Біла пташка
Pilkington’s
Idroppedhishandandwalkedoninsilence,andpresentlyIdidmymostchurlishtohurthimbyendingthestoryabruptlyinaverycruelway.“Tenyearshaveelapsed,”saidI,“sinceIlastspoke,andourtwoheroes,nowgayyoungmen,arerevisitingthewreckedislandoftheirchildhood.’Didwewreckourselves,’saidone,’orwastheresomeonetohelpus?’Andtheotherwhowastheyounger,replied,’Ithinktherewassomeonetohelpus,amanwithadog.IthinkheusedtotellmestoriesintheKensingtonGardens,butIforgetallabouthim;Idon’trememberevenhisname.’”
ThistameendingboredBailey,andhedriftedawayfromus,butDavidstillwalkedbymyside,andhewasgrownsoquietthatIknewastormwasbrewing.Suddenlyheflashedlightningonme.“It’snottrue,”hecried,“it’salie!”Hegrippedmyhand.“Isha’n’tneverforgetyou,father.”
Strangethatalittleboycangivesomuchpleasure.
YetIcouldgoon.“Youwillforget,David,buttherewasonceaboywhowouldhaveremembered.”
“Timothy?”saidheatonce.HethinksTimothywasarealboy,andisveryjealousofhim.Heturnedhisbacktome,andstoodaloneandweptpassionately,whileIwaitedforhim.YoumaybesureIbeggedhispardon,andmadeitallrightwithhim,andhadhimlaughingandhappyagainbeforeIlethimgo.ButneverthelesswhatIsaidwastrue.Davidisnotmyboy,andhewillforget.ButTimothywouldhaveremembered.
