malvina of brittany-第26部分

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had　written　some　short　pieces　of　a　less　ambitious　nature。　　It　was　in
bitter　disappointment　he　commenced　them；　regarding　them　as　mere
pot…boilers。　　He　would　not　give　them　his　name。　　He　signed　them
〃Aston　Rowant。〃　　It　was　the　name　of　the　village　in　Oxfordshire　where
he　had　been　born。　　It　occurred　to　him　by　chance。　　It　would　serve　the
purpose　as　well　as　another。　　As　the　work　progressed　it　grew　upon
him。　　He　made　his　stories　out　of　incidents　and　people　he　had　seen；
everyday　comedies　and　tragedies　that　he　had　lived　among；　of　things
that　he　had　felt；　and　when　after　their　appearance　in　the　magazine　a
publisher　was　found　willing　to　make　them　into　a　book；　hope　revived
in　him。

It　was　but　short…lived。　　The　few　reviews　that　reached　him　contained
nothing　but　ridicule。　　So　he　had　no　place　even　as　a　literary　hack！

He　was　living　in　Paris　at　the　time　in　a　noisy；　evil…smelling　street
leading　out　of　the　Quai　Saint…Michel。　　He　thought　of　Chatterton；　and
would　loaf　on　the　bridges　looking　down　into　the　river　where　the
drowned　lights　twinkled。

And　then　one　day　there　came　to　him　a　letter；　sent　on　to　him　from　the
publisher　of　his　one　book。　　It　was　signed　〃Sylvia；〃　nothing　else；
and　bore　no　address。　　Matthew　picked　up　the　envelope。　　The　postmark
was　〃London；　S。E。〃

It　was　a　childish　letter。　　A　prosperous；　well…fed　genius；　familiar
with　such；　might　have　smiled　at　it。　　To　Matthew　in　his　despair　it
brought　healing。　　She　had　found　the　book　lying　in　an　empty　railway
carriage；　and　undeterred　by　moral　scruples　had　taken　it　home　with
her。　　It　had　remained　forgotten　for　a　time；　until　when　the　end
really　seemed　to　have　come　her　hand　by　chance　had　fallen　on　it。　　She
fancied　some　kind　little　wandering　spiritthe　spirit　perhaps　of
someone　who　had　known　what　it　was　to　be　lonely　and　very　sad　and　just
about　broken　almostmust　have　manoeuvred　the　whole　thing。　　It　had
seemed　to　her　as　though　some　strong　and　gentle　hand　had　been　laid
upon　her　in　the　darkness。　　She　no　longer　felt　friendless。　　And　so
on。

The　book；　he　remembered；　contained　a　reference　to　the　magazine　in
which　the　sketches　had　first　appeared。　　She　would　be　sure　to　have
noticed　this。　　He　would　send　her　his　answer。　　He　drew　his　chair　up
to　the　flimsy　table；　and　all　that　night　he　wrote。

He　did　not　have　to　think。　　It　came　to　him；　and　for　the　first　time
since　the　beginning　of　things　he　had　no　fear　of　its　not　being
accepted。　　It　was　mostly　about　himself；　and　the　rest　was　about　her；
but　to　most　of　those　who　read　it　two　months　later　it　seemed　to　be
about　themselves。　　The　editor　wrote　a　charming　letter；　thanking　him
for　it；　but　at　the　time　the　chief　thing　that　worried　him　was　whether
〃Sylvia〃　had　seen　it。　　He　waited　anxiously　for　a　few　weeks；　and　then
received　her　second　letter。　　It　was　a　more　womanly　letter　than　the
first。　　She　had　understood　the　story；　and　her　words　of　thanks　almost
conveyed　to　him　the　flush　of　pleasure　with　which　she　had　read　it。
His　friendship；　she　confessed；　would　be　very　sweet　to　her；　and　still
more　delightful　the　thought　that　he　had　need　of　her：　　that　she　also
had　something　to　give。　　She　would　write；　as　he　wished；　her　real
thoughts　and　feelings。　　They　would　never　know　one　another；　and　that
would　give　her　boldness。　　They　would　be　comrades；　meeting　only　in
dreamland。

In　this　way　commenced　the　whimsical　romance　of　Sylvia　and　Aston
Rowant；　for　it　was　too　late　now　to　change　the　nameit　had　become　a
name　to　conjure　with。　　The　stories；　poems；　and　essays　followed　now
in　regular　succession。　　The　anxiously　expected　letters　reached　him
in　orderly　procession。　　They　grew　in　interest；　in　helpfulness。　　They
became　the　letters　of　a　wonderfully　sane；　broad…minded；　thoughtful
womana　woman　of　insight；　of　fine　judgment。　　Their　praise　was　rare
enough　to　be　precious。　　Often　they　would　contain　just　criticism；
tempered　by　sympathy；　lightened　by　humour。　　Of　her　troubles；
sorrows；　fears；　she　came　to　write　less　and　less；　and　even　then　not
until　they　were　past　and　she　could　laugh　at　them。　　The　subtlest
flattery　she　gave　him　was　the　suggestion　that　he　had　taught　her　to
put　these　things　into　their　proper　place。　　Intimate；　self…revealing
as　her　letters　were；　it　was　curious　he　never　shaped　from　them　any
satisfactory　image　of　the　writer。

A　brave；　kind；　tender　woman。　　A　self…forgetting；　quickly…forgiving
woman。　　A　many…sided　woman；　responding　to　joy；　to　laughter：　　a　merry
lady；　at　times。　　Yet　by　no　means　a　perfect　woman。　　There　could　be
flashes　of　temper；　one　felt　that；　quite　often　occasional
unreasonableness；　a　tongue　that　could　be　cutting。　　A　sweet；　restful；
greatly　loving　woman；　but　still　a　woman：　　it　would　be　wise　to
remember　that。　　So　he　read　her　from　her　letters。　　But　herself；　the
eyes；　and　hair；　and　lips　of　her；　the　voice　and　laugh　and　smile　of
her；　the　hands　and　feet　of　her；　always　they　eluded　him。


He　was　in　Alaska　one　spring；　where　he　had　gone　to　collect　material
for　his　work；　when　he　received　the　last　letter　she　ever　wrote　him。
They　neither　of　them　knew　then　it　would　be　the　last。　　She　was
leaving　London；　so　the　postscript　informed　him；　sailing　on　the
following　Saturday　for　New　York；　where　for　the　future　she　intended
to　live。

It　worried　him　that　postscript。　　He　could　not　make　out　for　a　long
time　why　it　worried　him。　　Suddenly；　in　a　waste　of　endless　snows；　the
explanation　flashed　across　him。　　Sylvia　of　the　letters　was　a　living
woman！　　She　could　travelwith　a　box；　he　supposed；　possibly　with　two
or　three；　and　parcels。　　Could　take　tickets；　walk　up　a　gangway；
stagger　about　a　deck　feeling；　maybe；　a　little　seasick。　　All　these
years　he　had　been　living　with　her　in　dreamland　she　had　been；　if　he
had　only　known　it；　a　Miss　Somebody…or…other；　who　must　have　stood
every　morning　in　front　of　a　looking…glass　with　hairpins　in　her
mouth。　　He　had　never　thought　of　her　doing　these　things；　it　shocked
him。　　He　could　not　help　feeling　it　was　indelicate　of　hercoming　to
life　in　this　sudden；　uncalled…for　manner。

He　struggled　with　this　new　conception　of　her；　and　had　almost
forgiven　her；　when　a　further　and　still　more　startling　suggestion
arrived　to　plague　him。　　If　she　really　lived　why　should　he　not　see
her；　speak　to　her？　　So　long　as　she　had　remained　in　her　hidden
temple；　situate　in　the　vague　recesses　of　London；　S。E。；　her　letters
had　contented　him。　　But　now　that　she　had　moved；　now　that　she　was　no
longer　a　voice　but　a　woman！　　Well；　it　would　be　interesting　to　see
what　she　was　like。　　He　imagined　the　introduction：　　〃Miss　Somebody…
or…other；　allow　me　to　present　you　to　Mr。　Matthew　Pole。〃　　She　would
have　no　idea　he　was　Aston　Rowant。　　If　she　happened　to　be　young；
beautiful；　in　all　ways　satisfactory；　he　would　announce　himself。　　How
astonished；　how　delighted　she　would　be。

But　if　not！　　If　she　were　elderly；　plain？　　The　wisest；　wittiest　of
women　have　been　known　to　have　an　incipient　moustache。　　A　beautiful
spirit　can；　and　sometimes　does；　look　out　of　goggle　eyes。　　Suppose
she　suffered　from　indigestion　and　had　a　shiny　nose！　　Would　her
letters　ever　again　have　the　same　charm　for　him？　　Absurd　that　they
should　not。　　But　would　they？

The　risk　was　too　great。　　Giving　the　matter　long　and　careful
consideration；　he　decided　to　send　her　back　into　dreamland。

But　somehow　she　would　not　go　back　into　dreamland；　would　persist　in
remaining　in　New　York；　a　living；　breathing　woman。

Yet　even　so；　how　could　he　find　her？　　He　might；　say；　in　a　poem　convey
to　her　his　desire　for　a　meeting。　　Would　she　comply？　　And　if　she　did；
what　would　be　his　position；　supposing　the　inspection　to　result
unfavourably　for　her？　　Could　he；　in　effect；　say　to　her：　　〃Thank　you
for　letting　me　have　a　look　at　you；　that　is　all　I　wanted。　　Good…bye〃？

She　must；　she　should　remain　in　dreamland。　　He　would　forget　her
postscript；　in　future　throw　her　envelopes　unglanced　at　into　the
wastepaper　basket。　　Having　by　this　simple　exercise　of　his　will
replaced　her　in　London；　he　himself　started　for　New　Yorkon　his　way
back　to　Europe；　so　he　told　himself。　　Still；　being　in　New　York；　there
was　no　reason　for　not　lingering　there　a　while；　if　merely　to　renew
old　memories。

Of　course；　if　he　had　really　wanted　to　find　Sylvia　it　would　have　been
easy　from　the　date　upon　the　envelope　to　have　discovered　the　ship
〃sailing　the　following　Saturday。〃　　Passengers　were　compelled　to
register　their　names　in　full；　and　to　state　their　intended　movements
after　arrival　in　America。　　Sylvia　was　not　a　common　Christian　name。
By　the　help　of　a　five…dollar　bill　or　two。　　The　idea　had　not
occurred　to　him　before。　　He　dismissed　it　from　his　mind　and　sought　a
quiet　hotel　up　town。


New　York　was　changed　less　than　he　had　anticipated。　　West　Twentieth
Street　in　particular　was　precisely　as；　leaning　out　of　the　cab
window；　he　had　looked　back　upon　it　ten　years　ago。　　Business　had　more
and　more　taken　possession　of　it；　but　had　not　as　yet　altered　its
appearance。　　His　conscience　smote　him　as　he　turned　the　corner　that
he　had　never　once　written　to　Ann。　　He　had　meant　to；　it　goes　without
saying；　but　during　those　first　years　of　struggle　and　failure　his
pride　had　held　him　back。　　She　had　always　thought　him　a　fool；　he　had
felt　she　did。　　He　would　wait　till　he　could　write　to　her　of　success；
of　victory。　　And　then　when　it　had　slowly；　almost　imperceptibly；
arrived！　　He　wondered　why　he　never　had。　　Quite　a　nice　little　girl；
in　some　respects。　　If　only　she　had　been　less　conceited；　less
self…willed。　　Also　rather　a　pretty　girl　she　had　shown　signs　of
becoming。　　There　were　times　　He　remembered　an　evening　before　the
lamps　were　lighted。　　She　had　fallen　asleep　curled　up　in　Abner's　easy
chair；　one　small　hand　resting　upon　the　arm。　　She　had　always　had
quite　attractive　handsa　little　too　thin。　　Something　had　moved　him
to　steal　across　softly　without　waking　her。　　He　smiled　at　the　memory。

And　then　her　eyes；　beneath　the　level　brows！　　It　was　surprising　how
Ann　was　coming　back　to　him。　　Perhaps　they　would　be　able　to　tell　him；
the　people　of　the　house；　what　had　become　of　her。　　If　they　were
decent　people　they　would　let　him　wander　round　a　while。　　He　would
explain　that　he　had　lived　there　in　Abner　Herrick's　time。　　The　room
where　they　had　sometimes　been　agreeable　to　one　another　while　Abner；
pretending　to　read；　had　sat　watching　them　out　of　the　corner　of　an
eye。　　He