Тяжкі часи

Stephen Blackpool

           

           ‘Neverfretaboutthem,Stephen,’sheansweredquickly,andnotwithoutananxiousglanceathisface.‘Letthelawsbe.’

           ‘Yes,’hesaid,withaslownodortwo.‘Let’embe.Leteverythingbe.Letallsortsalone.’Tisamuddle,andthat’saw.’

           ‘Alwaysamuddle?’saidRachael,withanothergentletouchuponhisarm,asiftorecallhimoutofthethoughtfulness,inwhichhewasbitingthelongendsofhislooseneckerchiefashewalkedalong.Thetouchhaditsinstantaneouseffect.Heletthemfall,turnedasmilingfaceuponher,andsaid,ashebrokeintoagood-humouredlaugh,‘Ay,Rachael,lass,awlusamuddle.That’swhereIstick.Icometothemuddlemanytimesandagen,andInevergetbeyondit.’

           Theyhadwalkedsomedistance,andwereneartheirownhomes.Thewoman’swasthefirstreached.Itwasinoneofthemanysmallstreetsforwhichthefavouriteundertaker(whoturnedahandsomesumoutoftheonepoorghastlypompoftheneighbourhood)keptablackladder,inorderthatthosewhohaddonetheirdailygropingupanddownthenarrowstairsmightslideoutofthisworkingworldbythewindows.Shestoppedatthecorner,andputtingherhandinhis,wishedhimgoodnight.

           ‘Goodnight,dearlass;goodnight!’

           Shewent,withherneatfigureandhersoberwomanlystep,downthedarkstreet,andhestoodlookingafterheruntilsheturnedintooneofthesmallhouses.

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