the dark flower-第31部分

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accident　on　the　river'no　one　had　ever　dreamed。　　And　then　the　long
despair　which　had　seemed　the　last　death　of　love　had　slowly　passed；
and　yet　another　love　had　been　bornor　rather　born　again；　pale；
sober；　but　quite　real；　the　fresh　springing…up　of　a　feeling　long
forgotten；　of　that　protective　devotion　of　his　boyhood。　　He　still
remembered　the　expression　on　Sylvia's　face　when　he　passed　her　by
chance　in　Oxford　Street；　soon　after　he　came　back　from　his　four
years　of　exile　in　the　East　and　Romethat　look；　eager；　yet
reproachful；　then　stoically　ironic；　as　if　saying：　'Oh；　no！　after
forgetting　me　four　years　and　moreyou　can't　remember　me　now！'　　And
when　he　spoke；　the　still　more　touching　pleasure　in　her　face。　　Then
uncertain　months；　with　a　feeling　of　what　the　end　would　be；　and　then
their　marriage。　　Happy　enoughgentle；　not　very　vivid；　nor
spiritually　very　intimatehis　work　always　secretly　as　remote　from
her　as　when　she　had　thought　to　please　him　by　putting　jessamine
stars　on　the　heads　of　his　beasts。　　A　quiet　successful　union；　not
meaning；　he　had　thought；　so　very　much　to　him　nor　so　very　much　to
heruntil　forty…eight　hours　ago　he　told　her；　and　she　had　shrunk；
and　wilted；　and　gone　all　to　pieces。　　And　what　was　it　he　had　told
her？

A　long　storythat！

Sitting　there　by　the　fire；　with　nothing　yet　decided；　he　could　see
it　all　from　the　start；　with　its　devilish；　delicate　intricacy；　its
subtle　slow　enchantment　spinning　itself　out　of　him；　out　of　his　own
state　of　mind　and　body；　rather　than　out　of　the　spell　cast　over　him；
as　though　a　sort　of　fatal　force；　long　dormant；　were　working　up
again　to　burst　into　dark　flower。　。　。　。


II


Yes；　it　had　begun　within　him　over　a　year　ago；　with　a　queer　unhappy
restlessness；　a　feeling　that　life　was　slipping；　ebbing　away　within
reach　of　him；　and　his　arms　never　stretched　out　to　arrest　it。　　It
had　begun　with　a　sort　of　long　craving；　stilled　only　when　he　was
working　harda　craving　for　he　knew　not　what；　an　ache　which　was
worst　whenever　the　wind　was　soft。

They　said　that　about　forty…five　was　a　perilous　age　for　a　man
especially　for　an　artist。　　All　the　autumn　of　last　year　he　had　felt
this　vague　misery　rather　badly。　　It　had　left　him　alone　most　of
December　and　January；　while　he　was　working　so　hard　at　his　group　of
lions；　but　the　moment　that　was　finished　it　had　gripped　him　hard
again。　　In　those　last　days　of　January　he　well　remembered　wandering
about　in　the　parks　day　after　day；　trying　to　get　away　from　it。　　Mild
weather；　with　a　scent　in　the　wind！　　With　what　avidity　he　had
watched　children　playing；　the　premature　buds　on　the　bushes；
anything；　everything　youngwith　what　an　ache；　too；　he　had　been
conscious　of　innumerable　lives　being　lived　round　him；　and　loves
loved；　and　he　outside；　unable　to　know；　to　grasp；　to　gather　them；
and　all　the　time　the　sands　of　his　hourglass　running　out！　　A　most
absurd　and　unreasonable　feeling　for　a　man　with　everything　he
wanted；　with　work　that　he　loved；　quite　enough　money；　and　a　wife　so
good　as　Sylviaa　feeling　that　no　Englishman　of　forty…six；　in
excellent　health；　ought　for　a　moment　to　have　been　troubled　with。　　A
feeling　such　as；　indeed；　no　Englishman　ever　admitted　havingso
that　there　was　not　even；　as　yet；　a　Society　for　its　suppression。
For　what　was　this　disquiet　feeling；　but　the　sense　that　he　had　had
his　day；　would　never　again　know　the　stir　and　fearful　joy　of　falling
in　love；　but　only　just　hanker　after　what　was　past　and　gone！　　Could
anything　be　more　reprehensible　in　a　married　man？

It　wasyesthe　last　day　of　January；　when；　returning　from　one　of
those　restless　rambles　in　Hyde　Park；　he　met　Dromore。　　Queer　to
recognize　a　man　hardly　seen　since　school…days。　　Yet　unmistakably；
Johnny　Dromore；　sauntering　along　the　rails　of　Piccadilly　on　the
Green　Park　side；　with　that　slightly　rolling　gait　of　his　thin；
horseman's　legs；　his　dandified　hat　a　little　to　one　side；　those
strange；　chaffing；　goggling　eyes；　that　look；　as　if　making　a
perpetual　bet。　　Yesthe　very　same　teasing；　now　moody；　now
reckless；　always　astute　Johnny　Dromore；　with　a　good　heart　beneath
an　outside　that　seemed　ashamed　of　it。　　Truly　to　have　shared　a　room
at　schoolto　have　been　at　College　together；　were　links
mysteriously　indestructible。

〃Mark　Lennan！　　By　gum！　haven't　seen　you　for　ages。　　Not　since　you
turned　out　a　full…blownwhat　d'you　call　it？　　Awfully　glad　to　meet
you；　old　chap！〃　　Here　was　the　past　indeed；　long　vanished　in　feeling
and　thought　and　all；　and　Lennan's　head　buzzed；　trying　to　find　some
common　interest　with　this　hunting；　racing　man…about…town。

Johnny　Dromore　come　to　life　againhe　whom　the　Machine　had　stamped
with　astute　simplicity　by　the　time　he　was　twenty…two；　and　for　ever
after　left　untouched　in　thought　and　feelingJohnny　Dromore；　who
would　never　pass　beyond　the　philosophy　that　all　was　queer　and
freakish　which　had　not　to　do　with　horses；　women；　wine；　cigars；
jokes；　good…heartedness；　and　that　perpetual　bet；　Johnny　Dromore；
who；　somewhere　in　him；　had　a　pocket　of　depth；　a　streak　of　hunger；
that　was　not　just　Johnny　Dromore。

How　queer　was　the　sound　of　that　jerky　talk！

〃You　ever　see　old　Fookes　now？　　Been　racin'　at　all？　　You　live　in
Town？　　Remember　good　old　Blenker？〃　　And　then　silence；　and　then
another　spurt：　〃Ever　go　down　to　'Bambury's？'　　Ever　go　racin'？　。　。　。
Come　on　up　to　my　'digs。'　　You've　got　nothin'　to　do。〃　　No　persuading
Johnny　Dromore　that　a　'what　d'you　call　it'　could　have　anything　to
do。　　〃Come　on；　old　chap。　　I've　got　the　hump。　　It's　this　damned　east
wind。〃

Well　he　remembered　it；　when　they　shared　a　room　at　'Bambury's'that
hump　of　Johnny　Dromore's；　after　some　reckless　spree　or　bout　of
teasing。

And　down　that　narrow　bye…street　of　Piccadilly　he　had　gone；　and　up
into　those　'digs'　on　the　first　floor；　with　their　little　dark　hall；
their　Van　Beers'　drawing　and　Vanity　Fair　cartoons；　and　prints　of
racehorses；　and　of　the　old　Nightgown　Steeplechase；　with　the　big
chairs；　and　all　the　paraphernalia　of　Race　Guides　and　race…glasses；
fox…masks　and　stags'…horns；　and　hunting…whips。　　And　yet；　something
that　from　the　first　moment　struck　him　as　not　quite　in　keeping；
foreign　to　the　picturea　little　jumble　of　books；　a　vase　of
flowers；　a　grey　kitten。

〃Sit　down；　old　chap。　　What'll　you　drink？〃

Sunk　into　the　recesses　of　a　marvellous　chair；　with　huge　arms　of
tawny　leather；　he　listened　and　spoke　drowsily。　　'Bambury's；'
Oxford；　Gordy's　clubsdear　old　Gordy；　gone　now！things　long
passed　by；　they　seemed　all　round　him　once　again。　　And　yet；　always
that　vague　sense；　threading　this　resurrection；　threading　the　smoke
of　their　cigars；　and　Johnny　Dromore's　clipped　talkof　something
that　did　not　quite　belong。　　Might　it　be；　perhaps；　that　sepia
drawingabove　the　'Tantalus'　on　the　oak　sideboard　at　the　far　end
of　a　woman's　face　gazing　out　into　the　room？　　Mysteriously　unlike
everything　else；　except　the　flowers；　and　this　kitten　that　was
pushing　its　furry　little　head　against　his　hand。　　Odd　how　a　single
thing　sometimes　took　possession　of　a　room；　however　remote　in
spirit！　　It　seemed　to　reach　like　a　shadow　over　Dromore's
outstretched　limbs；　and　weathered；　long…nosed　face；　behind　his　huge
cigar；　over　the　queer；　solemn；　chaffing　eyes；　with　something
brooding　in　the　depths　of　them。

〃Ever　get　the　hump？　　Bally　awful；　isn't　it？　　It's　getting　old。
We're　bally　old；　you　know；　Lenny！〃　　Ah！　　No　one　had　called　him
'Lenny'　for　twenty　years。　　And　it　was　true；　they　were　unmentionably
old。

〃When　a　fellow　begins　to　feel　old；　you　know；　it's　time　he　went
brokeor　something；　doesn't　bear　sittin'　down　and　lookin'　at。
Come　out　to　'Monte'　with　me！〃

'Monte！'　　That　old　wound；　never　quite　healed；　started　throbbing　at
the　word；　so　that　he　could　hardly　speak　his：　〃No；　I　don't　care　for
'Monte。'〃

And；　at　once；　he　saw　Dromore's　eyes　probing；　questioning：

〃You　married？〃

〃Yes。〃

〃Never　thought　of　you　as　married！〃

So　Dromore　did　think　of　him。　　Queer！　　He　never　thought　of　Johnny
Dromore。

〃Winter's　bally　awful；　when　you're　not　huntin'。　　You've　changed　a
lot；　should　hardly　have　known　you。　　Last　time　I　saw　you；　you'd　just
come　back　from　Rome　or　somewhere。　　What's　it　like　bein'　aa
sculptor？　　Saw　something　of　yours　once。　　Ever　do　things　of　horses？〃

Yes；　he　had　done　a　'relief'　of　ponies　only　last　year。

〃You　do　women；　too；　I　s'pose？〃

〃Not　often。〃

The　eyes　goggled　slightly。　　Quaint；　that　unholy　interest！　　Just
like　boys；　the　Johnny　Dromoreswould　never　grow　up；　no　matter　how
life　treated　them。　　If　Dromore　spoke　out　his　soul；　as　he　used　to
speak　it　out　at　'Bambury's；'　he　would　say：　'You　get　a　pull　there；
you　have　a　bally　good　time；　I　expect。'　　That　was　the　way　it　took
them；　just　a　converse　manifestation　of　the　very　same　feeling
towards　Art　that　the　pious　Philistines　had；　with　their　deploring
eyebrows　and　their　'peril　to　the　soul。'　　Babes　all！　　Not　a
glimmering　of　what　Art　meantof　its　effort；　and　its　yearnings！

〃You　make　money　at　it？〃

〃Oh；　yes。〃

Again　that　appreciative　goggle；　as　who　should　say：　'Ho！　there's
more　in　this　than　I　thought！'

A　long　silence；　then；　in　the　dusk　with　the　violet　glimmer　from
outside　the　windows；　the　fire　flickering　in　front　of　them；　the　grey
kitten　purring　against　his　neck；　the　smoke　of　their　cigars　going
up；　and　such　a　strange；　dozing　sense　of　rest；　as　he　had　not　known
for　many　days。　　And　thensomething；　someone　at　the　door；　over　by
the　sideboard！　　And　Dromore　speaking　in　a　queer　voice：

〃Come　in；　Nell！　　D'you　know　my　daughter？〃

A　hand　took　Lennan's；　a　hand　that　seemed　to　waver　between　the
aplomb　of　a　woman　of　the　world；　and　a　child's　impulsive　warmth。
And　a　voice；　young；　clipped；　clear；　said：

〃How　d'you　do？　　She's　rather　sweet；　isn't　shemy　kitten？〃

Then　Dromore　turned　the　light　up。　　A　figure　fairly　tall；　in　a　grey
riding…habit；　stupendously　well　cut；　a　face　not　quite　so　round　as　a
child's　nor　so　shaped　as　a　woman's；　blushing　slightly；　very　calm；
crinkly　light…brown　hair　tied　back　with　a　black　ribbon　under　a　neat
hat；　and　eyes　like　those　eyes　of　Gainsborough's　'Perdita'slow；
grey；　mesmeric；　with　long　lashes　curling　up；　eyes　that　draw　things
to　them；　still　innocent。

And　just　on　the　point　of　saying：　〃I　thought　you'd　stepped　out　of
that　picture〃he　saw　Dromore's　face；　and　mumbled　instead：

〃So　it's　YOUR　kitten？〃

〃Yes；　she　goes　t