Lord Marshmoreton resumed his remarks. Lady Caroline had sent himto the cottage to be stern, and his firm resolve to be stern lenthis style of speech something of the measured solemnity and carefulphrasing of his occasional orations in the House of Lords.
"I have no wish to be unduly hard upon the indiscretions of Youth.
Youth is the period of Romance, when the heart rules the head. Imyself was once a young man.""Well, you're practically that now," said George.
"Eh?" cried Lord Marshmoreton, forgetting the thread of hisdiscourse in the shock of pleased surprise.
"You don't look a day over forty.""Oh, come, come, my boy! . . . I mean, Mr. Bevan.""You don't honestly.""I'm forty-eight.""The Prime of Life.""And you don't think I look it?""You certainly don't.""Well, well, well! By the way, have you tobacco, my boy. I camewithout my pouch.""Just at your elbow. Pretty good stuff. I bought it in the village.""The same I smoke myself.""Quite a coincidence.""Distinctly.""Match?""Thank you, I have one."George filled his own pipe. The thing was becoming a love-feast.
"What was I saying?" said Lord Marshmoreton, blowing a comfortablecloud. "Oh, yes." He removed his pipe from his mouth with a touch ofembarrassment. "Yes, yes, to be sure!"There was an awkward silence.
"You must see for yourself," said the earl, "how impossible it is."George shook his head.
"I may be slow at grasping a thing, but I'm bound to say I can'tsee that."Lord Marshmoreton recalled some of the things his sister had toldhim to say. "For one thing, what do we know of you? You are aperfect stranger.""Well, we're all getting acquainted pretty quick, don't you think?
I met your son in Piccadilly and had a long talk with him, and nowyou are paying me a neighbourly visit.""This was not intended to be a social call.""But it has become one.""And then, that is one point I wish to make, you know. Ours is anold family, I would like to remind you that there wereMarshmoretons in Belpher before the War of the Roses.""There were Bevans in Brooklyn before the B.R.T.""I beg your pardon?""I was only pointing out that I can trace my ancestry a long way.
You have to trace things a long way in Brooklyn, if you want tofind them.""I have never heard of Brooklyn.""You've heard of New York?""Certainly.""New York's one of the outlying suburbs."Lord Marshmoreton relit his pipe. He had a feeling that they werewandering from the point.
"It is quite impossible.""I can't see it.""Maud is so young.""Your daughter could be nothing else.""Too young to know her own mind," pursued Lord Marshmoreton,resolutely crushing down a flutter of pleasure. There was no doubtthat this singularly agreeable man was making things very difficultfor him. It was disarming to discover that he was really capitalcompany--the best, indeed, that the earl could remember to havediscovered in the more recent period of his rather lonely life. "Atpresent, of course, she fancies that she is very much in love withyou . . . It is absurd!""You needn't tell me that," said George. Really, it was only thefact that people seemed to go out of their way to call at hiscottage and tell him that Maud loved him that kept him from feelinghis cause perfectly hopeless. "It's incredible. It's a miracle.""You are a romantic young man, and you no doubt for the momentsuppose that you are in love with her.""No!" George was not going to allow a remark like that to passunchallenged. "You are wrong there. As far as I am concerned, thereis no question of its being momentary or supposititious or anythingof that kind. I am in love with your daughter. I was from the firstmoment I saw her. I always shall be. She is the only girl in theworld!""Stuff and nonsense!""Not at all. Absolute, cold fact.""You have known her so little time.""Long enough."Lord Marshmoreton sighed. "You are upsetting things terribly.""Things are upsetting me terribly.""You are causing a great deal of trouble and annoyance.""So did Romeo.""Eh?""I said--So did Romeo.""I don't know anything about Romeo.""As far as love is concerned, I begin where he left off.""I wish I could persuade you to be sensible.""That's just what I think I am.""I wish I could get you to see my point of view.""I do see your point of view. But dimly. You see, my own takes upsuch a lot of the foreground."There was a pause.
2012年11月7日星期三
When I think of the Socialists there comes a vivid memory of certain evening gatherings at our house
When I think of the Socialists there comes a vivid memory of certain evening gatherings at our house....
These gatherings had been organised by Margaret as the outcome of a discussion at the Baileys'. Altiora had been very emphatic and uncharitable upon the futility of the Socialist movement. It seemed that even the leaders fought shy of dinner-parties.
"They never meet each other," said Altiora, "much less people on the other side. How can they begin to understand politics until they do that?"
"Most of them have totally unpresentable wives," said Altiora, "totally!" and quoted instances, "and they WILL bring them. Or they won't come! Some of the poor creatures have scarcely learnt their table manners. They just make holes in the talk...."
I thought there was a great deal of truth beneath Altiora's outburst. The presentation of the Socialist case seemed very greatly crippled by the want of a common intimacy in its leaders; the want of intimacy didn't at first appear to be more than an accident, and our talk led to Margaret's attempt to get acquaintance and easy intercourse afoot among them and between them and the Young Liberals of our group. She gave a series of weekly dinners, planned, I think, a little too accurately upon Altiora's model, and after each we had as catholic a reception as we could contrive.
Our receptions were indeed, I should think, about as catholic as receptions could be. Margaret found herself with a weekly houseful of insoluble problems in intercourse. One did one's best, but one got a nightmare feeling as the evening wore on.
It was one of the few unanimities of these parties that every one should be a little odd in appearance, funny about the hair or the tie or the shoes or more generally, and that bursts of violent aggression should alternate with an attitude entirely defensive. A number of our guests had an air of waiting for a clue that never came, and stood and sat about silently, mildly amused but not a bit surprised that we did not discover their distinctive Open-Sesames. There was a sprinkling of manifest seers and prophetesses in shapeless garments, far too many, I thought, for really easy social intercourse, and any conversation at any moment was liable to become oracular. One was in a state of tension from first to last; the most innocent remark seemed capable of exploding resentment, and replies came out at the most unexpected angles. We Young Liberals went about puzzled but polite to the gathering we had evoked. The Young Liberals' tradition is on the whole wonderfully discreet, superfluous steam is let out far away from home in the Balkans or Africa, and the neat, stiff figures of the Cramptons, Bunting Harblow, and Lewis, either in extremely well-cut morning coats indicative of the House, or in what is sometimes written of as "faultless evening dress," stood about on those evenings, they and their very quietly and simply and expensively dressed little wives, like a datum line amidst lakes and mountains.
I didn't at first see the connection between systematic social reorganisation and arbitrary novelties in dietary and costume, just as I didn't realise why the most comprehensive constructive projects should appear to be supported solely by odd and exceptional personalities. On one of these evenings a little group of rather jolly-looking pretty young people seated themselves for no particular reason in a large circle on the floor of my study, and engaged, so far as I could judge, in the game of Hunt the Meaning, the intellectual equivalent of Hunt the Slipper. It must have been that same evening I came upon an unbleached young gentleman before the oval mirror on the landing engaged in removing the remains of an anchovy sandwich from his protruded tongue--visible ends of cress having misled him into the belief that he was dealing with doctrinally permissible food. It was not unusual to be given hand-bills and printed matter by our guests, but there I had the advantage over Lewis, who was too tactful to refuse the stuff, too neatly dressed to pocket it, and had no writing-desk available upon which he could relieve himself in a manner flattering to the giver. So that his hands got fuller and fuller. A relentless, compact little woman in what Margaret declared to be an extremely expensive black dress has also printed herself on my memory; she had set her heart upon my contributing to a weekly periodical in the lentil interest with which she was associated, and I spent much time and care in evading her.
These gatherings had been organised by Margaret as the outcome of a discussion at the Baileys'. Altiora had been very emphatic and uncharitable upon the futility of the Socialist movement. It seemed that even the leaders fought shy of dinner-parties.
"They never meet each other," said Altiora, "much less people on the other side. How can they begin to understand politics until they do that?"
"Most of them have totally unpresentable wives," said Altiora, "totally!" and quoted instances, "and they WILL bring them. Or they won't come! Some of the poor creatures have scarcely learnt their table manners. They just make holes in the talk...."
I thought there was a great deal of truth beneath Altiora's outburst. The presentation of the Socialist case seemed very greatly crippled by the want of a common intimacy in its leaders; the want of intimacy didn't at first appear to be more than an accident, and our talk led to Margaret's attempt to get acquaintance and easy intercourse afoot among them and between them and the Young Liberals of our group. She gave a series of weekly dinners, planned, I think, a little too accurately upon Altiora's model, and after each we had as catholic a reception as we could contrive.
Our receptions were indeed, I should think, about as catholic as receptions could be. Margaret found herself with a weekly houseful of insoluble problems in intercourse. One did one's best, but one got a nightmare feeling as the evening wore on.
It was one of the few unanimities of these parties that every one should be a little odd in appearance, funny about the hair or the tie or the shoes or more generally, and that bursts of violent aggression should alternate with an attitude entirely defensive. A number of our guests had an air of waiting for a clue that never came, and stood and sat about silently, mildly amused but not a bit surprised that we did not discover their distinctive Open-Sesames. There was a sprinkling of manifest seers and prophetesses in shapeless garments, far too many, I thought, for really easy social intercourse, and any conversation at any moment was liable to become oracular. One was in a state of tension from first to last; the most innocent remark seemed capable of exploding resentment, and replies came out at the most unexpected angles. We Young Liberals went about puzzled but polite to the gathering we had evoked. The Young Liberals' tradition is on the whole wonderfully discreet, superfluous steam is let out far away from home in the Balkans or Africa, and the neat, stiff figures of the Cramptons, Bunting Harblow, and Lewis, either in extremely well-cut morning coats indicative of the House, or in what is sometimes written of as "faultless evening dress," stood about on those evenings, they and their very quietly and simply and expensively dressed little wives, like a datum line amidst lakes and mountains.
I didn't at first see the connection between systematic social reorganisation and arbitrary novelties in dietary and costume, just as I didn't realise why the most comprehensive constructive projects should appear to be supported solely by odd and exceptional personalities. On one of these evenings a little group of rather jolly-looking pretty young people seated themselves for no particular reason in a large circle on the floor of my study, and engaged, so far as I could judge, in the game of Hunt the Meaning, the intellectual equivalent of Hunt the Slipper. It must have been that same evening I came upon an unbleached young gentleman before the oval mirror on the landing engaged in removing the remains of an anchovy sandwich from his protruded tongue--visible ends of cress having misled him into the belief that he was dealing with doctrinally permissible food. It was not unusual to be given hand-bills and printed matter by our guests, but there I had the advantage over Lewis, who was too tactful to refuse the stuff, too neatly dressed to pocket it, and had no writing-desk available upon which he could relieve himself in a manner flattering to the giver. So that his hands got fuller and fuller. A relentless, compact little woman in what Margaret declared to be an extremely expensive black dress has also printed herself on my memory; she had set her heart upon my contributing to a weekly periodical in the lentil interest with which she was associated, and I spent much time and care in evading her.
2012年11月3日星期六
That she be
"That she be, Ed, an' a wonderful sight better'n th' bark canoes th' Injuns uses," agreed the other, a powerful, broad-shouldered, deep-chested man, who wore a light-cloth adicky, but whose dress was otherwise similar to that of his companion.
"She have better lines than th' Injun craft," said the one addressed as Ed, eyeing the canoe critically.
"An' she's stancher--a wonderful lot stancher," continued the other.
"She is a pretty good canoe, and a splendid white-water craft," Shad remarked, to break the ice of reserve, and to give the two trappers the opening for conversation for which they were evidently hedging.
"Aye, sir," said the man in the adicky, "they's no doot o' that. Her lines be right, sir. She'd be a fine craft in th' rapids, now--a fine un."
"Be you comin' far, an' be you goin' back wi' th' ship?" asked Ed, unable to restrain his curiosity longer.
"I came from Boston, and if I can get a guide I shall stay for the summer and take a canoe trip into the country," answered Shad.
"I'm thinkin' you can get un in th' shop," suggested Ed.
"Get them in the shop?" asked Shad, in astonishment, not quite certain whether he was misunderstood, or whether the trapper was making game of him. Ed's respectful manner, however, quickly satisfied him that the former was the case.
"Aye," said Ed. "They keeps a wonderful stock o' things in the shop."
"I refer to a man," explained Shad. "I wish to employ a man to go into the country with me to show me about and to assist me."
"'Tis a pilot you wants!" exclaimed Ed, light breaking upon him.
"O' course 'tis a pilot!" broke in the other, with an intonation that suggested scorn of Ed's ignorance. "A pilot an' a guide be th' same thing. A pilot be a guide, an' a guide be a pilot."
"I'd like wonderful well t' pilot you myself, sir, but I couldn't do it nohow," volunteered Ed, in a tone of apology. "You see, I has my nets out, an' I has t' get in firewood for th' wife, t' last she through th' winter whilst I be on th' trail trappin'. An Dick here's fixed th' same. Dick an' me's partners fishin', an' he gives me a hand gettin' out wood, an' I helps he. This be Dick Blake, sir," continued Ed, suddenly remembering that there had been no introduction, "an' I be Ed Matheson."
"I'm glad to make your acquaintance, gentlemen," Shad acknowledged. "My name is Trowbridge. Perhaps you may be able to tell me where I can employ a guide. I would appreciate your assistance."
"Le'me see," Ed meditated. "Now I'm thinkin' Ungava Bob might go," he at length suggested. "He were home th' winter, an' they hauled a rare lot o' wood out wi' th' dogs, an' his father can 'tend th' nets. What d'you think, Dick?"
"Aye, Ungava Bob could sure go, whatever," agreed Dick.
"'Ungava Bob' sounds interesting," said Shad. "How old a man is this Ungava Bob, and is that his real name, or is 'Ungava' a title?"
"He's but a lad-eighteen year old comin' September--but a rare likely lad--good as a man. Aye, good as a man," declared Ed.
"His real name be Bob Gray," explained Dick, "but we calls him 'Ungava Bob' for a wonderful cruise he were makin' two year ago comin' winter."
"She have better lines than th' Injun craft," said the one addressed as Ed, eyeing the canoe critically.
"An' she's stancher--a wonderful lot stancher," continued the other.
"She is a pretty good canoe, and a splendid white-water craft," Shad remarked, to break the ice of reserve, and to give the two trappers the opening for conversation for which they were evidently hedging.
"Aye, sir," said the man in the adicky, "they's no doot o' that. Her lines be right, sir. She'd be a fine craft in th' rapids, now--a fine un."
"Be you comin' far, an' be you goin' back wi' th' ship?" asked Ed, unable to restrain his curiosity longer.
"I came from Boston, and if I can get a guide I shall stay for the summer and take a canoe trip into the country," answered Shad.
"I'm thinkin' you can get un in th' shop," suggested Ed.
"Get them in the shop?" asked Shad, in astonishment, not quite certain whether he was misunderstood, or whether the trapper was making game of him. Ed's respectful manner, however, quickly satisfied him that the former was the case.
"Aye," said Ed. "They keeps a wonderful stock o' things in the shop."
"I refer to a man," explained Shad. "I wish to employ a man to go into the country with me to show me about and to assist me."
"'Tis a pilot you wants!" exclaimed Ed, light breaking upon him.
"O' course 'tis a pilot!" broke in the other, with an intonation that suggested scorn of Ed's ignorance. "A pilot an' a guide be th' same thing. A pilot be a guide, an' a guide be a pilot."
"I'd like wonderful well t' pilot you myself, sir, but I couldn't do it nohow," volunteered Ed, in a tone of apology. "You see, I has my nets out, an' I has t' get in firewood for th' wife, t' last she through th' winter whilst I be on th' trail trappin'. An Dick here's fixed th' same. Dick an' me's partners fishin', an' he gives me a hand gettin' out wood, an' I helps he. This be Dick Blake, sir," continued Ed, suddenly remembering that there had been no introduction, "an' I be Ed Matheson."
"I'm glad to make your acquaintance, gentlemen," Shad acknowledged. "My name is Trowbridge. Perhaps you may be able to tell me where I can employ a guide. I would appreciate your assistance."
"Le'me see," Ed meditated. "Now I'm thinkin' Ungava Bob might go," he at length suggested. "He were home th' winter, an' they hauled a rare lot o' wood out wi' th' dogs, an' his father can 'tend th' nets. What d'you think, Dick?"
"Aye, Ungava Bob could sure go, whatever," agreed Dick.
"'Ungava Bob' sounds interesting," said Shad. "How old a man is this Ungava Bob, and is that his real name, or is 'Ungava' a title?"
"He's but a lad-eighteen year old comin' September--but a rare likely lad--good as a man. Aye, good as a man," declared Ed.
"His real name be Bob Gray," explained Dick, "but we calls him 'Ungava Bob' for a wonderful cruise he were makin' two year ago comin' winter."
“That is what we are going to do
“That is what we are going to do,” said Impey Barbicane.
“Go over the eighty-fourth degree, beyond which no explorer as yet has been able to put his foot?”
“We will pass it—reach even the North Pole,” said he. “We will reach it.” And after hearing the President of the Gun Club answer with so much coolness, with so much assurance, to see his opinion so strongly, so perfectly affirmed, even the strongest opponent began to hesitate. They seemed to be in the presence of a man who had lost none of his old-time qualities, quiet, cold, and of an eminently serious mind, exact as a clock, adventurous, but carrying his practical ideas into the rashest enterprises.
Major Donellan had an ardent wish to strangle his adversary. But President Barbicane was stout and well able to stand against wind and tide, and therefore not afraid of the Major. His enemies, his friends and people who envied him knew it only too well. But there were many jealous people, and many jokes and funny stories went round in regard to the members of the Gun Club. Pictures and caricatures were made in Europe and particularly in England, where people could not get over the loss which they suffered in the matter of pounds sterling. “Ah,” said they, “this Yankee has got it in his head to reach the North Pole. He wants to put his foot where, up to the present time, no living soul has yet been. He wants to build palaces and houses and, perhaps, the White House of the United States, in a part of the world which has never yet been reached, while every other part of the world is so well known to us.” And then wild caricatures appeared in the different newspapers. In the large show-windows and news-depots, as well in small cities of Europe as in the large cities of America, there appeared drawings and cartoons showing President Barbicane in the funniest of positions trying to reach the North Pole. One audacious American cut had all the members of the Gun Club trying to make an underground tunnel beneath the terrible mass of immovable icebergs, to the eighty-fourth degree of northern latitude, each with an axe in his hand. In another, Impey Barbicane, accompanied by Mr. J.T. Maston and Capt. Nicholl, had descended from a balloon on the much-desired point, and after many unsuccessful attempts and at the peril of their lives, had captured a piece of coal weighing about half a pound. This fragment was all they discovered of the anticipated coal-fields. There were also pictures made of J. T. Maston, who was as much used for such purposes as his chief. After having tried to find the electric attraction of the North Pole, the secretary of the Gun Club became fixed to the ground by his metallic hand.
The celebrated calculator was too quick-tempered to find any pleasure in the drawings which referred to his personal conformation. He was exceedingly annoyed by them, and Mrs. Evangelina Scorbitt, it may be easily understood, was not slow to share his indignation. Another drawing in the Lanterne of Brussels represented the members of the Council and the members of the Gun Club tending a large number of fires. The idea was to melt the large quantities of ice by putting a whole sea of alcohol on them, which would convert the polar basin into a large quantity of punch. But of all these caricatures, that which had the largest success was that which was published by the French Charivari, under the signature of its designer, “Stop.” In the stomach of a whale Impey Barbicane and J. T. Maston were seated playing checkers and waiting their arrival at a good point. The new Jonah and his Secretary had got themselves swallowed by an immense fish, and it was in this way, after having gone under the icebergs, that they hoped to gain access to the North Pole. The President of this new Society did not care much about these pictures, and let them say and write and sing whatever they liked.
“Go over the eighty-fourth degree, beyond which no explorer as yet has been able to put his foot?”
“We will pass it—reach even the North Pole,” said he. “We will reach it.” And after hearing the President of the Gun Club answer with so much coolness, with so much assurance, to see his opinion so strongly, so perfectly affirmed, even the strongest opponent began to hesitate. They seemed to be in the presence of a man who had lost none of his old-time qualities, quiet, cold, and of an eminently serious mind, exact as a clock, adventurous, but carrying his practical ideas into the rashest enterprises.
Major Donellan had an ardent wish to strangle his adversary. But President Barbicane was stout and well able to stand against wind and tide, and therefore not afraid of the Major. His enemies, his friends and people who envied him knew it only too well. But there were many jealous people, and many jokes and funny stories went round in regard to the members of the Gun Club. Pictures and caricatures were made in Europe and particularly in England, where people could not get over the loss which they suffered in the matter of pounds sterling. “Ah,” said they, “this Yankee has got it in his head to reach the North Pole. He wants to put his foot where, up to the present time, no living soul has yet been. He wants to build palaces and houses and, perhaps, the White House of the United States, in a part of the world which has never yet been reached, while every other part of the world is so well known to us.” And then wild caricatures appeared in the different newspapers. In the large show-windows and news-depots, as well in small cities of Europe as in the large cities of America, there appeared drawings and cartoons showing President Barbicane in the funniest of positions trying to reach the North Pole. One audacious American cut had all the members of the Gun Club trying to make an underground tunnel beneath the terrible mass of immovable icebergs, to the eighty-fourth degree of northern latitude, each with an axe in his hand. In another, Impey Barbicane, accompanied by Mr. J.T. Maston and Capt. Nicholl, had descended from a balloon on the much-desired point, and after many unsuccessful attempts and at the peril of their lives, had captured a piece of coal weighing about half a pound. This fragment was all they discovered of the anticipated coal-fields. There were also pictures made of J. T. Maston, who was as much used for such purposes as his chief. After having tried to find the electric attraction of the North Pole, the secretary of the Gun Club became fixed to the ground by his metallic hand.
The celebrated calculator was too quick-tempered to find any pleasure in the drawings which referred to his personal conformation. He was exceedingly annoyed by them, and Mrs. Evangelina Scorbitt, it may be easily understood, was not slow to share his indignation. Another drawing in the Lanterne of Brussels represented the members of the Council and the members of the Gun Club tending a large number of fires. The idea was to melt the large quantities of ice by putting a whole sea of alcohol on them, which would convert the polar basin into a large quantity of punch. But of all these caricatures, that which had the largest success was that which was published by the French Charivari, under the signature of its designer, “Stop.” In the stomach of a whale Impey Barbicane and J. T. Maston were seated playing checkers and waiting their arrival at a good point. The new Jonah and his Secretary had got themselves swallowed by an immense fish, and it was in this way, after having gone under the icebergs, that they hoped to gain access to the North Pole. The President of this new Society did not care much about these pictures, and let them say and write and sing whatever they liked.
Tommy X
"Tommy X.," ran the brief announcement, "most urgent, Marble Arch8."He had five minutes to get there but it seemed like five hours.
He was held up at almost every crossing and though he might haveused his authority to obtain right of way, it was a step which hiscurious sense of honesty prevented him taking. He leapt out ofthe cab before it stopped, thrust the fare into the driver's handsand looked round for the girl. He saw her at last and walkedquickly towards her. As he approached her, she turned about andwith an almost imperceptible beckoning gesture walked away. Hefollowed her along the Bayswater Road and gradually drew level.
"I am afraid I have been watched," she said in a low voice. "Willyou call a cab?"He hailed a passing taxi, helped her in and gave at random thefirst place that suggested itself to him, which was Finsbury Park.
"I am very worried," she said, "and I don't know anybody who canhelp me except you.""Is it money?" he asked.
"Money," she said scornfully, "of course it isn't money. I wantto show you a letter," she said after a while.
She took it from her bag and gave it to him and he struck a matchand read it with difficulty.
It was written in a studiously uneducated hand.
"Dear Miss,"I know who you are. You are wanted by the police but I will notgive you away. Dear Miss. I am very hard up and 20 pounds willbe very useful to me and I shall not trouble you again. DearMiss. Put the money on the window sill of your room. I know yousleep on the ground floor and I will come in and take it. And ifnot - well, I don't want to make any trouble.
"Yours truly,"A FRIEND.""When did you get this?" he asked.
"This morning," she replied. "I sent the Agony to the paper bytelegram, I knew you would come.""Oh, you did, did you?" he said.
Her assurance was very pleasing to him. The faith that her wordsimplied gave him an odd little feeling of comfort and happiness.
"I can easily get you out of this," he added; "give me youraddress and when the gentleman comes - ""That is impossible," she replied hurriedly. "Please don't thinkI'm ungrateful, and don't think I'm being silly - you do think I'mbeing silly, don't you!""I have never harboured such an unworthy thought," he saidvirtuously.
"Yes, you have," she persisted, "but really I can't tell you whereI am living. I have a very special reason for not doing so. It'snot myself that I'm thinking about, but there's a life involved."This was a somewhat dramatic statement to make and she felt shehad gone too far.
"Perhaps I don't mean that," she said, "but there is some one Icare for - " she dropped her voice.
"Oh," said T. X. blankly.
He came down from his rosy heights into the shadow and darkness ofa sunless valley.
"Some one you care for," he repeated after a while.
"Yes."There was another long silence, then,"Oh, indeed," said T. X.
Again the unbroken interval of quiet and after a while she said ina low voice, "Not that way.""Not what way!" asked T. X. huskily, his spirits doing a littlemountaineering.
"The way you mean," she said.
He was held up at almost every crossing and though he might haveused his authority to obtain right of way, it was a step which hiscurious sense of honesty prevented him taking. He leapt out ofthe cab before it stopped, thrust the fare into the driver's handsand looked round for the girl. He saw her at last and walkedquickly towards her. As he approached her, she turned about andwith an almost imperceptible beckoning gesture walked away. Hefollowed her along the Bayswater Road and gradually drew level.
"I am afraid I have been watched," she said in a low voice. "Willyou call a cab?"He hailed a passing taxi, helped her in and gave at random thefirst place that suggested itself to him, which was Finsbury Park.
"I am very worried," she said, "and I don't know anybody who canhelp me except you.""Is it money?" he asked.
"Money," she said scornfully, "of course it isn't money. I wantto show you a letter," she said after a while.
She took it from her bag and gave it to him and he struck a matchand read it with difficulty.
It was written in a studiously uneducated hand.
"Dear Miss,"I know who you are. You are wanted by the police but I will notgive you away. Dear Miss. I am very hard up and 20 pounds willbe very useful to me and I shall not trouble you again. DearMiss. Put the money on the window sill of your room. I know yousleep on the ground floor and I will come in and take it. And ifnot - well, I don't want to make any trouble.
"Yours truly,"A FRIEND.""When did you get this?" he asked.
"This morning," she replied. "I sent the Agony to the paper bytelegram, I knew you would come.""Oh, you did, did you?" he said.
Her assurance was very pleasing to him. The faith that her wordsimplied gave him an odd little feeling of comfort and happiness.
"I can easily get you out of this," he added; "give me youraddress and when the gentleman comes - ""That is impossible," she replied hurriedly. "Please don't thinkI'm ungrateful, and don't think I'm being silly - you do think I'mbeing silly, don't you!""I have never harboured such an unworthy thought," he saidvirtuously.
"Yes, you have," she persisted, "but really I can't tell you whereI am living. I have a very special reason for not doing so. It'snot myself that I'm thinking about, but there's a life involved."This was a somewhat dramatic statement to make and she felt shehad gone too far.
"Perhaps I don't mean that," she said, "but there is some one Icare for - " she dropped her voice.
"Oh," said T. X. blankly.
He came down from his rosy heights into the shadow and darkness ofa sunless valley.
"Some one you care for," he repeated after a while.
"Yes."There was another long silence, then,"Oh, indeed," said T. X.
Again the unbroken interval of quiet and after a while she said ina low voice, "Not that way.""Not what way!" asked T. X. huskily, his spirits doing a littlemountaineering.
"The way you mean," she said.
2012年11月2日星期五
Neither was there a wooden wall at the back of his bed with a hole in it for North Wind to come in a
Neither was there a wooden wall at the back of his bed with a hole in it for North Wind to come in at when she liked. Indeed, there was such a high wall that North Wind seldom got into the place. And the wall at the head of Diamond’s new bed only divided it from the room where a cabman lived who drank too much beer and came home to quarrel with and abuse his wife. It was dreadful for Diamond to hear the scolding and the crying. But he was determined it should not make him miserable for he had been at the back of the north wind.
Chapter 6 Diamond Learns To Drive a Horse
The wind blew loudly all night long, the first night Diamond slept in his new home, but he did not hear it. My own belief is that when Diamond slept too soundly to remember anything about it in the morning, he had been all night at the back of the north wind. Sometimes something did seem to remain in his mind like the low far-off murmur of the river singing its song. He sometimes tried to hold on to the words it sung. But ever as he came awaker — as he would say — one line faded away and then another. At last there was nothing left but the sense that everything went right there and could — and must — be made to go right here.
That was how he awoke that first morning and he jumped up at once saying, “I’ve been ill a long time and given a great deal of trouble. Now let’s see how I can help my mother.”
When he went into her room, he found her lighting the fire and his father just getting up. So he took up the baby who was awake too and cared for him till his mother had the breakfast ready. She was looking gloomy and his father too was silent. Diamond felt that in a few minutes, he would be just as miserable. But he tried with all his might to be jolly with the baby and presently his mother just had to smile.
“Why, Diamond, child!” she said at last. “You are as good to your mother as if you were a girl — nursing the baby and toasting the bread, and sweeping up the hearth. I declare a body would think you had been among the fairies.”
“I’ve been at the back of the north wind,” said Diamond to himself happily.
And now his father was more cheerful too. “Won’t you come out and see the cab, Diamond?” he asked.
“Yes, father, in just a minute after I put the baby down.”
So his father went on ahead. When Diamond got out into the yard, the horse was between the shafts. Diamond went around to look at him. The sight of him made him feel very queer. He could not make it out. What horse was it that looked so familiar? When he came around in front and the old horse put out his long neck and began rubbing against him, Diamond saw it could be no other than old Diamond and he just put his arms around his neck and cried.
“Isn’t it jolly, father!” he said. “Was there ever anybody so lucky as we! Dear old Diamond!” He hugged the horse again and kissed both his big, hairy cheeks. He could only manage one at a time, however — the other cheek was so far off on the other side of old Diamond’s big head. And now his father took up the reins to drive off.
“Oh, father, do let me drive a bit!” cried Diamond jumping up on the box beside him. His father put the reins into his hands and began to show him how to drive. He let Diamond drive quite a little way and then the boy jumped down and ran gaily back to his mother.
Chapter 6 Diamond Learns To Drive a Horse
The wind blew loudly all night long, the first night Diamond slept in his new home, but he did not hear it. My own belief is that when Diamond slept too soundly to remember anything about it in the morning, he had been all night at the back of the north wind. Sometimes something did seem to remain in his mind like the low far-off murmur of the river singing its song. He sometimes tried to hold on to the words it sung. But ever as he came awaker — as he would say — one line faded away and then another. At last there was nothing left but the sense that everything went right there and could — and must — be made to go right here.
That was how he awoke that first morning and he jumped up at once saying, “I’ve been ill a long time and given a great deal of trouble. Now let’s see how I can help my mother.”
When he went into her room, he found her lighting the fire and his father just getting up. So he took up the baby who was awake too and cared for him till his mother had the breakfast ready. She was looking gloomy and his father too was silent. Diamond felt that in a few minutes, he would be just as miserable. But he tried with all his might to be jolly with the baby and presently his mother just had to smile.
“Why, Diamond, child!” she said at last. “You are as good to your mother as if you were a girl — nursing the baby and toasting the bread, and sweeping up the hearth. I declare a body would think you had been among the fairies.”
“I’ve been at the back of the north wind,” said Diamond to himself happily.
And now his father was more cheerful too. “Won’t you come out and see the cab, Diamond?” he asked.
“Yes, father, in just a minute after I put the baby down.”
So his father went on ahead. When Diamond got out into the yard, the horse was between the shafts. Diamond went around to look at him. The sight of him made him feel very queer. He could not make it out. What horse was it that looked so familiar? When he came around in front and the old horse put out his long neck and began rubbing against him, Diamond saw it could be no other than old Diamond and he just put his arms around his neck and cried.
“Isn’t it jolly, father!” he said. “Was there ever anybody so lucky as we! Dear old Diamond!” He hugged the horse again and kissed both his big, hairy cheeks. He could only manage one at a time, however — the other cheek was so far off on the other side of old Diamond’s big head. And now his father took up the reins to drive off.
“Oh, father, do let me drive a bit!” cried Diamond jumping up on the box beside him. His father put the reins into his hands and began to show him how to drive. He let Diamond drive quite a little way and then the boy jumped down and ran gaily back to his mother.
To enjoy life
To enjoy life, and tobacco, begin both on a sunny morning half a mile or so above the dappled Atlantic cloud-belts and after a volt-flurry which has cleared and tempered your nerves. While we discussed the thickening traffic with the superiority that comes of having a high level reserved to ourselves, we heard (and I for the first time) the morning hymn on a Hospital boat.
She was cloaked by a skein of ravelled fluff beneath us and we caught the chant before she rose into the sunlight. “Oh, ye Winds of God,” sang the unseen voices: “bless ye the Lord! Praise Him and magnify Him for ever!”
We slid off our caps and joined in. When our shadow fell across her great open platforms they looked up and stretched out their hands neighbourly while they sang. We could see the doctors and the nurses and the white-button-like faces of the cot-patients. She passed slowly beneath us, heading northward, her hull, wet with the dews of the night, all ablaze in the sunshine. So took she the shadow of a cloud and vanished, her song continuing. “Oh, ye holy and humble men of heart, bless ye the Lord! Praise Him and magnify Him for ever.”
“She’s a public lunger or she wouldn’t have been singing the Benedicite; and she’s a Greenlander or she wouldn’t have snow-blinds over her colloids,” said George at last. “She’ll be bound for Frederikshavn or one of the Glacier sanatoriums for a month. If she was an accident ward she’d be hung up at the eight-thousand-foot level. Yes — consumptives.”
“Funny how the new things are the old thing I’ve read in books,” Tim answered, “that savages used to haul their sick and wounded up to the tops of hills because microbes were fewer there. We hoist ’em in sterilized air for a while. Same idea. How much do the doctors say we’ve added to the average life of man?”
“Thirty years,” says George with a twinkle in his eye. “Are we going to spend ’em all up here, Tim?”
“Flap ahead, then. Flap ahead. Who’s hindering?” the senior captain laughed, as we went in.
We held a good lift to clear the coastwise and Continental shipping; and we had need of it. Though our route is in no sense a populated one, there is a steady trickle of traffic this way along. We met Hudson Bay furriers out of the Great Preserve, hurrying to make their departure from Bonavista with sable and black fox for the insatiable markets. We overcossed Keewatin liners, small and cramped; but their captains, who see no land between Trepassy and Lanco, know what gold they bring back from West Erica. Trans-Asiatic Directs we met, soberly ringing the world round the Fiftieth Meridian at an honest seventy knots; and white-painted Ackroyd & Hunt fruiters out of the south fled beneath us, their ventilated hulls whistling like Chinese kites. Their market is in the North among the northern sanatoria where you can smell their grape-fruit and bananas across the cold snows. Argentine beef boats we sighted too, of enormous capacity and unlovely outline. They, too, feed the northern health stations in icebound ports where submersibles dare not rise.
Yellow-bellied ore-flats and Ungava petrol-tanks punted down leisurely out of the north, like strings of unfrightened wild duck. It does not pay to “fly” minerals and oil a mile farther than is necessary; but the risks of transhipping to submersibles in the ice pack off Nain or Hebron are so great that these heavy freighters fly down to Halifax direct, and scent the air as they go. They are the biggest tramps aloft except the Athabasca grain-tubs. But these last, now that the wheat is moved, are busy, over the world’s shoulder, timber-lifting in Siberia.
She was cloaked by a skein of ravelled fluff beneath us and we caught the chant before she rose into the sunlight. “Oh, ye Winds of God,” sang the unseen voices: “bless ye the Lord! Praise Him and magnify Him for ever!”
We slid off our caps and joined in. When our shadow fell across her great open platforms they looked up and stretched out their hands neighbourly while they sang. We could see the doctors and the nurses and the white-button-like faces of the cot-patients. She passed slowly beneath us, heading northward, her hull, wet with the dews of the night, all ablaze in the sunshine. So took she the shadow of a cloud and vanished, her song continuing. “Oh, ye holy and humble men of heart, bless ye the Lord! Praise Him and magnify Him for ever.”
“She’s a public lunger or she wouldn’t have been singing the Benedicite; and she’s a Greenlander or she wouldn’t have snow-blinds over her colloids,” said George at last. “She’ll be bound for Frederikshavn or one of the Glacier sanatoriums for a month. If she was an accident ward she’d be hung up at the eight-thousand-foot level. Yes — consumptives.”
“Funny how the new things are the old thing I’ve read in books,” Tim answered, “that savages used to haul their sick and wounded up to the tops of hills because microbes were fewer there. We hoist ’em in sterilized air for a while. Same idea. How much do the doctors say we’ve added to the average life of man?”
“Thirty years,” says George with a twinkle in his eye. “Are we going to spend ’em all up here, Tim?”
“Flap ahead, then. Flap ahead. Who’s hindering?” the senior captain laughed, as we went in.
We held a good lift to clear the coastwise and Continental shipping; and we had need of it. Though our route is in no sense a populated one, there is a steady trickle of traffic this way along. We met Hudson Bay furriers out of the Great Preserve, hurrying to make their departure from Bonavista with sable and black fox for the insatiable markets. We overcossed Keewatin liners, small and cramped; but their captains, who see no land between Trepassy and Lanco, know what gold they bring back from West Erica. Trans-Asiatic Directs we met, soberly ringing the world round the Fiftieth Meridian at an honest seventy knots; and white-painted Ackroyd & Hunt fruiters out of the south fled beneath us, their ventilated hulls whistling like Chinese kites. Their market is in the North among the northern sanatoria where you can smell their grape-fruit and bananas across the cold snows. Argentine beef boats we sighted too, of enormous capacity and unlovely outline. They, too, feed the northern health stations in icebound ports where submersibles dare not rise.
Yellow-bellied ore-flats and Ungava petrol-tanks punted down leisurely out of the north, like strings of unfrightened wild duck. It does not pay to “fly” minerals and oil a mile farther than is necessary; but the risks of transhipping to submersibles in the ice pack off Nain or Hebron are so great that these heavy freighters fly down to Halifax direct, and scent the air as they go. They are the biggest tramps aloft except the Athabasca grain-tubs. But these last, now that the wheat is moved, are busy, over the world’s shoulder, timber-lifting in Siberia.
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