Дні мрій
The Twenty-first Of October
Andthepeopleusedtowatchfor’emcoming,totellthetimeby,andp’r’apstogettheirparcels.Andonemorning—theywouldn’tbeexpectinganythingdifferent—onemorning,firsttherewouldbeacloudofdust,asusual,andthenthecoachwouldcomeracingby,andTHENtheywouldknow!Forthecoachwouldbedressedinlaurel,alllaurelfromstemtostern!Andthecoachmanwouldbewearinglaurel,andtheguardwouldbewearinglaurel;andthentheywouldknow,thentheywouldknow!”
Haroldlistenedinrespectfulsilence.Hewouldmuchratherhavebeenhuntingthemole,whomusthavebeenamileawaybythistimeifhehadhiswitsabouthim.Buthehadallthenaturalinstinctsofagentleman;ofwhomitisoneoftheprincipalmarks,ifnotthecompletedefinition,nevertoshowsignsofbeingbored.
Selinarosetoherfeet,andpacedtheturfrestlesslywithashortquarter-deckwalk.
“Whycan’tweDOsomething?”sheburstoutpresently.“HE—hedideverything—whycan’twedoanythingforhim?”
“WHOdideverything?”inquiredHarold,meekly.Itwasuselesswastingfurtherlongingsonthatmole.Likethedead,hetravelledfast.
“Why,Nelson,ofcourse,”saidSelina,shortly,stilllookingrestlesslyaroundforhelporsuggestion.
“Buthe’s—he’sDEAD,isn’the?”askedHarold,slightlypuzzled.
“What’sthatgottodowithit?”retortedhissister,resuminghercaged-lionpromenade.
Haroldwassomewhattakenaback.Inthecaseofthepig,forinstance,whoselastoutcryhadnowpassedintostillness,hehadconsideredthechapterasfinallyclosed.
