CHAPTER V
關燈
小
中
大
tinuedeagerly,turningandlinkinghisarmthroughDenham’s,asthoughtopreventhimfromescapingand,thuscompelled,Denhampassedthemonitorylamp-post,towhich,inpassing,hebreathedanexcuse,forhowcouldhebreakawaywhenRodney’sarmwasactuallylinkedinhis?“YoumustnotthinkthatIhaveanybitternessagainsther—farfromit.It’snotaltogetherherfault,poorgirl.Shelives,youknow,oneofthoseodious,self-centeredlives—atleast,Ithinkthemodiousforawoman—feedingherwitsuponeverything,havingcontrolofeverything,gettingfartoomuchherownwayathome—spoilt,inasense,feelingthateveryoneisatherfeet,andsonotrealizinghowshehurts—thatis,howrudelyshebehavestopeoplewhohaven’tallheradvantages.Still,todoherjustice,she’snofool,”headded,asiftowarnDenhamnottotakeanyliberties.“Shehastaste.Shehassense.Shecanunderstandyouwhenyoutalktoher.Butshe’sawoman,andthere’sanendofit,”headded,withanotherlittlechuckle,anddroppedDenham’sarm.
“Anddidyoutellherallthisto-night?”Denhamasked.
“Ohdearme,no.IshouldneverthinkoftellingKatharinethetruthaboutherself.Thatwouldn’tdoatall.OnehastobeinanattitudeofadorationinordertogetonwithKatharine.
“NowI’velearntthatshe’srefusedtomarryhimwhydon’tIgohome?”Denhamthoughttohimself.ButhewentonwalkingbesideRodney,andforatimetheydidnotspeak,thoughRodneyhummedsnatchesofatuneoutofanoperabyMozart.Afeelingofcontemptandlikingcombineverynaturallyinthemindofonetowhomanotherhasjustspokenunpremeditatedly,revealingrathermoreofhisprivatefeelingsthanheintendedtoreveal.DenhambegantowonderwhatsortofpersonRodneywas,andatthesametimeRodneybegantothinkaboutDenham.
“You’reaslavelikeme,Isuppose?”heasked.
“Asolicitor,yes.”
“Isometimeswonderwhywedon’tchuckit.Whydon’tyouemigrate,Denham?Ishouldhavethoughtthatwouldsuityou.”
“I’veafamily.”
“I’moftenonthepointofgoingmyself.AndthenIknowIcouldn’tlivewithoutthis”—andhewavedhishandtowardstheCityofLondon,whichwore,atthismoment,theappearanceofatowncutoutofgray-bluecardboard,andpastedflatagainstthesky,whichwasofadeeperblue.
“ThereareoneortwopeopleI’mfondof,andthere’salittlegoodmusic,andafewpictures,nowandthen—justenoughtokeeponedanglingabouthere.Ah,butIcouldn’tlivewithsavages!Areyoufondofbooks?Music?Pictures?D’youcareatallforfirsteditions?I’vegotafewnicethingsuphere,thingsIpickupcheap,forIcan’taffordtogivewhattheyask.”
Theyhadreachedasmallcourtofhigheighteenth-centuryhouses,inoneofwhichRodneyhadhisrooms.Theyclimbedaverysteepstaircase,throughwhoseuncurtainedwindowsthemoonlightfell,illuminatingthebanisterswiththeirtwistedpillars,andthepilesofplatessetonthewindow-sills,andjarshalf-fullofmilk.Rodney’sroomsweresmall,butthesitting-roomwindowlookedoutintoacourtyard,withitsflaggedpavement,anditssingletree,andacrosstotheflatred-brickfrontsoftheoppositehouses,whichwouldnothavesurprisedDr.Johnson,ifhehadcomeoutofhisgraveforaturninthemoonlight.Rodneylithislamp,pulledhiscurtains,offeredDenhamachair,and,flingingthemanuscriptofhispaperontheElizabethanuseofMetaphorontothetable,exclaimed:
“Ohdearme,whatawasteoftime!Butit’sovernow,andsowemaythinknomoreaboutit.”
Hethenbusiedhimselfverydexterouslyinlightingafire,producingglasses,whisky,acake,andcupsandsaucers.Heputonafadedcrimsondressing-gown,andapairofredslippers,andadvancedtoDenhamwithatumblerinonehandandawell-burnishedbookintheother.
“TheBaskervilleCongreve,”saidRodney,offeringittohisguest.“Icouldn’treadhiminacheapedition.”
Whenhewasseenthusamonghisbooksandhisvaluables,amiablyanxioustomakehisvisitorcomfortable,andmovingaboutwithsomethingofthedexterityandgraceofaPersiancat,Denhamrelaxedhiscriticalattitude,andfeltmoreathomewithRodneythanhewouldhavedonewithmanymenbetterknowntohim.Rodney’sroomwastheroomofapersonwhocherishesagreatmanypersonaltastes,guardingthemfromtheroughblastsofthepublicwithscrupulousattention.Hispapersandhisbooksroseinjaggedmoundsontableandfloor,roundwhichheskirtedwithnervouscarelesthisdressing-gownmightdisarra
