin’ an’ kickin’ each other under the table till there’s no peace in the haouse,’ said he.

      ‘There’s goin’ to be a heap less—fer some folks,’ Dan replied. ‘You wait an’ see.’

      He and Harvey went out on the trolley to East Gloucester where they tramped through the bay-berry bushes to the lighthouse, and lay down on the big red boulders and laughed themselves hungry. Harvey had shown Dan a telegram, and the two swore to keep silence till the shell burst.

      ‘Harve’s folk?’ said Dan, with an unruffled face after supper. ‘Well, I guess they don’t amount to much of anything, or we’d ha’ heard frum ’em by naow. His pop keeps a kind o’ store out West. Maybe he’ll give you’s much as five dollars, dad.’

      ‘What did I tell ye?’ said Salters. ‘Don’t sputter over your vittles, Dan.’

      ▲▲▲

Chapter 9

      Whatever his private sorrows may be, a multimillionaire, like any other working man, should keep abreast of his business. Harvey Cheyne, senior, had gone East late in June to meet a woman broken down, half mad, who dreamed day and night of her son drowning in the gray seas. He had surrounded her with doctors, trained nurses, massage women, and even faith-cure companions, but they were useless. Mrs. Cheyne lay still and moaned, or talked of her boy by the hour together to any one who would listen. Hope she had none, and who could offer it? All she needed was assurance that drowning did not hurt; and her husband watched to guard lest she should make the experiment. Of his own sorrow he spoke little—hardly realised the depth of it till he caught himself asking the calendar on his writing-desk, ‘What’s the use of going on?’

      There had always lain a pleasant notion at the back of his head that, some day, when he had rounded off everything and the boy had left college, he would take his son to his heart and lead him into his possessions. Then that boy, he argued, as busy fathers do, would instantly become his companion, partner, and ally, and there would follow splendid years of great works carried out together—the old head backing the young fire. Now his boy was dead—lost at sea, as it might have been a Swede sailor from one of Cheyne’s big tea-ships; the wife was dying, or worse; he himself was trodden down by platoons of women and doctors and maids and attendants; worried almost beyond endurance by the shift and change of her poor restless whims; hopeless, with no heart to meet his many enemies.

      He had taken the wife to his raw new palace in San Diego, where she and her people occupied a wing of great price, and Cheyne, in a verandah-room between a secretary and a typewriter, who was also a telegraphist, toiled along wearily from day to day. There was a war of rates among four Western railroads in which he was supposed to be interested; a devastating strike had developed in his lumber-camps in Oregon, and the legislature of the State of California, which has no love for its makers, was preparing open war against him.

      Ordinarily he would have accepted battle ere it was offered, and have waged a pleasant and unscrupulous campaign. But now he sat limply, his soft black hat pushed forward on to his nose, his big body shrunk inside his loose clothes, staring at his boots or the Chinese junks in the bay, and assenting absently to the secretary’s questions as he opened the Saturday mail.

      Cheyne was wondering how much it would cost to drop everything and pull out. He carried huge insurances, could buy himself royal annuities, and between one of his places in Colorado and a little society (that would do the wife good), say in Washington and the South Carolina islands, a man might forget plans that had come to nothing. On the other hand …

      The click of the typewriter stopped; the girl was looking at the secretary, who had turned white.

      He passed Cheyne a telegram repeated from San Francisco:—

      Picked up by fishing schooner We’re Here having fallen off boat great times on Banks fishing all well waiting Gloucester Mass care Disko Troop for money or orders wire what shall do and how is mamma Harvey N. Cheyne.

      The father let it fall, laid his head down on the roller-top of the shut desk, and breathed heavily. The secretary ran for Mrs. Cheyne’s doctor, who found Cheyne pacing to and fro.

      ‘What—what d’you think of it? Is it possible? Is there any meaning to it? I can’t quite make it out,’ he cried.

      ‘I can,’ said the doctor. ‘I lose seven thousand a year—that’s all.’ He thought of the struggling New York practice he had dropped at Cheyne’s imperious bidding, and returned the telegram with a sigh.

      ‘You mean you’d tell her? ’May be a fraud?’

      ‘What’s the motive?’ said the doctor coolly. ‘Detection’s too certain. It’s the boy sure enough.’

      Enter a French maid, impudently, as an indispensable one who is kept on only by large wages.

      ‘Mrs. Cheyne СКАЧАТЬ