pgw.piccadillyjim-第42章

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　〃Grrrh！〃　observed　Miss　Trimble；　and　departed。
　
　CHAPTER　XVIII
　THE　VOICE　PROM　THE　PAST
　
　THE　library；　whither　Jimmy　had　made　his　way　after　leaving　Mrs。　Pett；　was　a　large　room　on　the　ground　floor；　looking　out　on　the　street　which　ran　parallel　to　the　south　side　of　the　house。　It　had　French　windows；　opening　onto　a　strip　of　lawn　which　ended　in　a　high　stone　wall　with　a　small　gate　in　it；　the　general　effect　of　these　things　being　to　create　a　resemblance　to　a　country　house　rather　than　to　one　in　the　centre　of　the　city。　Mr。　Pett's　town　residence　was　full　of　these　surprises。
　In　one　corner　of　the　room　a　massive　safe　had　been　let　into　the　wall；　striking　a　note　of　incongruity；　for　the　remainder　of　the　wall…space　was　pletely　covered　with　volumes　of　all　sorts　and　sizes；　which　filled　the　shelves　and　overflowed　into　a　small　gallery；　reached　by　a　short　flight　of　stairs　and　running　along　the　north　side　of　the　room　over　the　door。
　Jimmy　cast　a　glance　at　the　safe；　behind　the　steel　doors　of　which　he　presumed　the　test…tube　of　Partridgite　which　Willie　had　carried　from　the　luncheon…table　lay　hid：　then　transferred　his　attention　to　the　shelves。　A　cursory　inspection　of　these　revealed　nothing　which　gave　promise　of　whiling　away　entertainingly　the　moments　which　must　elapse　before　the　return　of　Ann。　Jimmy's　tastes　in　literature　lay　in　the　direction　of　the　lighter　kind　of　modern　fiction；　and　Mr。　Pett　did　not　appear　to　possess　a　single　volume　that　had　been　written　later　than　the　eighteenth　centuryand　mostly　poetry　at　that。　He　turned　to　the　writing…desk　near　the　window；　on　which　he　had　caught　sight　of　a　standing　shelf　full　of　books　of　a　more　modern　aspect。　He　picked　one　up　at　random　and　opened　it。
　He　threw　it　down　disgustedly。　It　was　poetry。　This　man　Pett　appeared　to　have　a　perfect　obsession　for　poetry。　One　would　never　have　suspected　it；　to　look　at　him。　Jimmy　had　just　resigned　himself；　after　another　glance　at　the　shelf；　to　a　bookless　vigil；　when　his　eye　was　caught　by　a　name　on　the　cover　of　the　last　in　the　row　so　unexpected　that　he　had　to　look　again　to　verify　the　discovery。
　He　had　been　perfectly　right。　There　it　was；　in　gold　letters。
　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　THE　LONELY　HEART
　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　BY
　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　ANN　CHESTER
　He　extracted　the　volume　from　the　shelf　in　a　sort　of　stupor。　Even　now　he　was　inclined　to　give　his　goddess　of　the　red　hair　the　benefit　of　the　doubt；　and　assume　that　some　one　else　of　the　same　name　had　written　it。　For　it　was　a　defect　in　Jimmy's　characterone　of　his　many　defectsthat　he　loathed　and　scorned　minor　poetry　and　considered　minor　poets；　especially　when　feminine；　an　unnecessary　affliction。　He　declined　to　believe　that　Ann；　his　Ann；　a　girl　full　of　the　finest　traits　of　character；　the　girl　who　had　been　capable　of　encouraging　a　parative　stranger　to　break　the　law　by　impersonating　her　cousin　Jimmy　Crocker；　could　also　be　capable　of　writing　The　Lonely　Heart　and　other　poems。　He　skimmed　through　the　first　one　he　came　across；　and　shuddered。　It　was　pure　slush。　It　was　the　sort　of　stuff　they　filled　up　pages　with　in　the　magazines　when　the　detective　story　did　not　run　long　enough。　It　was　the　sort　of　stuff　which　long…haired　blighters　read　alone　to　other　long…haired　blighters　in　English　suburban　drawing…rooms。　It　was　the　sort　of　stuff　whichto　be　briefgave　him　the　Willies。　No；　it　could　not　be　Ann　who　had　written　it。
　The　next　moment　the　horrid　truth　was　thrust　upon　him。　There　was　an　inscription　on　the　title　page。
　〃To　my　dearest　uncle　Peter；　with　love　from　the　author；　Ann　Chester。〃
　The　room　seemed　to　reel　before　Jimmy's　eyes。　He　felt　as　if　a　friend　had　wounded　him　in　his　tenderest　feelings。　He　felt　as　if　some　loved　one　had　smitten　him　over　the　back　of　the　head　with　a　sandbag。　For　one　moment；　in　which　time　stood　still；　his　devotion　to　Ann　wobbled。　It　was　as　if　he　had　found　her　out　in　some　terrible　crime　that　revealed　unsuspected　flaws　in　her　hitherto　ideal　character。
　Then　his　eye　fell　upon　the　date　on　the　title　page；　and　a　strong　spasm　of　relief　shook　him。　The　clouds　rolled　away；　and　he　loved　her　still。　This　frightful　volume　had　been　published　five　years　ago。
　A　wave　of　pity　swept　over　Jimmy。　He　did　not　blame　her　now。　She　had　been　a　mere　child　five　years　ago；　scarcely　old　enough　to　distinguish　right　from　wrong。　You　couldn't　blame　her　for　writing　sentimental　verse　at　that　age。　Why；　at　a　similar　stage　in　his　own　career　he　had　wanted　to　be　a　vaudeville　singer。　Everything　must　be　excused　to　Youth。　It　was　with　a　tender　glow　of　affectionate　forgiveness　that　he　turned　the　pages。
　As　he　did　so　a　curious　thing　happened　to　him。　He　began　to　have　that　feeling；　which　every　one　has　experienced　at　some　time　or　other；　that　he　had　done　this　very　thing　before。　He　was　almost　convinced　that　this　was　not　the　first　time　he　had　seen　that　poem　on　page　twenty…seven　entitled　〃A　Lament。〃　Why；　some　of　the　lines　seemed　extraordinarily　familiar。　The　people　who　understood　these　things　explained　this　phenomenon；　he　believed；　by　some　stuff　about　the　cells　of　the　brain　working　simultaneously　or　something。　Something　about　cells；　anyway。　He　supposed　that　that　must　be　it。
　But　that　was　not　it。　The　feeling　that　he　had　read　all　this　before　grew　instead　of　vanishing；　as　is　generally　the　way　on　these　occasions。　He　had　read　this　stuff　before。　He　was　certain　of　it。　But　when？　And　where？　And　above　all　why？　Surely　he　had　not　done　it　from　choice。
　It　was　the　total　impossibility　of　his　having　done　it　from　choice　that　led　his　memory　in　the　right　direction。　There　had　only　been　a　year　or　so　in　his　life　when　he　had　been　obliged　to　read　things　which　he　would　not　have　read　of　his　own　free　will；　and　that　had　been　when　he　worked　on　the　Chronicle。　Could　it　have　been　that　they　had　given　him　this　book　of　poems　to　review？　Or？
　And　then　memory；　in　its　usual　eccentric　way；　having　taken　all　this　time　to　make　the　first　part　of　the　journey；　finished　the　rest　of　it　with　one　lightning　swoop；　and　he　knew。
　And　with　the　illumination　came　dismay。　Worse　than　dismay。　Horror。
　〃Gosh！〃　said　Jimmy。
　He　knew　now　why　he　had　thought　on　the　occasion　of　their　first　meeting　in　London　that　he　had　seen　hair　like　Ann's　before。　The　mists　rolled　away　and　he　saw　everything　clear　and　stark。　He　knew　what　had　happened　at　that　meeting　five　years　before；　to　which　she　had　so　mysteriously　alluded。　He　knew　what　she　had　meant　that　evening　on　the　boat；　when　she　had　charged　one　Jimmy　Crocker　with　having　cured　her　of　sentiment。　A　cold　sweat　sprang　into　being　about　his　temples。　He　could　remember　that　interview　now；　as　clearly　as　if　it　had　happened　five　minutes　ago　instead　of　five　years。　He　could　recall　the　article　for　the　Sunday　Chronicle　which　he　had　written　from　the　interview；　and　the　ghoulish　gusto　with　which　he　had　written　it。　He　had　had　a　boy's　undisciplined　sense　of　humour　in　those　days；　the　sense　of　humour　which　riots　like　a　young　colt；　careless　of　what　it　bruises　and　crushes。　He　shuddered　at　the　recollection　of　the　things　he　had　hammered　out　so　gleefully　on　his　typewriter　down　at　the　Chronicle　office。　He　found　himself　recoiling　in　disgust　from　the　man　he　had　been；　the　man　who　could　have　done　a　wanton　thing　like　that　without　punction　or　ruth。　He　had　read　extracts　from　the　article　to　an　appreciative　colleague。　。　。　。
　A　great　sympathy　for　Ann　welled　up　in　him。　No　wonder　she　hated　the　memory　of　Jimmy　Crocker。
　It　is　probable　that　remorse　would　have　tortured　him　even　further；　had　he　not　chanced　to　turn　absently　to　page　forty…six　and　read　a　poem　entitled　〃Love's　Funeral。〃　It　was　not　a　long　poem；　and　he　had　finished　it　inside　of　two　minutes；　but　by　that　time　a　change　had　e　upon　his　mood　of　self…loathing。　He　no　longer　felt　like　a　particularly　mean　murderer。　〃Love's　Funeral〃　was　like　a　tonic。　It　braced　and　invigourated　him。　It　was　so　unspeakably　absurd；　so　poor　in　every　respect。　All　things；　he　now　perceived；　had　worked　together　for　good。　Ann　had　admitted　on　the　boat　that　it　was　his　satire　that　had　crushed　out　of　her　the　fondness　for　this　sort　of　thing。　If　that　was　so；　then　the　part　he　had　played　in　her　life　had　been　that　of　a　rescuer。　He　thought　of　her　as　she　was　now　and　as　she　must　have　been　then　to　have　written　stuff　like　this；　and　he　rejoiced　at　what　he　had　done。　In　a　manner　of　speaking　the　Ann　of　to…day；　the　glo