“But surely he is not yet in a condition to go to sea again, and it is next to impossible to find any temporary position for him in Windsor.”
Mr. and Mrs. Harris were out for a drive behind Harold’s chestnut1 ponies2, and, as usual, when something important had need to be talked over, the ponies did pretty much as they liked, and that meant, I am ashamed to say (for they were quite too young to so much as think of being lazy), keeping up the merest pretence3 of a trot4 for a while, and then subsiding5 into a walk altogether.
Mr. and Mrs. Harris, apparently6 none the wiser, talked on and on, and the ponies put their heads together, as though actually conferring as to the advisability of stopping to graze a little while by the way.
“You see, this sort of life is too luxurious7 for the fellow,” argued Mr. Harris. “It was well enough while he needed care and nursing, but the boy has always had to rough it, and he’ll have to rough it again; and I think we’re unfitting him for it.”
“But what can we do? It is better for him to be idle here with us, it seems to me, than in some ordinary lodging-house, where things, to be sure, are not by any means luxurious, but where a boy who is not at work meets with so many temptations.”
“I wonder if it would not be a good idea to write Chris Hartley? He told me his grandfather has a snug8 little place and several head of stock, and, like as not, Donald would make himself of use, or, at any rate, Chris could keep him occupied in some way, and we could pay his board for him there. He won’t be strong enough to put to sea before September, that’s certain.”
“That’s a splendid idea, Fritz; you always seem to be able to construct some sort of a highroad out of every difficulty;” and Mr. Harris said, “Thank you, madam,” with an affectation of profound gratitude9; but for all that he was none the less truly grateful. We are a little too apt, most of us, to assume too much with our nearest and dearest—to take for granted that they know all the thoughts of our heart, and so seldom put our praise of them into words. But what a mistake! Is there anything so precious in all this world as the openly expressed admiration11 of the people we really love? No matter how one pretends to receive it, it makes one feel very happy at heart all the same, and humble12 and grateful as well. You’d forgive this bit of what the critics call moralizing—it is all the outcome of that remark of Mrs. Harris’s; nothing was further from my thoughts until she put it into my head by giving Mr. Harris that unexpected little compliment. It was the truth, however. He did have a genius for overcoming difficulties, instead of being overcome by them; and the particular difficulty of what had best be none with Donald being temporarily settled, they proceeded to give themselves wholly to the pleasure of the drive. They readjusted things in the comfortable little phaeton and tucked the lap-robe about them in trimmer fashion, and then the ponies, feeling a tightening13 grasp on the lines, and intuitively conscious of a whip poised14 at an easily descending15 angle, wisely saw fit to make up for lost time. Along the perfect English road they scampered16, and out to Virginia Water, at the merriest pace, and then home again at a better pace still, so alluring17 to their pony18 imaginations were the box stalls and oats that lay in that direction. They only wished so much time did not have to be wasted after they reached there. How thoughtless it was to walk a pony, who had just come in from a long drive, up and down a lane for half an hour, just for the sake of giving a groom19 a little exercise! They did protest with their heels now and then, but that only meant a closer, more uncomfortable grip on the halter, and made matters rather worse than better. And so what wonder, with all this fuss and senseless bother, that Mr. Harris had written and mailed a letter to Mr. Christopher Hartley before the ponies had gotten so much as their noses within their own box stalls! As for the letter, you would have thought it harmless enough could you have looked over Mr. Harris’s shoulder as he wrote it. It simply related the facts about Donald, and asked if old Mr. and Mrs. Hartley would not be good enough to take him to board for the rest of the summer, and if Chris would not contrive20 to keep him occupied about the farm in some way that should not overtax his newly gained strength. That was all there was in it, and yet can you not surmise21 how even that letter was calculated to work great consternation22 in the mind of some one in the little thatched cottage—some one who never saw the letter itself, and who did not so much as know of its existence until it had been read and re-read and thought over and answered, but who when one day he was made acquainted with its contents felt as weak as a kitten for hours afterward23? He happened to be lying on the lounge in the living-room at the time, the same lounge to which he had been carried more dead than alive apparently, just four weeks before. He looked very pale and white still, but the doctor said he was getting on as fast as could be expected, only Ted10—for of course it is Ted we are talking about—wished he might have been expected to get on just five times faster. He had had a great deal of time to think during the first part of his illness—in fact, he had had nothing else to do, for the doctor would not let him use his eyes—and he had made up his mind that when he was himself once more he was going to begin life all over again, and naturally he was anxious to get to work. There was that in his face, however, that showed plainly enough that he had begun already, though he did not in the least suspect it; an earnest, thoughtful look that even bluff25 old Mr. Hartley was quick to detect.
“Seems like, to look at our new lodger26, that he’s mendin’ in more ways than one,” he had said to his wife as they walked to the parish church on a sunshiny Sunday morning, the second after Ted’s accident. “There’s a kind of a light in his eye, as though he was meditatin’ turnin’ over a new leaf when he gets a chance.”
“He’s turned it already, I’m thinking, Thomas,” answered Mrs. Hartley, with a woman’s clearer discernment.
And it was on that same Sunday morning, just two weeks before, that Ted had made a discovery. Chris had staid home from church to take care of him, Harry27 Allyn, who had constituted himself Ted’s nurse, having gone for a day or two up to Oxford28, where some matters needed his attention. Ted was still in bed at the time, but tired enough of it, and glad to draw Chris into conversation.
“It is queer to think of you as in the employ of ‘Uncle Sam,’” said Ted, who by this time had come to be on most friendly terms with Chris.
“I look as though I belonged right here, don’t I?” said Chris, glancing down at his English suit of homespun. “But you ought to see me in my gray uniform and brass29 buttons. Really, Mr. Morris, fond as I am of the old people here, I often wish I were back at work again. It seems like my own country over there now, and I’ve grown to love it.”
“I don’t know exactly—somewhere about the first of October. Same steamer, if I can manage it, with Marie-Celeste.”
“Marie-Celeste!” exclaimed Ted; and then, bethinking himself, he asked quite casually30, “Who is Marie-Celeste, I should like to know?”
“Well, she’s just a dear child, Mr. Morris—a little American of twelve or thereabouts—but there isn’t a little girl in all England can hold a candle to her.”
“Can it be possible there are two little American Marie-Celestes in England this summer?” thought Ted; and then, trying with all his might not to betray his excitement, he asked further, “How did you come to know her, Chris?”
“She’s on my route, Mr. Morris. Along of my being fond of children, I know all of the boys and girls pretty well at the houses where I call; but Marie-Celeste is different from the rest. She just takes your heart by storm, with her confiding31, little trusting ways and her interest in you. Here’s a picture of her, that her mother let her give me last Christmas,” and Chris began a search through many papers in his wallet for the cherished photograph. Meantime, Ted realized how weak he was, that such a matter as this should put him into a tremble; and later, when Chris gave him the photograph, he could only manage by the greatest effort to keep his hand from shaking as he held it, but the picture settled matters. From beneath the curve of a wide-brimmed hat looked forth32 the familiar face of his own little cousin, Marie-Celeste, and the color rushed up into his forehead.
“I guess I’m tiring you with talking so much,” said Chris; “I’ll tell you all about her some other time;” and Ted, replying, “Well, somehow or other, I do seem to get exhausted33 precious easily,” turned over and closed his eyes.
“A nap’ll do wonders for you, Mr. Morris;” and lowering the shades at the two ivy-grown windows, and adjusting the screen that stood near the bed, Chris left the room. But a nap, as often happens, would not do anything at all for poor Ted just then. It did not have the ghost of a chance, in fact. How could it with so many queer thoughts and sensations chasing each other pell-mell through his mind. Wouldn’t Chris be surprised, he thought, if he knew that Marie-Celeste was his own cousin, and living that moment in Ted’s own home was one of the precious company from whom he was anxious to keep all knowledge of this worst and last scrape. But he felt like a fraud, lying there in the Hartleys’ dear little cottage, and letting them think him another man altogether from the fellow he really was. Indeed, he experienced the same sensation every time any one called him by the name of Morris, which had been the first name to occur to Harry Allyn, in his desire to shield his friend on the night of the accident. “And yet,” argued Ted, “I’m doing it to save the folks at home the disgrace of it, and Harry and Dr. Arnold seem to think it all right; and yet, I declare if I know myself what to think. And what a remarkable34 thing it is that I should have fallen right into the hands of this old friend of Marie-Celeste’s! Like as not my secret will out some day in spite of me. It would have been out at once if Chris had not been so considerate as to keep himself out of the way, so that we did not meet that morning on the steamer. I wonder if I ought not to tell just Chris, anyway; but somehow or other I do not seem to have strength enough even to make up my mind, and I’ll give up trying for the present;” and so, ceasing to make any effort whatever, the little nap that would not come for the asking stole quietly in and laid its blessed touch of oblivion upon poor, troubled Ted. Now, this discovery of Ted’s, that Chris was a friend of Marie-Celeste, and the perplexing state of mind that followed, had transpired35, you understand, two weeks previous to this particular chapter, and Ted, you remember, is lying on the chintz-covered lounge in the living-room, having gained strength enough in the mean time to walk from his bed to the lounge unaided. Mr. Hartley is reading his morning paper, sitting in the shade just outside the cottage door, with his chair tipped back against the shingles36. Now and then, as he comes across anything he thinks will interest Ted, he lets the chair drop on to all-fours, shifts his position so as to bring himself into line with the door, and reads the article or paragraph aloud. Ted, amused, and grateful as well at the manner in which the old keeper has gradually softened37 toward him, always listens attentively38, and courteously39 feigns40 interest, when he finds he cannot command the real article. Mrs. Hartley, still busy about her morning household duties, occasionally flits in and out of the room, and Ted’s eyes follow her devotedly41 every moment that she is there. He has grown to love the dear old grandmother with the whole of his wayward heart, and she seems to him the embodiment of all that is calm and loving and benignant. Indeed, it were difficult to tell how much of the blessed change that has been gradually coming over Ted is due to her noble, placid42 face. He has sufficient knowledge of human nature to realize that nothing but years and years of noblest thinking and doing will bring that look into a face, and he finds his soul fairly bowing down before her. On one of these busy flittings of Mrs. Hartley’s, Ted has detained her for a moment, to ask some trifling43 question, and just as she is about to make a reply, Chris, returning from his daily ride into Nuneham for the mail, swings into the room with his breezy, postman-like air, and empties the contents of the little Hartley mail-bag upon the table.
0115
“It’s all settled, granny dear,” he says, as he picks out two letters and hands them to Ted; “I’ve had a letter from Marie-Celeste and one from Mr. Harris, and he’ll be down to-morrow on the three-o’clock train.”
“My goodness!” mutters Ted under his breath, staring at Chris a moment in blank astonishment44, and then straightway pretends to be all absorbed in his own mail. One or two college bills, forwarded by Harry Allyn from Oxford, were all there was to it, for, alas45! there were no home letters for Ted in these days of self-imposed exile from kith and kin24. The bills, however, gave him a chance to pull himself together, as he made a ruse46 of carefully examining them, while his heart thumped47 like a trip-hammer at the thought of Uncle Fritz coming down to Nuneham and finding him stranded48 there, helpless, good-for-nothing fellow that he felt himself to be.
“You say you saw a great deal of him on the steamer, Chris?” said Mrs. Hartley, who had seated herself in the nearest chair, awaiting the budget of news that Chris always endeavored to bring out from Nuneham, for the enlivening of the old people.
“Yes, granny, a great deal. I really don’t know how he would have managed but for me.”
“That’s cool,” thought Ted; “I’m sure Uncle Fritz seems quite able to take care of himself.”
“And he’s a good-looking little fellow, is he, Chris?”
“Good-looking and good-natured, granny dear; you’ll take to him right from the start.”
Well, this was passing comprehension! Uncle Fritz a good-looking, good-natured little fellow; and forgetting everything else in his amazement49, Ted turned from Chris to Mrs. Hartley, and back again to Chris, in hopeless bewilderment, while they, wholly unobservant, continued to converse50 in what seemed to him most idiotic51 fashion.
They talked about his illness, and of how kind Marie-Celeste and her Cousin Harold had been to him, and of what wonders they hoped Nuneham would do for him, and of how, for his own sake, they must continue to keep him busy in little matters about the farm.
“Really,” said Ted at last, able to stand it no longer, and looking pathetically toward Chris, “I don’t mean to be inquisitive52, but do I understand you that the father of your friend, Marie-Celeste, is coming here to your cottage to recruit from some illness, and that you plan to entertain him by putting him to work on the farm?”
If either Chris or Mrs. Hartley had been close observers of human nature, they would have been almost alarmed at the expression on Ted’s face. It was as though he felt himself in some way impelled53 to ask a question which proclaimed him a pitiful lunatic on the face of it.
“Oh, dear, no!” laughed Chris; “I—”
“Well, that’s exactly what you said,” interrupted Ted. “You said you had a letter from Marie-Celeste and one from her father, and that he’d be down on the three-o’clock train to-morrow.” Ted spoke54 petulantly55, feeling it was inexcusable to scare a fellow half to death in that manner.
“Well, he, Mr. Morris,” ascribing Ted’s petulance56 to the nervousness of slow convalescence57, “happens to mean a little sailor boy who crossed on the steamer with us, and about whom Mr. Harris and I have been corresponding. It was funny enough that you should have applied58 all I have said to a man like Mr. Harris.”
Ted did not think it so very funny, and his face showing it, Chris continued in a half-apologetic tone, “I ought to have told you about him, Mr. Morris, and I thought I had and then, by the way of making amends59, Chris proceeded to narrate60 all the details of Donald’s various experiences in a way that was somewhat of a bore to one who knew it all as Ted did.
“Well,” he thought, when he was finally left to himself once more, it’s out of the frying-pan and into the fire,’ or something very much like it. Of course I’ll have to take Donald into my confidence; but like as not he’ll come suddenly upon me, and blurt61 out just who I am before I get a chance to give him a point or two. There’s no doubt about it, ‘the way of the transgressor62 is hard’—very hard indeed and with a grim sort of smile on his face, Ted gathered his dressing-gown about him, and with rather shaky steps sought the seclusion63 of his own little room.
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1
chestnut
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| n.栗树，栗子 | |
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ponies
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| 矮种马，小型马( pony的名词复数 )； ￡25 25 英镑 | |
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pretence
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| n.假装，作假；借口，口实；虚伪；虚饰 | |
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trot
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| n.疾走，慢跑；n.老太婆；现成译本；(复数）trots:腹泻（与the 连用）；v.小跑，快步走，赶紧 | |
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5
subsiding
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| v.（土地）下陷（因在地下采矿）( subside的现在分词 )；减弱；下降至较低或正常水平；一下子坐在椅子等上 | |
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apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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luxurious
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| adj.精美而昂贵的；豪华的 | |
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snug
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| adj.温暖舒适的，合身的，安全的；v.使整洁干净，舒适地依靠，紧贴；n.（英）酒吧里的私房 | |
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gratitude
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| adj.感激，感谢 | |
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ted
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| vt.翻晒，撒，撒开 | |
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admiration
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| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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humble
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| adj.谦卑的，恭顺的；地位低下的；v.降低，贬低 | |
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tightening
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| 上紧，固定，紧密 | |
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poised
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| a.摆好姿势不动的 | |
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descending
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| n. 下行 adj. 下降的 | |
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scampered
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| v.蹦蹦跳跳地跑，惊惶奔跑( scamper的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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alluring
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| adj.吸引人的，迷人的 | |
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pony
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| adj.小型的；n.小马 | |
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groom
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| vt.给（马、狗等）梳毛，照料，使...整洁 | |
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contrive
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| vt.谋划，策划；设法做到；设计，想出 | |
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surmise
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| v./n.猜想，推测 | |
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consternation
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| n.大为吃惊，惊骇 | |
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afterward
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| adv.后来；以后 | |
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kin
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| n.家族，亲属，血缘关系；adj.亲属关系的，同类的 | |
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bluff
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| v.虚张声势，用假象骗人；n.虚张声势，欺骗 | |
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lodger
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| n.寄宿人，房客 | |
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harry
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| vt.掠夺，蹂躏，使苦恼 | |
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Oxford
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| n.牛津（英国城市） | |
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brass
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| n.黄铜；黄铜器，铜管乐器 | |
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casually
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| adv.漠不关心地，无动于衷地，不负责任地 | |
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confiding
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| adj.相信人的，易于相信的v.吐露（秘密，心事等）( confide的现在分词 )；（向某人）吐露（隐私、秘密等） | |
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forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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exhausted
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| adj.极其疲惫的，精疲力尽的 | |
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remarkable
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| adj.显著的，异常的，非凡的，值得注意的 | |
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transpired
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| （事实，秘密等）被人知道( transpire的过去式和过去分词 )； 泄露； 显露； 发生 | |
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36
shingles
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| n.带状疱疹；（布满海边的）小圆石( shingle的名词复数 )；屋顶板；木瓦（板）；墙面板 | |
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softened
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| （使）变软( soften的过去式和过去分词 )； 缓解打击； 缓和； 安慰 | |
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attentively
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| adv.聚精会神地；周到地；谛；凝神 | |
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courteously
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| adv.有礼貌地，亲切地 | |
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feigns
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| 假装，伪装( feign的第三人称单数 )； 捏造（借口、理由等） | |
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devotedly
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| 专心地； 恩爱地； 忠实地； 一心一意地 | |
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placid
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| adj.安静的，平和的 | |
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trifling
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| adj.微不足道的；没什么价值的 | |
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44
astonishment
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| n.惊奇，惊异 | |
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alas
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| int.唉(表示悲伤、忧愁、恐惧等) | |
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46
ruse
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| n.诡计，计策；诡计 | |
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47
thumped
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| v.重击， （指心脏）急速跳动( thump的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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stranded
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| a.搁浅的，进退两难的 | |
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49
amazement
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| n.惊奇，惊讶 | |
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50
converse
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| vi.谈话，谈天，闲聊；adv.相反的，相反 | |
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51
idiotic
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| adj.白痴的 | |
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52
inquisitive
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| adj.求知欲强的，好奇的，好寻根究底的 | |
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53
impelled
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| v.推动、推进或敦促某人做某事( impel的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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54
spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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55
petulantly
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56
petulance
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| n.发脾气，生气，易怒，暴躁，性急 | |
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57
convalescence
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| n.病后康复期 | |
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58
applied
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| adj.应用的；v.应用，适用 | |
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59
amends
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| n. 赔偿 | |
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narrate
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| v.讲，叙述 | |
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blurt
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| vt.突然说出，脱口说出 | |
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62
transgressor
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| n.违背者 | |
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seclusion
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| n.隐遁，隔离 | |
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