Читать книгу The Works of Robert Louis Stevenson – Swanston Edition. Volume 21 - Robert Louis Stevenson - Страница 4

A month later Dick and Esther met at the stile beside the cross roads; had there been any one to see them but the birds and summer insects, it would have been remarked that they met after a different fashion from the day before. Dick took her in his arms, and their lips were set together for a long while. Then he held her at arm’s length, and they looked straight into each other’s eyes.

“Esther!” he said, – you should have heard his voice!

“Dick!” said she.

“My darling!”

It was some time before they started for their walk; he kept an arm about her, and their sides were close together as they walked; the sun, the birds, the west wind running among the trees, a pressure, a look, the grasp tightening round a single finger, these things stood them in lieu of thought and filled their hearts with joy. The path they were following led them through a wood of pine trees carpeted with heather and blueberry, and upon this pleasant carpet, Dick, not without some seriousness, made her sit down.

“Esther!” he began, “there is something you ought to know. You know my father is a rich man, and you would think, now that we love each other, we might marry when we pleased. But I fear, darling, we may have long to wait, and shall want all our courage.”

“I have courage for anything,” she said, “I have all I want; with you and my father, I am so well off, and waiting is made so happy, that I could wait a lifetime and not weary.”

He had a sharp pang at the mention of the Admiral. “Hear me out,” he continued. “I ought to have told you this before; but it is a thought I shrink from; if it were possible, I should not tell you even now. My poor father and I are scarce on speaking terms.”

“Your father,” she repeated, turning pale.

“It must sound strange to you; but yet I cannot think I am to blame,” he said. “I will tell you how it happened.”

“O Dick!” she said, when she had heard him to an end, “how brave you are, and how proud! Yet I would not be proud with a father. I would tell him all.”

“What!” cried Dick, “go in months after, and brag that I meant to thrash the man, and then didn’t? And why? Because my father had made a bigger ass of himself than I supposed. My dear, that’s nonsense.”

She winced at his words and drew away. “But then that is all he asks,” she pleaded. “If he only knew that you had felt that impulse, it would make him so proud and happy. He would see you were his own son after all, and had the same thoughts and the same chivalry of spirit. And then you did yourself injustice when you spoke just now. It was because the editor was weak and poor and excused himself, that you repented your first determination. Had he been a big red man, with whiskers, you would have beaten him – you know you would – if Mr. Naseby had been ten times more committed. Do you think, if you can tell it to me, and I understand at once, that it would be more difficult to tell it to your own father, or that he would not be more ready to sympathise with you than I am? And I love you, Dick; but then he is your father.”

“My dear,” said Dick desperately, “you do not understand; you do not know what it is to be treated with daily want of comprehension and daily small injustices, through childhood and boyhood and manhood, until you despair of a hearing, until the thing rides you like a nightmare, until you almost hate the sight of the man you love, and who’s your father after all. In short, Esther, you don’t know what it is to have a father, and that’s what blinds you.”

“I see,” she said musingly, “you mean that I am fortunate in my father. But I am not so fortunate, after all; you forget, I do not know him; it is you who know him; he is already more your father than mine.” And here she took his hand. Dick’s heart had grown as cold as ice. “But I am sorry for you, too,” she continued, “it must be very sad and lonely.”

“You misunderstand me,” said Dick chokingly. “My father is the best man I know in all this world; he is worth a hundred of me, only he doesn’t understand me, and he can’t be made to.”

There was a silence for a while. “Dick,” she began again, “I am going to ask a favour, it’s the first since you said you loved me. May I see your father – see him pass, I mean, where he will not observe me?”

“Why?” asked Dick.

“It is a fancy; you forget, I am romantic about fathers.”

The hint was enough for Dick; he consented with haste, and full of hang-dog penitence and disgust, took her down by a back way and planted her in the shrubbery, whence she might see the Squire ride by to dinner. There they both sat silent, but holding hands, for nearly half an hour. At last the trotting of a horse sounded in the distance, the park gates opened with a clang, and then Mr. Naseby appeared, with stooping shoulders and a heavy, bilious countenance, languidly rising to the trot. Esther recognised him at once; she had often seen him before, though with her huge indifference for all that lay outside the circle of her love, she had never so much as wondered who he was; but now she recognised him, and found him ten years older, leaden and springless, and stamped by an abiding sorrow.

“O Dick, Dick!” she said, and the tears began to shine upon her face as she hid it in his bosom; his own fell thickly too. They had a sad walk home, and that night, full of love and good counsel, Dick exerted every art to please his father, to convince him of his respect and affection, to heal up this breach of kindness, and reunite two hearts. But alas! the Squire was sick and peevish; he had been all day glooming over Dick’s estrangement – for so he put it to himself, and now with growls, cold words, and the cold shoulder, he beat off all advances, and entrenched himself in a just resentment.