"Brenchley, Chaz - The Keys To D'esperance" - читать интересную книгу автора (Benchley Chaz)

never learnt to swim. There would be notice taken, that was inevitable; but
this would be the last of it. No more family, no one more to accuse or cut
or scorn. The name quite gone, it would simply cease to matter. He hoped
that he might never be recovered, that he might lie on the bottom till his
bones rotted, being washed and washed by fast unheeding waters.

Quite coldly determined, he refused to lurk withindoors on his last long
day. At sunset he would go to the bridge, rocks in my pockets, yes, and no
matter who sees, they shan't stop me; but first he would let himself be
seen and hissed at and whispered about, today as every day, no craven he.
It was honour and honour only that would take him to the river; he wanted
that clearly understood.

So he walked abroad, returning some books to the public library and
settling his accounts with the last few merchants to allow him credit. He
took coffee in town and almost smiled as the room emptied around him, did
permit himself the indulgence of a murmured word with the cashier on his
way out, "Please don't trouble yourself, I shan't come back again."

And so he went home, and met the postman at the door; and was handed a
package, and stood on his doorstep watching as the postman walked away,
wiping his hand on his trousers.

-------------------

The package was well wrapped in brown paper, tied with string and the knots
sealed. It was unexpectedly heavy for its size, and made softly metallic
noises as he felt its hard angles shift between his fingers.

Preferring the kitchen in his solitude to the oppressions of velvet and
oak, of photographs and memories and names, he went straight through and
opened the package on the long deal table under the window.

Keys, three separate rings of keys: brass keys and bronze and steel, keys
shorter than his thumb and longer than his hand, keys still glittering new
and keys older than he had ever seen, older than he could believe, almost.

For long minutes he only held them, played with them, laid them out and
looked at them; finally he turned away, to read the letter that had
accompanied them.

An envelope addressed to him in neat copperplate, nothing extravagant;
heavy laid paper of good quality, little creased or marked despite its
journeying in with the keys. A long journey, he noted, unfolding the single
sheet and reading the address at the top. His correspondent, this remitter
of keys was apparently a country solicitor; but the town and the company's
name were entirely unfamiliar to him, although he had spent two months now
immersed in his parents' affairs, reading everything.

My dear lad, the letter said - and this from a stranger, strange in itself