Читать книгу The Last Call: A Romance (Vol. 3 of 3) - Dowling Richard - Страница 6

Before leaving Milan, Lavirotte had telegraphed to London, saying he would be over for the funeral. When he got to London he drove straight to Charterhouse Square. The landlady thought he looked wild, and two or three other sympathetic people who lived in the house said he ought to be looked after. But his words were sane, and he made only one request, which, under the circumstances, was reasonable-namely, that he might be allowed some time in the room alone with her. He went into that silent room where the dead girl lay, and closed the door softly behind him. It was broad daylight, and although Charterhouse Square is, at the busiest time of the day, comparatively quiet for a place in the City, he could hear the great muffled rumble of traffic that overhung the whole place, like a cloud that lay around on all sides, like a soft cushion against which silence beat. He drew down the lid and looked at the dead, the lovely dead. So like, and so absolutely unlike. All was here, and yet nothing. Here was a mask, the pallid mask of his dearest love, his sweetest girl. Here was the sleeping form round which his arms had often clung lovingly, tenderly, hopefully, with joyous anticipation of long years full of happiness, spent by them together. Now all the charm was gone; all the sacredness had departed. There was nothing more worthy of his regard in these still, silent features, than in the wooden box which was to be the mute and viewless partner of their decay. Here was the hair with which he had so often played, the unwrinkled brow which he had so often, with supererogatory fingers, smoothed. The eyes were closed; there was no longer any light in them. The light had gone out for ever. There was here a cessation of light, such as had occurred in that vault when the lantern failed. In those veiled eyes lay the darkness of the tomb, as in that vault, veiled from the light of heaven, had lain the darkness of the nether deep. The lips were closed and bloodless and placid. Those were the lips that he had loved to kiss, that he had hoped to think were his for ever. The sculptor would have seen little change, the painter much, the poet more, the lover all. Nothing was that had been. What had happened to the trustful spirit, quiet laughter, the quick irritability to smiles, the joyous movements of approach, when he was there, the sweet confidence, the gentle voice, the hand that came forth, anxious to be clasped, the yielding form? All, all the qualities, which had in time to him stood as divine expression of a beautiful decree, had passed into nothingness, had left no more behind than the wind leaves on the rock. All that was sweet and pure, guileless and joyous, vital and fresh, had gone away for ever, and left nothing. Why should he call this Dora? It could not hear him. It could not answer him. He might as well throw up his arms and plead his piteous grief into the vacant air. Dora was dead, and this thing here was no more than the mask of Dora. Only the mask of Dora, and yet a mask which he could not preserve. To-morrow they would take this coffin away and put it somewhere or other, he knew not, he cared not where. There would be a ceremony, at which people would look solemn, out of a general sense of fitness, rather than because of individual grief. They would lower that coffin down nine feet or so into the solid earth, and cover it up, and then come away. And the men whose business it was to attend to the material portions of the burial would stop at the first public-house and have a drink, after they had buried his Dora. Buried his Dora! No, they could not. They could never bury her. They might bury this thing here-this phantom-this mask-this statue. They might put this away for ever, and in the inviolate darkness of the tomb it might crumble away and be no more to the future than a few old bones of an unknown woman. But for him they could never bury Dora. They could never bury his darling Dora! What! Could it be that these pallid lips now lying smooth and close together had moulded his name, had whispered into his ear, had taken his kisses as the rich guerdon offered there for admission to the citadel of her heart, as the supreme offer of a subdued nature at the final barrier of an opulent town? Those the lips, those the material lips, those the substantial lips which his lips had touched, and which, with such excellent flattery to his love, allowed themselves to be touched by his, not shrinking from his, not even seeming to shrink from his, but even slowly and modestly advancing to his with the whole head, the whole neck, the whole form- Were they now going to bury these lips, this head, this neck, this form? Darling, where are you? I am here. Is there any place but here, where you may be? You have left something behind you as you went away. They have put it in a coffin. It is no good to me. Why did it not go with you? Why am I here? Where am I? Who am I that am here? I am not he that loved you once any more than this here is what I once loved. I shall wait until I go away before I love again. And when I have gone away as you have gone away I will love only you. And here upon the lips that are not yours, but which are the likest yours I ever saw, I swear this oath. So help me, God. When he left that room, when he had taken farewell of his dead sweetheart, he left the house, saying no more words than were absolutely necessary to the occasion. The funeral was to be the next morning. He said he would be there in time, but gave no other indication of his future actions. Out of Charterhouse Square, he struck in a southerly direction until he reached Porter Street. Into this he turned, and, walking rapidly, did not pause until he came to St. Prisca's Tower, the new door of which he opened. He entered the tower. Little had as yet been done to the interior since last he saw it. Above him yawned the vacant space which had formerly been cut in two by the fallen loft. That loft, in its fall, had carried with it the ladder which had run round the walls, and it was no longer possible to gain the second loft by the old means. But an ordinary slater's ladder had been used by Crawford and him of old, to descend into the pit, and this would be long enough, if placed upon a projecting mass of masonry on a level with the street, to reach the second loft. He had brought a candle with him, had lit it, and stuck it against the wall. The light from this was, however, feeble. It reached but a short distance into the pit below; but a short distance into the vault above. How was he to drag up this heavy ladder from its position against the wall, into which it had been thrust by the falling loft? He caught the sides of the ladder, and with all his force sought to move it. In vain. It would not stir. He tried again and again. It resisted him implacably. Then he descended it, finding in so doing that a few of the rungs had been knocked out of it by the falling loft. When he got down he stood on some of the wreckage, caught a rung close to his feet with both his hands, and threw the whole force of his body into one fierce, upward strain. The ladder still remained immovable. He let go the rung, drew himself up, and leaned against the ladder, panting hard. "My strength is gone," he said. "My strength is buried in this accursed hole. May the place be for ever accursed! I must get help." He mounted the ladder, opened the door of the tower, and accosted two men who were leaning against the opposite wall. They were willing to help, and followed him into the tower. One of them caught hold of the ladder, and shook it easily in its place, drawing it upward a foot or so. "I could have done that once," thought Lavirotte. "I shall be able to do anything like that no more." Under Lavirotte's instructions, the two porters placed the ladder in the position he desired. He paid them and they left. Then he ascended the ladder, and, following the upward way of the remaining stairs, reached what had been formerly his room. He felt greatly fatigued. The long journey from Milan, the anxiety of mind, the vigil by the side of the dead Dora, had all, no doubt, he thought, been too much for him. He looked around. The humble furniture of the place was all covered thick with dust. With a brush he removed the accumulation of months from the couch, and lay down. Yes, he was very tired, and there was that dull, dead pain in his side-in his chest, here. He wondered what it could be. In the old days he must have strained himself when working in this place. And yet he did not remember any particular strain. This pain might really be nothing more than the result of the overwork he endured here more than a year ago. This was the first time he had rested since he had last spoken to O'Donnell. It was very pleasant to rest here, secure from the sound and bustle of this tumultuous city. But Dora was resting even more quietly than he. There was no comparison between the blessed quiet of her beautiful young face and the harassed quiet he now endured. Oh, God! what a pain! What was that? For a moment he thought it might be death.