Спрут: Калифорнийская история
Chapter IV
YOURbedisalwaysreadyforyouherewheneveryouwanttouseit.”
“No—IshallgobacktoQuienSabe—later.Good-night,sir.”
“Good-night,myboy.”
Vanameewasleftalone.Foralongtimehesatmotionlessinhisplace,hiselbowsonhisknees,hischinproppedinhishands.Theminutespassed—thenthehours.Themoonclimbedsteadilyhigheramongthestars.Vanameerolledandsmokedcigaretteaftercigarette,thebluehazeofsmokehangingmotionlessabovehishead,ordriftinginslowlyweavingfilamentsacrosstheopenspacesofthegarden.
Buttheinfluenceoftheoldenclosure,thiscornerofromanceandmystery,thisisolatedgardenofdreams,savouringofthepast,withitslegends,itsgraves,itscrumblingsundial,itsfountainwithitsrimeofmoss,wasnottoberesisted.Nowthatthepriesthadlefthim,thesameexaltationofspiritthathadseizeduponVanameeearlierintheevening,bydegreesgrewbigagaininhismindandimagination.Hissorrowassaultedhimliketheflagellationsofafinewhiplash,andhisloveforAngeleroseagaininhisheart,itseemedtohimneversodeep,sotender,soinfinitelystrong.Nodoubt,itwashisfamiliaritywiththeMissiongarden,hisclear-cutremembranceofit,asitwasinthedayswhenhehadmetAngelethere,tallyingnowsoexactlywiththerealitythereunderhiseyes,thatbroughthertohisimaginationsovividly.Asyethedarednottrusthimselfnearhergrave,but,forthemoment,heroseand,hishandsclaspedbehindhim,walkedslowlyfrompointtopointamidthetinygravelledwalks,recallingtheincidentsofeighteenyearsago.
