Читать книгу The Poisoned Paradise - Robert William Service - Страница 24

One day in late October he lay on his bed staring drearily at the soiled ceiling, and wondering if in all London there was a lad more unhappy than he.

"A lunger," he thought bitterly. "Rotten timber! A burden to myself and others. Soon I must take up the fight again and I'm tired, tired. I want to rest, do nothing for a year or two. Well, I won't give in. I'll put up a good scrap yet. I'll——"

Here a knock came at the door. It was the little doctor cheery and twinkling.

"Hullo! How's the health to-day?"

"Better, doctor; I'll soon be able to go back to the office."

The doctor laughed: "If you remain in London another six months you'll be a dead man."

"What would you have me do?"

"Go away. Live in a warm climate. Egypt, Algeria, the Riviera."

"And if I go away how long will I live?"

"Oh, probably sixty years."

"Quite a difference. Well, doctor, I expect I'll have to stick it out here. You see, I've no money, no friends. Even now I'm living on the charity of the firm. They've been awfully decent, but I can't expect them to go on much longer."

"Have you no relatives?"

"None that I know of. I'm absolutely alone in the world."

"Well, well! We'll see about it. Surely something can be done. Don't get down-hearted. Everything will come out all right."

The little doctor went away, and Hugh continued to stare at the soiled ceiling. There came to him a desperate vision of palms and sunshine. But that was not for him. He must stay in this raw bleak London and perish as many a young chap had perished....

Next morning came another knock at the door. It was Mr. Ainger.

"Well, my lad, how are you feeling?"

"A little better. I hope I'll soon be able to get back to my ledger."

"Nonsense, my boy! You'll never come back. You're expected to hand in your resignation. The doctor holds out no hope. You can't go on drawing on your salary indefinitely."

Hugh swallowed hard. "No, that's right. You've treated me square. I can't complain."

"Complain, I should say not; look here...."

With that Mr. Ainger took from his pocket a sheaf of crisp Bank of England notes and began to spread them out on the bed.

"Twelve of them. Ten pounds each. All yours. We collected sixty pounds in the office and the firm doubled it. And now you're going to eternal sunshine, to blue skies, to a land where people are merry and sing the whole day long. You've escaped the slimy clutch of commerce. Gad! I envy you!"

"Do you really, sir?"

"Yes. I wanted to live in Italy, Greece, Spain; to roam, to be a vagabond, to be free. But I married, had children, became a slave chained to the oar. One thing though,—my boys will never be square pegs in round holes. They'll have the chance I never had."

"Perhaps it's not too late."

"No, perhaps not. Perhaps some day I'll join you down there. Perhaps when I get things settled, I'll live under those careless skies where living is rapture. I'll get back my own soul. I'll write that book, I've tried all my life to write. Perhaps ... it's my dream, my dream...."

Mr. Ainger turned abruptly and went out, leaving Hugh staring incredulously at the counterpane of notes that covered his bed.