Дні мрій
The Twenty-first Of October
ThereshewaspresentlyjoinedbyHarold,breathlessandveryfullofhislatestgrievance.
“Iaskedhimnotto,”heburstout.“Isaidifhe’donlypleasewaitabitandEdwardwouldbebacksoon,anditcouldn’tmattertoHIM,andthepigwouldn’tmind,andEdward’dbepleasedandeverybody’dbehappy.Buthejustsaidhewasverysorry,butbacondidn’twaitfornobody.SoItoldhimhewasaregularbeast,andthenIcameaway.And—andIb’lievethey’redoingitnow!”
“Yes,he’sabeast,”agreedSelina,absently.Shehadforgottenallaboutthepig-killing.Haroldkickedawayafreshlythrown-upmole-hill,andproddeddowntheholewithastick.FromthedirectionofFarmerLarkin’sdemesnecamealong-drawnnoteofsorrow,athincryandappeal,tellingthatthestoutsoulofablackBerkshirepigwasalreadyfaringdownthestonytracktoHades.
“D’youknowwhatdayitis?”saidSelinapresently,inalowvoice,lookingfarawaybeforeher.
Harolddidnotappeartoknow,noryettocare.Hehadlaidopenhismole-runforayardorso,andwasstillgrubbingatitabsorbedly.
“It’sTrafalgarDay,”wentonSelina,trancedly;“TrafalgarDay—andnobodycares!”
SomethinginhertonetoldHaroldthathewasnotbehavingquitebecomingly.Hedidn’texactlyknowinwhatmanner;still,heabandonedhismole-huntforamorecourteousattitudeofattention.
“Overthere,”resumedSelina—shewasgazingoutinthedirectionoftheoldhighroad—“overtherethecoachesusedtogoby.UncleThomaswastellingmeaboutittheotherday.
