the dark flower-第35部分

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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　to　everybody。　　Do　you　like　Persians？　　She's　all　fur
really。　　Feel！〃

Entering　with　his　fingers　the　recesses　of　the　kitten；　he　said：

〃Cats　without　fur　are　queer。〃

〃Have　you　seen　one　without　fur？〃

〃Oh；　yes！　　In　my　profession　we　have　to　go　below　furI'm　a
sculptor。〃

〃That　must　be　awfully　interesting。〃

What　a　woman　of　the　world！　　But　what　a　child；　too！　　And　now　he
could　see　that　the　face　in　the　sepia　drawing　was　older　altogether
lips　not　so　full；　look　not　so　innocent；　cheeks　not　so　round；　and
something　sad　and　desperate　about　ita　face　that　life　had　rudely
touched。　　But　the　same　eyes　it　hadand　what　charm；　for　all　its
disillusionment；　its　air　of　a　history！　　Then　he　noticed；　fastened
to　the　frame；　on　a　thin　rod；　a　dust…coloured　curtain；　drawn　to　one
side。　　The　self…possessed　young　voice　was　saying：

〃Would　you　mind　if　I　showed　you　my　drawings？　　It　would　be　awfully
good　of　you。　　You　could　tell　me　about　them。〃　　And　with　dismay　he
saw　her　open　a　portfolio。　　While　he　scrutinized　those　schoolgirl
drawings；　he　could　feel　her　looking　at　him；　as　animals　do　when　they
are　making　up　their　minds　whether　or　no　to　like　you；　then　she　came
and　stood　so　close　that　her　arm　pressed　his。　　He　redoubled　his
efforts　to　find　something　good　about　the　drawings。　　But　in　truth
there　was　nothing　good。　　And　if；　in　other　matters；　he　could　lie
well　enough　to　save　people's　feelings；　where　Art　was　concerned　he
never　could；　so　he　merely　said：

〃You　haven't　been　taught；　you　see。〃

〃Will　you　teach　me？〃

But　before　he　could　answer；　she　was　already　effacing　that　naive
question　in　her　most　grown…up　manner。

〃Of　course　I　oughtn't　to　ask。　　It　would　bore　you　awfully。〃

After　that　he　vaguely　remembered　Dromore's　asking　if　he　ever　rode
in　the　Row；　and　those　eyes　of　hers　following　him　about；　and　her
hand　giving　his　another　childish　squeeze。　　Then　he　was　on　his　way
again　down　the　dimly…lighted　stairs；　past　an　interminable　array　of
Vanity　Fair　cartoons；　out　into　the　east　wind。


III


Crossing　the　Green　Park　on　his　way　home；　was　he　more；　or　less；
restless？　　Difficult　to　say。　　A　little　flattered；　certainly；　a
little　warmed；　yet　irritated；　as　always　when　he　came　into　contact
with　people　to　whom　the　world　of　Art　was　such　an　amusing　unreality。
The　notion　of　trying　to　show　that　child　how　to　drawthat　feather…
pate；　with　her　riding　and　her　kitten；　and　her　'Perdita'　eyes！
Quaint；　how　she　had　at　once　made　friends　with　him！　　He　was　a　little
different；　perhaps；　from　what　she　was　accustomed　to。　　And　how
daintily　she　spoke！　　A　strange；　attractive；　almost　lovely　child！
Certainly　not　more　than　seventeenandJohnny　Dromore's　daughter！

The　wind　was　bitter；　the　lamps　bright　among　the　naked　trees。
Beautiful　alwaysLondon　at　night；　even　in　January；　even　in　an　east
wind；　with　a　beauty　he　never　tired　of。　　Its　great；　dark；　chiselled
shapes；　its　gleaming　lights；　like　droves　of　flying　stars　come　to
earth；　and　all　warmed　by　the　beat　and　stir　of　innumerable　lives
those　lives　that　he　ached　so　to　know　and　to　be　part　of。

He　told　Sylvia　of　his　encounter。　　Dromore！　　The　name　struck　her。
She　had　an　old　Irish　song；　'The　Castle　of　Dromore；'　with　a　queer；
haunting　refrain。

It　froze　hard　all　the　week；　and　he　began　a　life…size　group　of　their
two　sheep…dogs。　　Then　a　thaw　set　in　with　that　first　south…west
wind；　which　brings　each　February　a　feeling　of　Spring　such　as　is
never　again　recaptured；　and　men's　senses；　like　sleepy　bees　in　the
sun；　go　roving。　　It　awakened　in　him　more　violently　than　ever　the
thirst　to　be　living；　knowing；　lovingthe　craving　for　something
new。　　Not　this；　of　course；　took　him　back　to　Dromore's　rooms；　oh；
no！　just　friendliness；　since　he　had　not　even　told　his　old　room…mate
where　he　lived；　or　said　that　his　wife　would　be　glad　to　make　his
acquaintance；　if　he　cared　to　come　round。　　For　Johnny　Dromore　had
assuredly　not　seemed　too　happy；　under　all　his　hard…bitten　air。
Yes！　it　was　but　friendly　to　go　again。

Dromore　was　seated　in　his　long　arm…chair；　a　cigar　between　his　lips；
a　pencil　in　his　hand；　a　Ruff's　Guide　on　his　knee；　beside　him　was　a
large　green　book。　　There　was　a　festive　air　about　him；　very
different　from　his　spasmodic　gloom　of　the　other　day；　and　he
murmured　without　rising：

〃Halo；　old　man！glad　to　see　you。　　Take　a　pew。　　Look　here！
Agapemonewhich　d'you　think　I　ought　to　put　her　toSan　Diavolo　or
Ponte　Canet？not　more　than　four　crosses　of　St。　Paul。　　Goin'　to　get
a　real　good　one　from　her　this　time！〃

He；　who　had　never　heard　these　sainted　names；　answered：

〃Oh！　Ponte　Canet；　without　doubt。　　But　if　you're　working　I'll　come
in　another　time。〃

〃Lord！　no！　　Have　a　smoke。　　I'll　just　finish　lookin'　out　their
bloodand　take　a　pull。〃

And　so　Lennan　sat　down　to　watch　those　researches；　wreathed　in　cigar
smoke　and　punctuated　by　muttered　expletives。　　They　were　as　sacred
and　absorbing；　no　doubt；　as　his　own　efforts　to　create　in　clay；　for
before　Dromore's　inner　vision　was　the　perfect　racehorsehe；　too；
was　creating。　　Here　was　no　mere　dodge　for　making　money；　but　a
process　hallowed　by　the　peculiar　sensation　felt　when　one　rubbed　the
palms　of　the　hands　together；　the