The Silence.docVIP

The Silence By John Galsworthy To MY SISTER MABEL EDITH REYNOLDS I In a car of the Naples express a mining expert was diving into a bag for papers. The strong sunlight showed the fine wrinkles on his brown face and the shabbiness of his short, rough beard. A newspaper cutting slipped from his fingers; he picked it up, thinking: How the dickens did that get in here? It was from a colonial print of three years back; and he sat staring, as if in that forlorn slip of yellow paper he had encountered some ghost from his past. These were the words he read: We hope that the setback to civilisation, the check to commerce and development, in this promising centre of our colony may be but temporary; and that capital may again come to the rescue. Where one man was successful, others should surely not fail? We are convinced that it only needs.... And the last words: For what can be sadder than to see the forest spreading its lengthening shadows, like symbols of defeat, over the untenanted dwellings of men; and where was once the merry chatter of human voices, to pass by in the silence.... On an afternoon, thirteen years before, he had been in the city of London, at one of those emporiums where mining experts perch, before fresh flights, like sea-gulls on some favourite rock. A clerk said to him: Mr. Scorrier, they are asking for you downstairs--Mr. Hemmings of the New Colliery Company. Scorrier took up the speaking tube. Is that you, Mr. Scorrier? I hope you are very well, sir, I am--Hemmings--I am--coming up. In two minutes he appeared, Christopher Hemmings, secretary of the New Colliery Company, known in the City-behind his back--as Down-by-the-starn Hemmings. He grasped Scorriers hand--the gesture was deferential, yet distinguished. Too handsome, too capable, too important, his figure, the cut of his iron-grey beard, and his intrusively fine eyes, conveyed a continual courteous invitation to inspect their infallibilities. He stood, like a City Atlas, with his legs apart, hi