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the unbearable bassington-第32章

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could remember; cared for him perhaps more than he knew; cared for 

him perhaps now。  But a wall of ice had mounted up between him and 

her; and across it there blew that cold…breath that chills or kills 

affection。



The words of a well…known old song; the wistful cry of a lost 

cause; rang with insistent mockery through his brain:





〃Better loved you canna be;

Will ye ne'er come back again?〃





If it was love that was to bring him back he must be an exile for 

ever。  His epitaph in the mouths of those that remembered him would 

be; Comus Bassington; the boy who never came back。



And in his unutterable loneliness he bowed his head on his arms; 

that he might not see the joyous scrambling frolic on yonder 

hillside。







CHAPTER XVII







THE bleak rawness of a grey December day held sway over St。 James's 

Park; that sanctuary of lawn and tree and pool; into which the 

bourgeois innovator has rushed ambitiously time and again; to find 

that he must take the patent leather from off his feet; for the 

ground on which he stands is hallowed ground。



In the lonely hour of early afternoon; when the workers had gone 

back to their work; and the loiterers were scarcely yet gathered 

again; Francesca Bassington made her way restlessly along the 

stretches of gravelled walk that bordered the ornamental water。  

The overmastering unhappiness that filled her heart and stifled her 

thinking powers found answering echo in her surroundings。  There is 

a sorrow that lingers in old parks and gardens that the busy 

streets have no leisure to keep by them; the dead must bury their 

dead in Whitehall or the Place de la Concorde; but there are 

quieter spots where they may still keep tryst with the living and 

intrude the memory of their bygone selves on generations that have 

almost forgotten them。  Even in tourist…trampled Versailles the 

desolation of a tragedy that cannot die haunts the terraces and 

fountains like a bloodstain that will not wash out; in the Saxon 

Garden at Warsaw there broods the memory of long…dead things; 

coeval with the stately trees that shade its walks; and with the 

carp that swim to…day in its ponds as they doubtless swam there 

when 〃Lieber Augustin〃 was a living person and not as yet an 

immortal couplet。  And St。 James's Park; with its lawns and walks 

and waterfowl; harbours still its associations with a bygone order 

of men and women; whose happiness and sadness are woven into its 

history; dim and grey as they were once bright and glowing; like 

the faded pattern worked into the fabric of an old tapestry。  It 

was here that Francesca had made her way when the intolerable 

inaction of waiting had driven her forth from her home。  She was 

waiting for that worst news of all; the news which does not kill 

hope; because there has been none to kill; but merely ends 

suspense。  An early message had said that Comus was ill; which 

might have meant much or little; then there had come that morning a 

cablegram which only meant one thing; in a few hours she would get 

a final message; of which this was the preparatory forerunner。  She 

already knew as much as that awaited message would tell her。  She 

knew that she would never see Comus again; and she knew now that 

she loved him beyond all things that the world could hold for her。  

It was no sudden rush of pity or compunction that clouded her 

judgment or gilded her recollection of him; she saw him as he was; 

the beautiful; wayward; laughing boy; with his naughtiness; his 

exasperating selfishness; his insurmountable folly and 

perverseness; his cruelty that spared not even himself; and as he 

was; as he always had been; she knew that he was the one thing that 

the Fates had willed that she should love。  She did not stop to 

accuse or excuse herself for having sent him forth to what was to 

prove his death。  It was; doubtless; right and reasonable that he 

should have gone out there; as hundreds of other men went out; in 

pursuit of careers; the terrible thing was that he would never come 

back。  The old cruel hopelessness that had always chequered her 

pride and pleasure in his good looks and high spirits and fitfully 

charming ways had dealt her a last crushing blow; he was dying 

somewhere thousands of miles away without hope of recovery; without 

a word of love to comfort him; and without hope or shred of 

consolation she was waiting to hear of the end。  The end; that last 

dreadful piece of news which would write 〃nevermore〃 across his 

life and hers。



The lively bustle in the streets had been a torture that she could 

not bear。  It wanted but two days to Christmas and the gaiety of 

the season; forced or genuine; rang out everywhere。  Christmas 

shopping; with its anxious solicitude or self…centred absorption; 

overspread the West End and made the pavements scarcely passable at 

certain favoured points。  Proud parents; parcel…laden and 

surrounded by escorts of their young people; compared notes with 

one another on the looks and qualities of their offspring and 

exchanged loud hurried confidences on the difficulty or success 

which each had experienced in getting the right presents for one 

and all。  Shouted directions where to find this or that article at 

its best mingled with salvos of Christmas good wishes。  To 

Francesca; making her way frantically through the carnival of 

happiness with that lonely deathbed in her eyes; it had seemed a 

callous mockery of her pain; could not people remember that there 

were crucifixions as well as joyous birthdays in the world?  Every 

mother that she passed happy in the company of a fresh…looking 

clean…limbed schoolboy son sent a fresh stab at her heart; and the 

very shops had their bitter memories。  There was the tea…shop where 

he and she had often taken tea together; or; in the days of their 

estrangement; sat with their separate friends at separate tables。  

There were other shops where extravagantly…incurred bills had 

furnished material for those frequently recurring scenes of 

recrimination; and the Colonial outfitters; where; as he had 

phrased it in whimsical mockery; he had bought grave…clothes for 

his burying…alive。  The 〃oubliette!〃  She remembered the bitter 

petulant name he had flung at his destined exile。  There at least 

he had been harder on himself than the Fates were pleased to will; 

never; as long as Francesca lived and had a brain that served her; 

would she be able to forget。  That narcotic would never be given to 

her。  Unrelenting; unsparing memory would be with her always to 

remind her of those last days of tragedy。  Already her mind was 

dwelling on the details of that ghastly farewell dinner…party and 

recalling one by one the incidents of ill…omen that had marked it; 

how they had sat down seven to table and how one liqueur glass in 

the set of seven had been shivered into fragments; how her glass 

had slipped from her hand as she raised it to her lips to wish 

Comus a safe return; and the strange; quiet hopelessness of Lady 

Veula's 〃good…bye〃; she remembered now how it had chilled and 

frightened her at the moment。



The park was filling again with its floating population of 

loiterers; and Francesca's footsteps began to take a homeward 

direction。  Something seemed to tell her that the message for which 

she waited had arrived and was lying there on the hall table。  Her 

brother; who had announced his intention of visiting her early in 

the afternoon would have gone by now; he knew nothing of this 

morning's bad news … the instinct of a wounded animal to creep away 

by itself had prompted her to keep her sorrow from him as long as 

possible。  His visit did not necessitate her presence; he was 

bringing an Austrian friend; who was compiling a work on the 

Franco…Flemish school of painting; to inspect the Van der Meulen; 

which Henry Greech hoped might perhaps figure as an illustration in 

the book。  They were due to arrive shortly after lunch; and 

Francesca had left a note of apology; pleading an urgent engagement 

elsewhere。  As she turned to make her way across the Mall into the 

Green Park a gentle voice hailed her from a carriage that was just 

drawing up by the sidewalk。  Lady Caroline Benaresq had been 

favouring the Victoria Memorial with a long unfriendly stare。



〃In primitive days;〃 she remarked; 〃I believe it was the fashion 

for great chiefs and rulers to have large numbers of their 

relatives and dependents killed and buried with them; in these more 

enlightened times we have invented quite another way of making a 

great Sovereign universally regretted。  My dear Francesca;〃 she 

broke off suddenly; catching the misery that had settled in the 

other's eyes; 〃what is the matter?  Have you had bad news from out 

there?〃



〃I am waiting for very bad news;〃 said Francesca; and Lady Caroline 

knew what had happened。



〃I wish I co
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