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The Unbearable Bassington-Part23_H.H.Munro(Saki)(1870-1916)_English Literature(文学名著)-第2页

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been on the lookout for her, brought her the salver. The servants



were well aware of the dreadful thing that was happening, and there

was pity on the girl's face and in her voice.



"This came for you ten minutes ago, ma'am, and Mr. Greech has been

here, ma'am, with another gentleman, and was sorry you weren't at



home. Mr. Greech said he would call again in about half-an-hour."

Francesca carried the cablegram unopened into the drawing-room and



sat down for a moment to think. There was no need to read it yet,

for she knew what she would find written there. For a few pitiful



moments Comus would seem less hopelessly lost to her if she put off

the reading of that last terrible message. She rose and crossed



over to the windows and pulled down the blinds, shutting out the

waning December day, and then reseated herself. Perhaps in the



shadowy half-light her boy would come and sit with her again for

awhile and let her look her last upon his loved face; she could



never touch him again or hear his laughing, petulant voice, but

surely she might look on her dead. And her starving eyes saw only



the hateful soulless things of bronze and silver and porcelain that

she had set up and worshipped as gods; look where she would they



were there around her, the cold ruling deities of the home that

held no place for her dead boy. He had moved in and out among



them, the warm, living, breathing thing that had been hers to love,

and she had turned her eyes from that youthfulcomely figure to



adore a few feet of painted canvas, a musty relic of a long

departed craftsman. And now he was gone from her sight, from her



touch, from her hearing for ever, without even a thought to flash

between them for all the dreary years that she should live, and



these things of canvas and pigment and wrought metal would stay

with her. They were her soul. And what shall it profit a man if



he save his soul and slay his heart in torment?

On a small table by her side was Mervyn Quentock's portrait of her



- the propheticsymbol of her tragedy; the rich dead harvest of

unreal things that had never known life, and the bleak thrall of



black unending Winter, a Winter in which things died and knew no

re-awakening.



Francesca turned to the small envelope lying in her lap; very

slowly she opened it and read the short message. Then she sat numb



and silent for a long, long time, or perhaps only for minutes. The

voice of Henry Greech in the hall, enquiring for her, called her to



herself. Hurriedly she crushed the piece of paper out of sight; he

would have to be told, of course, but just yet her pain seemed too



dreadful to be laid bare. "Comus is dead" was a sentence beyond

her power to speak.



"I have bad news for you, Francesca, I'm sorry to say," Henry

announced. Had he heard, too?



"Henneberg has been here and looked at the picture," he continued,

seating himself by her side, "and though he admired it immensely as



a work of art he gave me a disagreeable surprise by assuring me

that it's not a genuine Van der Meulen. It's a splendid copy, but



still, unfortunately, only a copy."

Henry paused and glanced at his sister to see how she had taken the



unwelcome announcement. Even in the dim light he caught some of

the anguish in her eyes.



"My dear Francesca," he said soothingly, laying his hand

affectionately on her arm, "I know that this must be a great



disappointment to you, you've always set such store by this

picture, but you mustn't take it too much to heart. These



disagreeable discoveries come at times to most picture fanciers and

owners. Why, about twenty per cent. of the alleged Old Masters in



the Louvre are supposed to be wrongly attributed. And there are

heaps of similar cases in this country. Lady Dovecourt was telling



me the other day that they simply daren't have an expert in to

examine the Van Dykes at Columbey for fear of unwelcome



disclosures. And besides, your picture is such an excellent copy

that it's by no means without a value of its own. You must get



over the disappointment you naturally feel, and take a

philosophical view of the matter. . . "



Francesca sat in stricken silence, crushing the folded morsel of

paper tightly in her hand and wondering if the thin, cheerful voice






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