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移除书签Theodore Savage · Chapter 3 (2/2)
The last words came out involuntarily, and it was only the startled, sudden change in her face that brought home to him what he had said.
“I want war,” she echoed. … “I want men to be killed. … Theodore, what makes you say that?”
He fumbled for words, not sure of his own meaning—sure only that her eyes would change and lose their fervour if, at the last moment and by God-sent miracle, the sword were returned to its sheath.
“Not that, of course—not the actual fighting. I didn’t mean that. … But isn’t there something in you—in you and in everyone—that’s too strong to be arrested? Too swift? … If nothing happened—if we drew back—you couldn’t be still now; you couldn’t endure it. …”
She looked at him thoughtfully, puzzled, half-assenting; then protested again: “I don’t want it—but we can’t be still and endure evil.”
“No,” he said, “we can’t—but isn’t there a gladness in the thought that we can’t?”
“Because we’re right,” she flashed. “It’s not selfish—you know it isn’t selfish. We see what is right and, whatever it costs us, we stand for it. The greatest gladness of all is the gladness of giving—everything, even life. … That’s what makes me wish I were a man!”
“The passion for self-sacrifice,” he said, quoting Markham. “I was told the other day it was one of the causes of war. … Don’t look at me so reproachfully—I’m not a pacifist. Give me a kiss and believe me.”
She laughed and gave him the kiss he asked for, and for a minute or two he drew her out of the crowd-life and they were alone together as they had been on the night of their betrothal. Then the spirit of restlessness took hold of her again and she rose suddenly, declaring they must find out what was happening—they must go out and see for themselves.
“It’s only just past ten,” he argued. “What can be happening for another two hours? There’ll only be a crowd—walking up and down and waiting.”
It was just the crowd and its going to and fro that she needed, and she set to work to coax him out of his reluctance. There would never be another night like this one—they must see it together and remember it as long as they lived. … Perhaps, her point gained, she was remorseful, for she rewarded his assent with a caress and a coaxing apology.
“We shall have so many evenings to ourselves,” she told him—“and tonight—tonight we don’t only belong to ourselves.”
He could feel her arm tremble and thrill on his own as they came in sight of the Clock Tower and the swarm of expectant humanity that moved and murmured round Westminster. On him the first impression was of seething insignificance that the Clock Tower dwarfed and the dignity of night reproved; on her, as he knew by the trembling of her fingers, a quickening of life and sensation. …
They were still at the shifting edges of the crowd when a man’s voice called “Phillida!” and one of her undergraduate cousins linked himself on to their company. For nearly an hour the three moved backwards and forwards—through the hum and mutter of voices, the ceaseless turning of eyes to Big Ben and the shuffling of innumerable feet. … When the quarters chimed, there was always a hush; when eleven throbbed solemnly, no man stirred till the last beat died. … With silence and arrested movement the massed humanity at the base of the Clock Tower was no longer a seething insignificance; without speech, without motion, it was suddenly dignified—life faced with its destiny and intent upon a Moving Finger. …
“Only one more hour,” whispered Phillida as the silence broke; and the Rathbone boy, to show he was not moved, wondered if it was worth their while to stay pottering about for an hour? … No one answered his question, since it needed no answer; and, the dignity of silence over, they drifted again with the crowd.
