The Sword and the Net полностью

He put the last plate upon the pile. He turned slowly and went half-way across the earthen floor towards her and then sat, cross-legged as she was, and faced her. He felt a return of apprehension—and so that she should not see anything of this in his face, pulled out his packet of cigarettes and made a business of choosing one and lighting it. He could feel her eyes upon him, and he could feel the dully aching weight of the sorrow he felt for her and the sense of his guilt in the causing of that sorrow. But above these emotions and surpassing them was the fear that he felt for her; the fear which was behind the sick weight of apprehension. Nothing had happened! They were here in remote and effective hiding—and there was no sign or hint of the Machine! They had not seen or sensed pursuit at any time! There had been no narrow escape from the net; no glimpse even of its meshes! Everything had been too easy; too eerily, uncannily simple! And no matter how much cold fact he presented to his mind in argument; no matter how lucidly he found reasons to suppose that the simplicity might be no more dangerous in fact than it seemed at first glance; no matter how possible and even likely it might be that accident and his tactics could have baffled the Machine—the less comfort did he have and the more did apprehension seep through him.

He shook his head to clear it. His cigarette was lighted. He had to look at her. He did look at her. He said:

“You are sure you wish to talk?” and knew that the words were meaningless, unnecessary.

She said: “Quite sure.” She ground out her cigarette in the saucer which was on the floor beside the canvas pillow. “I want to tell you not to hurt yourself inside like this. Don’t, Nils! Please don’t! You’re not to go on blaming yourself for . . . for father’s death. And for hurting me. You’re not to—because although it all happened through you, it wasn’t by you!” Her voice was soft and deep and cool again, and there was no hint in its tones of tears or even strain. She said:

“I’m trying to make you understand—and I don’t know whether I can. The words don’t seem to come right somehow. But I think I ought to start by saying that this . . . this crusade of yours—is too big to be hampered by the little, personal affairs of yourself or any men and women you may happen to know. Father felt like that about it. I know he did. He told me he did. We talked about you all the time after you’d gone—and I know what he thought. And he was right! He was always right about big things. He said: ‘That boy’s standing for the only hope of the decent men: he represents the decent men!’ . . . That’s what he said. And he was always right about big things!”

The candle that was by her on the floor began to gutter and she pinched out its flame and was half in light now and half in shadow. But Otto could see her eyes. Their gaze was fixed upon his face and they shone.

He thought he would speak, but his throat was stiff and aching and he did not.

She said: “I’m only sorry for myself that . . . that he’s dead. I’m not sorry for him. He died quickly and he was fighting for what he believed in. He . . . he liked dying that way. . . . He was the most wonderful person—and he was always a soldier. . . .” Her voice was very low now; so low that Otto could just only hear the words. She said:

“I used to think that there would never be anyone I could respect as much as I respected him. But now there’s you. . . .”

She broke off speech—and suddenly, amazingly, a little laugh came from her; a tender small ghost of a laugh. She said:

“Do you know the last thing he said about you, Nils? He said: ‘I wish that boy were my son; but he needs that sense of humour developed. Develop it, Clare, for God’s sake, develop it!’ . . . That’s what he said—and I promised him I would and I will! . . .”

She fell silent. She was not looking at Otto any more, but away into some happy distance of her own; happy yet tinted with nostalgic melancholy.

The candle nearest Otto began to gutter. He stretched out a hand and nipped out the flame and then put the hand to his throat and squeezed at it with powerful fingers. He swallowed, but the aching lump persisted. He could hardly see her now—only a shadowy outline. He said, with difficulty:

“Now there is something I must say to you. I must say that I understand what you have said but that I shall always know that it was through my fault that your father was killed and that Los Robles was burned to hide the signs of what had happened and that you yourself were put into this . . . dirtiness and danger!”

She said: “Nils! Nils! Please, you mustn’t!”