Поющие в терновнике

Chapter 7

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ItwasfourinthemorningwhenFatherRalphgotthroughthelastgateandintotheHomePaddock,forhehadn’thurriedonthereturndrive.Allthroughithehadwilledhismindtoblankness;hewouldn’tlethimselfthink.NotofPaddyorofFee,orMeggieorthatstinkinggrossthingtheyhad(hedevoutlyhoped)pouredintohercoffin.Insteadheopenedhiseyesandhismindtothenight,totheghostlysilverofdeadtreesstandinglonelyinthegleaminggrass,totheheart-of-darknessshadowscastbystandsoftimber,tothefullmoonridingtheheavenslikeanairybubble.Oncehestoppedthecarandgotout,walkedtoawirefenceandleanedonitstautnesswhilehebreathedinthegumsandthebewitchingaromaofwildflowers.Thelandwassobeautiful,sopure,soindifferenttothefatesofthecreatureswhopresumedtoruleit.Theymightputtheirhandstoit,butinthelongrunitruledthem.Untiltheycoulddirecttheweatherandsummonuptherain,ithadtheupperhand.

Heparkedhiscarsomedistancebehindthehouseandwalkedslowlytowardit.Everywindowwasfulloflight;faintlyfromthehousekeeper’squartershecouldhearthesoundofMrs.SmithleadingthetwoIrishmaidsinarosary.Ashadowmovedundertheblacknessofthewistariavine;hestoppedshort,hishacklesrising.Shehadgottohiminmorewaysthanone,theoldspider.ButitwasonlyMeggie,patientlywaitingforhimtocomeback.Shewasinjodhpursandboots,verymuchalive.