Oscar and Lucinda: читать книгу онлайн полностью и бесплатно

"Yes," she said, "most sad."

"I know, ma'am, I know, but he is in error, you see."

"But still you will go home to him," she said, but looking at her husband whose intentions she had not divined. She expected to see his face twisted in anxiety about this matter. Money would be a trouble

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Raisins

for him, that most of all. She was surprised therefore to see his grin transmogrified into a beneficent smile.

"But still," said Mrs Stratton, continuing to look at her husband. "Still you shall go home to him." She added: "Hugh?"

"Oh, no," said Oscar, and he banged his hand upon his knee in an agony of agitation. Beneath the banging hand, his knee rose and fell, his foot drumming the Turkoman which made Hugh Stratton-in spite of his triumph-think about the rot in the floor joists.

"I cannot," said Oscar, still not crying, but the face so frail, so white, pulled into furrow lines by the clench of the fine little jaw. "No matter how I yearn to."

"But surely," she said, "surely your father loves you?"

"Yes, yes, most dreadfully." The tears had come now, but the boy had not lost control. Mrs Stratton extended her napkin a little and then, not having the offer accepted, withdrew it. She extended a hand to his shaking shoulder but did not feel she had a call to be intimate. He looked alien to her now, like a praying mantis-those long thin limbs shaking with agitation, the raw scratched hands wiping the triangular face. She thought this and still felt great compassion.

"I also love him," said Oscar, with some effort.

The gooseberries and custard were then brought in by Mrs Millar who was surprised to see Mr Stratton serve the boy himself. He doled out excessive quantities of custard. It was not like him to be so generous towards a guest. Mrs Stratton also observed this custard-ladling with interest.

"I could not otherwise."

"Otherwise?" said Mrs Stratton. "Please have sugar if you wish."

"Otherwise than to love him." He accepted the very small handkerchief which Mrs Stratton gave him. He had never seen anything like it; it had fragile lace around its edges. He blew his nose thoroughly and judged the lace a poor material for such a task. "But the dispute is not personal so much," he did not know what to do with the handkerchief ("Keep it, keep it," said Mrs Stratton),

"not so much personal as theological. You see," he said, "he is not saved."

"What a remarkable boy you are," said Mrs Stratton.

Oscar, in spite of his agony, felt pleased to accept this compliment and he tucked it away carefully just as he now tucked away this hard warm ball of wet handkerchief into the depth of his pocket. He was a remarkable boy.

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Oscar and Lucinda

"But, Oliver," said Mrs Stratton, "we cannot steal you from your father, even if we wished."

"It is not Oliver," said Mr Stratton (rather smugly, thought Mrs Stratton).

"What is it, then?"

"It is Oscar," said Mr Stratton.

"Oscar?",

"Yes."

"What an extraordinary name," said Mrs Stratton.

"I am named after an old friend of my father's."

"Was he a foreigner?" asked Mrs Stratton, but her mind was not on her interrogation. Her husband had unsettled her. She did not understand his face. It bore a calm and powerful look it had not shown for years. He was very still, and this stillness was perhaps the source of his power. In any case it was most unusual.