Повернення на батьківщину

VIII. Rain, Darkness, and Anxious Wanderers

           Itwasoneofthosenightswhencracksinthewallsofoldchurcheswiden,whenancientstainsontheceilingsofdecayedmanorhousesarerenewedandenlargedfromthesizeofaman’shandtoanareaofmanyfeet.Thelittlegateinthepalingsbeforehisdwellingcontinuallyopenedandclickedtogetheragain,butwhenhelookedouteagerlynobodywasthere;itwasasifinvisibleshapesofthedeadwerepassinginontheirwaytovisithim.

           Betweentenandeleveno’clock,findingthatneitherFairwaynoranybodyelsecametohim,heretiredtorest,anddespitehisanxietiessoonfellasleep.Hissleep,however,wasnotverysound,byreasonoftheexpectancyhehadgivenwayto,andhewaseasilyawakenedbyaknockingwhichbeganatthedooraboutanhourafter.Clymaroseandlookedoutofthewindow.Rainwasstillfallingheavily,thewholeexpanseofheathbeforehimemittingasubduedhissunderthedownpour.Itwastoodarktoseeanythingatall.

           “Who’sthere?”hecried.

           Lightfootstepsshiftedtheirpositionintheporch,andhecouldjustdistinguishinaplaintivefemalevoicethewords,“OClym,comedownandletmein!”

           Heflushedhotwithagitation.“SurelyitisEustacia!”hemurmured.Ifso,shehadindeedcometohimunawares.

           Hehastilygotalight,dressedhimself,andwentdown.Onhisflingingopenthedoortheraysofthecandlefelluponawomancloselywrappedup,whoatoncecameforward.

           “Thomasin!”heexclaimedinanindescribabletoneofdisappointment.

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Roboto Lora
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