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- Фрэнк Норрис
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“
Better
go
to
bed
,
sir
.
I
am
not
tired
.
I
think
I
shall
sit
out
here
a
little
longer
.
”
“
Well
,
perhaps
I
would
be
better
off
in
bed
.
YOUR
bed
is
always
ready
for
you
here
whenever
you
want
to
use
it
.
”
“
No
—
I
shall
go
back
to
Quien
Sabe
—
later
.
Good
-
night
,
sir
.
”
“
Good
-
night
,
my
boy
.
”
Vanamee
was
left
alone
.
For
a
long
time
he
sat
motionless
in
his
place
,
his
elbows
on
his
knees
,
his
chin
propped
in
his
hands
.
The
minutes
passed
—
then
the
hours
.
The
moon
climbed
steadily
higher
among
the
stars
.
Vanamee
rolled
and
smoked
cigarette
after
cigarette
,
the
blue
haze
of
smoke
hanging
motionless
above
his
head
,
or
drifting
in
slowly
weaving
filaments
across
the
open
spaces
of
the
garden
.
But
the
influence
of
the
old
enclosure
,
this
corner
of
romance
and
mystery
,
this
isolated
garden
of
dreams
,
savouring
of
the
past
,
with
its
legends
,
its
graves
,
its
crumbling
sun
dial
,
its
fountain
with
its
rime
of
moss
,
was
not
to
be
resisted
.
Now
that
the
priest
had
left
him
,
the
same
exaltation
of
spirit
that
had
seized
upon
Vanamee
earlier
in
the
evening
,
by
degrees
grew
big
again
in
his
mind
and
imagination
.
His
sorrow
assaulted
him
like
the
flagellations
of
a
fine
whiplash
,
and
his
love
for
Angele
rose
again
in
his
heart
,
it
seemed
to
him
never
so
deep
,
so
tender
,
so
infinitely
strong
.
No
doubt
,
it
was
his
familiarity
with
the
Mission
garden
,
his
clear
-
cut
remembrance
of
it
,
as
it
was
in
the
days
when
he
had
met
Angele
there
,
tallying
now
so
exactly
with
the
reality
there
under
his
eyes
,
that
brought
her
to
his
imagination
so
vividly
.
As
yet
he
dared
not
trust
himself
near
her
grave
,
but
,
for
the
moment
,
he
rose
and
,
his
hands
clasped
behind
him
,
walked
slowly
from
point
to
point
amid
the
tiny
gravelled
walks
,
recalling
the
incidents
of
eighteen
years
ago
.
On
the
bench
he
had
quitted
he
and
Angele
had
often
sat
.
Here
by
the
crumbling
sun
dial
,
he
recalled
the
night
when
he
had
kissed
her
for
the
first
time
.
Here
,
again
,
by
the
rim
of
the
fountain
,
with
its
fringe
of
green
,
she
once
had
paused
,
and
,
baring
her
arm
to
the
shoulder
,
had
thrust
it
deep
into
the
water
,
and
then
withdrawing
it
,
had
given
it
to
him
to
kiss
,
all
wet
and
cool
;
and
here
,
at
last
,
under
the
shadow
of
the
pear
trees
they
had
sat
,
evening
after
evening
,
looking
off
over
the
little
valley
below
them
,
watching
the
night
build
itself
,
dome
-
like
,
from
horizon
to
zenith
.
Brusquely
Vanamee
turned
away
from
the
prospect
.
The
Seed
ranch
was
dark
at
this
time
of
the
year
,
and
flowerless
.
Far
off
toward
its
centre
,
he
had
caught
a
brief
glimpse
of
the
house
where
Angele
had
lived
,
and
a
faint
light
burning
in
its
window
.
But
he
turned
from
it
sharply
.
The
deep
-
seated
travail
of
his
grief
abruptly
reached
the
paroxysm
.
With
long
strides
he
crossed
the
garden
and
reentered
the
Mission
church
itself
,
plunging
into
the
coolness
of
its
atmosphere
as
into
a
bath
.
What
he
searched
for
he
did
not
know
,
or
,
rather
,
did
not
define
.
He
knew
only
that
he
was
suffering
,
that
a
longing
for
Angele
,
for
some
object
around
which
his
great
love
could
enfold
itself
,
was
tearing
at
his
heart
with
iron
teeth
.
He
was
ready
to
be
deluded
;
craved
the
hallucination
;
begged
pitifully
for
the
illusion
;
anything
rather
than
the
empty
,
tenantless
night
,
the
voiceless
silence
,
the
vast
loneliness
of
the
overspanning
arc
of
the
heavens
.
Before
the
chancel
rail
of
the
altar
,
under
the
sanctuary
lamp
,
Vanamee
sank
upon
his
knees
,
his
arms
folded
upon
the
rail
,
his
head
bowed
down
upon
them
.
He
prayed
,
with
what
words
he
could
not
say
for
what
he
did
not
understand
—
for
help
,
merely
,
for
relief
,
for
an
Answer
to
his
cry
.
