Lookers-on, however, see most of the game. On the sixth such morning, it occurred casually7 to Florian as he lay abed and reflected, to get up early himself and go out on the hillside. Not that the airy epicurean philosopher was by any means afflicted8 with the essentially9 vulgar vice10 of curiosity. He was far too deeply occupied with Mr Florian Wood to think of expending11 much valuable attention on the habits and manners of less-interesting personalities12. But in this particular case he felt he had a positive Duty to perform. Now, a Duty had for Florian all the luxury of novelty. He was troubled with few such, and whenever he found one, he made the most of it. Just at present, he was persuaded Will Deverill was on the eve of “getting himself into an entanglement” with the beautiful milkmaid who so paradoxically preferred his society to Florian’s. Plain Duty, therefore, to Will himself, to Mrs Deverill mère, to the just expectations of the ladies of England (who had clearly a prior claim on Will’s fortune and affection), compelled Florian to interfere13 before things went too far, so as to save his friend from the consequences of his own possible folly14. Animated15 by these noble impulses, Florian did not even shrink from leaving a very snug16 bed at five o’clock that cold morning, and waiting at the window, like a private detective, till Will took his way up the path to the hillside.
About six, Will emerged from the door of the inn. Florian gave him law, five minutes law?—?just rope enough to hang himself. Then, marking from the back window which way Will had gone, he followed the trail up hill with all the novel zest17 of an amateur policeman. Skulking18 along the pinewood, he came upon them from behind, by the same path which Will himself had taken on the morning when he followed Linnet first to the boulder in the pasture. Then, treading softly over the green turf with muffled19 footfall, he was close upon the unconscious pair before they knew or suspected it. The ill-advised young people were seated side by side on a little ledge20 of rock that protruded21 from the green-sward. Will leant eagerly forward, holding Linnet’s hand, and looking hard into her eyes; the girl herself drew back, and cast down her glance, as if half fearing the ardour of his evident advances. Respect for the conventions made Florian cough lightly before disturbing their interview. At the sound, both looked up. Some five feet nothing of airy observant humanity beamed blandly22 down upon them. Linnet gave a little cry, started up in surprise, hid her crimson23 face hurriedly between two soft brown hands, and then, yielding to the first impulse of her shy rustic24 nature, fled away without one word, leaving Will face to face with that accusing moralist.
The epicurean philosopher seated himself, like stern justice in miniature, beside his erring25 friend. His face was grave: when Florian did gravity, he did it, as life did everything else, “consummately.” For a minute or two he only stared hard at Will, slowly nodding his head like an earthenware26 mandarin27, and stroking his smooth chin in profound meditation28. At the end of that time, he delivered his bolt, point blank. “Tomorrow,” he said, calmly, “we go on to Innsbruck.”
“Why so?” Will asked, with a dogged air of dissent29.
“Because,” Florian answered, with crushing dialectic, “we never intended to spend our whole time on the upper Zillerthal, did we?”
This sudden flank movement took Will fairly by surprise. For Florian was quite right. Their plan of campaign on leaving London included the South Tyrol, Verona, and Milan. “But a day or two longer,” he put in, half-imploringly, thus caught off his guard. “Just a day or two longer to . . . to settle things up a bit.”
Stern justice was inexorable. “Not one other night,” Florian answered, severely30. “The lotus has by this time been sufficiently31 eaten. I see what this means. I know now why you’ve kept me here so long at St Valentin. With Innsbruck and Cortina and the untrodden Dolomites beckoning32 me on to come, you’ve planted me plump in this hole, and kept me here at your side?—?all for the sake of one Tyrolese cow-girl. In the name of common morality,” and Florian frowned like a very puisne judge, “I protest against these most irregular and improper33 proceedings34.”
“I never meant the girl any harm,” Will answered, with a faint flush.
“That’s just it, my dear fellow. I know very well you didn’t. That’s the head and front of your offending. If you had meant her harm, of course I could much more readily have forgiven you.”
“Florian,” Will said, looking up, “let’s be serious, please, for once. This is a serious matter.”
Florian pursed his thin lips, and knitted his white brow judicially35. “H’m, h’m,” he said, with slow deliberateness. “It’s as bad as that, is it? Why, Deverill, I assure you, I’ve rarely?—?if ever?—?been as serious as this in all my life before. Don’t look at me like that. I mean just what I say. I’m not thinking about the girl, but about you, my dear fellow. The morals of these parts, as you very well know, are primitive36?—?primitive. It won’t do her much harm, even if it gets noised about, to have been seen on the hills, alone in the grey dawn, hand in hand with an Englishman. This is no place for Oriental seclusion37 of women. Indeed, from what I hear, the Arcadian relations of these unchaperoned alp-girls with their lovers from the plains must be something truly sweet in their unaffected simplicity38. Herr Hausberger was telling me last night that when an alp-girl marries, all the hunters and peasants, her discarded lovers, whom she has admitted to the intimacy39 of her chalet on the mountains, leave a cradle at the door of her chosen husband on the night of the wedding. The good man wakes up the morning after his marriage to find staring him in the face, on his own threshold, these tangible40 proofs of his wife’s little slips in her spinster existence. . . . It’s a charming custom. I find it quite economical. He knows the worst at once. It saves him the trouble, so common among ourselves, of finding them out for himself piecemeal41 in the course of his later relations.”
“You are wandering from the question,” Will interrupted, testily42. He didn’t quite relish43 these generalised innuendoes44 against poor Linnet’s character.
“Not at all, not at all,” Florian went on very gravely. “The point of these remarks lies in the application thereof, as Captain Cuttle puts it. . . . When Linnet marries, you mean, I suppose, to increase the number of the delicate little offerings presented at her door by?——”
Will started up and glared at him. “You shall not speak like that,” he cried in a very angry voice, “of such a girl as Linnet.”
The little man waved one dainty white hand with a deprecating gesture towards his excited friend. “This is too bad,” he said, sighing, “very bad indeed, far worse than I imagined. I said it on purpose, just to see what you were driving at. And I find out the worst. If you mean the girl no harm, and take a slighting little jest on her to heart like that, why your case is desperate?—?an aggravated45 attack, complicated by incipient47 matrimonial symptoms. You need change of air, change of scene, change of company. Law of Medes and Persians, it’s Innsbruck to-morrow! You go with me as I bid, or I go without you. Demur48, and I leave you at once to your fate. You may stop with your cow-girl.”
“Don’t speak of her by that name!” Will broke in, half-angrily.
But Florian, for his part, was provokingly cool. “All A is A,” he said, calmly, with irresistible49 logic6?—?“and every cow-girl’s a cow-girl. I’ll call her a boutrophista, or a neat-herding Phyllis, if it gives you any pleasure. That’s neither here nor there. The point’s just this?—?You mean the girl no harm: then what the deuce do you mean? Are you going to marry her?”
“No; certainly not,” Will answered. She was a very nice girl, and he loved to talk with her?—?there was something so sweetly unsophisticated in her ways that she charmed and attracted him. But marry her? No; the very word surprised him; he had never even dreamt of it. In the first place (though as yet he hadn’t as much as thought about that), he had nothing to marry upon. And in the second place, if he had, could he take a Tyrolese milkmaid fresh from the cowsheds in his tow to London, and present her to his friends as Mrs Will Deverill?
“Then what the deuce do you mean?” Florian repeated, persistently50. His sound common-sense, when he chose to let it loose from his veneer51 of affectation, was no mean commodity.
Thus driven to bay, Will was forced to reply with a somewhat sheepish air, “I don’t know that I mean anything. I’ve never tried to formulate52 my state of mind to myself. She’s a very nice girl . . . for her class and sort . . . and I like to talk to her.”
“And when you talk to her, you like to hold her hand and lean forward like this, and stare with all your eyes, and look for all the world as if you wanted to devour53 her! Oh yes; I’ve seen you. No, no, Will, it won’t do; I’ve been there myself, and I know all about it. Looking at the matter impartially54, as a man of the world”?—?and Florian, drawing himself up, assumed automatically, as those words rolled out, his most magisterial55 attitude?—?“what I’m really afraid of is that you’ll get gradually dragged into this rustic syren’s vortex, and be swallowed up before you know it in the treacherous56 sea of matrimony. However, you don’t believe that, and I know enough of the world to know very well it’s no use, therefore, arguing out that aspect of the case with you. No fellow will ever believe he can be such a fool?—?till he catches himself in church face to face at last with the awful reality. I prefer, accordingly, to go on the other tack46 with you. If you don’t mean to marry the girl, then, whether you know it or not, you mean no good to her. I dare say you’ve got all sorts of conventional notions in your head?—?which, thank heaven, I don’t share?—?about honour and so forth57 . . . how a cow-girl’s virtue58?—?I beg your pardon, a boutrophista’s, or a neat-herding Phyllis’s?—?is as sacred at your hands as the eldest59 daughter’s of a hundred marquises. But that’s neither here nor there. If you don’t marry the girl, and you don’t ruin the girl, there’s only one thing left possible?—?you must break the girl’s heart for her. Between ourselves, being, I flatter myself, a tolerable psychologist, I don’t for a moment suppose that’s what would actually happen; you’d get yourself entangled60, and you’d go on and on, and you’d flounder and struggle, and you’d marry her in the end, just to save the girl misery61. But we’ll do poojah to your intellect at the expense of your heart, and we’ll put it the other way, as you seem to prefer it. Very well, then; sooner or later you’ll have to leave this place. No doubt, after what I’ve seen this morning, it’ll cost the girl a wrench62?—?her vanity must be flattered by receiving so much undisguised attention from a real live gentleman. But, sooner or later, as I say, come it must, of course; and sooner, on the whole, will be better for her than later. The longer you stop, the more she’ll fall in love with you; the quicker you get away from her the less it’ll hurt her.”
He spoke63 the words of wisdom?—?according to his kind. Will rose again with an effort, and started homeward. As they walked down the pasture, and through the belt of pinewood, he said never a word. But he thought all the more on Florian’s counsel. Till that morning, he had never tried to face the question himself: he liked the girl?—?that was all; she sang like a linnet; and he loved to be near her. But the longer he stopped, the harder for her would be the inevitable64 breaking off. Just beyond the pinewood Florian halted and fronted him. “See here, Will,” he said, kindly65, but with the world’s common sense, “it isn’t that I care twopence myself what becomes of the girl?—?girls like that are just made for you and me to play skittles with; if you meant her any harm I wouldn’t for the world interfere with any other man’s little fancies. All I want is to get you away from the place before you’ve time to commit yourself. I use the other argument as an argumentum ad hominem only. But as that it has its weight. The longer you stop, the harder it’ll be in the end for her.”
Will drew a deep breath. His mind was made up now. “Very well, then,” he said, slowly, though with an evident struggle; “if I must go, I must go. I won’t haggle66 over a day. Let us make it to-morrow.”
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1
solitary
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| adj.孤独的，独立的，荒凉的；n.隐士 | |
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boulder
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| n.巨砾；卵石，圆石 | |
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regularity
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| n.规律性，规则性；匀称，整齐 | |
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motive
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| n.动机，目的；adv.发动的，运动的 | |
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philological
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| adj.语言学的，文献学的 | |
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logic
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| n.逻辑(学)；逻辑性 | |
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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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afflicted
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| 使受痛苦，折磨( afflict的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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essentially
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| adv.本质上，实质上，基本上 | |
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vice
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| n.坏事；恶习；[pl.]台钳，老虎钳；adj.副的 | |
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expending
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| v.花费( expend的现在分词 )；使用（钱等）做某事；用光；耗尽 | |
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personalities
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| n. 诽谤，（对某人容貌、性格等所进行的）人身攻击； 人身攻击；人格, 个性, 名人( personality的名词复数 ) | |
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interfere
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| v.(in)干涉，干预；(with)妨碍，打扰 | |
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folly
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| n.愚笨，愚蠢，蠢事，蠢行，傻话 | |
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animated
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| adj.生气勃勃的，活跃的，愉快的 | |
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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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zest
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| n.乐趣；滋味，风味；兴趣 | |
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skulking
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| v.潜伏，偷偷摸摸地走动，鬼鬼祟祟地活动( skulk的现在分词 ) | |
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muffled
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| adj.（声音）被隔的；听不太清的；（衣服）裹严的；蒙住的v.压抑，捂住( muffle的过去式和过去分词 )；用厚厚的衣帽包着（自己） | |
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ledge
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| n.壁架，架状突出物；岩架，岩礁 | |
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protruded
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| v.（使某物）伸出，（使某物）突出( protrude的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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blandly
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| adv.温和地，殷勤地 | |
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crimson
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| n./adj.深(绯)红色(的)；vi.脸变绯红色 | |
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rustic
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| adj.乡村的，有乡村特色的；n.乡下人，乡巴佬 | |
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25
erring
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| 做错事的，错误的 | |
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earthenware
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| n.土器，陶器 | |
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Mandarin
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| n.中国官话，国语，满清官吏；adj.华丽辞藻的 | |
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meditation
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| n.熟虑，（尤指宗教的）默想，沉思，（pl.）冥想录 | |
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dissent
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| n./v.不同意，持异议 | |
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severely
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| adv.严格地；严厉地；非常恶劣地 | |
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sufficiently
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| adv.足够地，充分地 | |
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beckoning
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| adj.引诱人的，令人心动的v.（用头或手的动作）示意，召唤( beckon的现在分词 ) | |
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improper
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| adj.不适当的，不合适的，不正确的，不合礼仪的 | |
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proceedings
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| n.进程，过程，议程；诉讼(程序)；公报 | |
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judicially
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| 依法判决地，公平地 | |
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primitive
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| adj.原始的；简单的；n.原(始)人，原始事物 | |
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seclusion
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| n.隐遁，隔离 | |
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simplicity
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| n.简单，简易；朴素；直率，单纯 | |
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intimacy
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| n.熟悉，亲密，密切关系，亲昵的言行 | |
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40
tangible
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| adj.有形的，可触摸的，确凿的，实际的 | |
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41
piecemeal
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| adj.零碎的；n.片，块；adv.逐渐地；v.弄成碎块 | |
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42
testily
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| adv. 易怒地, 暴躁地 | |
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43
relish
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| n.滋味，享受，爱好，调味品；vt.加调味料，享受，品味；vi.有滋味 | |
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44
innuendoes
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| n.影射的话( innuendo的名词复数 )；讽刺的话；含沙射影；暗讽 | |
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45
aggravated
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| 使恶化( aggravate的过去式和过去分词 )； 使更严重； 激怒； 使恼火 | |
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46
tack
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| n.大头钉；假缝，粗缝 | |
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47
incipient
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| adj.起初的，发端的，初期的 | |
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48
demur
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| v．表示异议，反对 | |
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49
irresistible
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| adj.非常诱人的，无法拒绝的，无法抗拒的 | |
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50
persistently
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| ad.坚持地；固执地 | |
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51
veneer
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| n.(墙上的)饰面，虚饰 | |
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52
formulate
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| v.用公式表示；规划；设计；系统地阐述 | |
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53
devour
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| v.吞没；贪婪地注视或谛听，贪读；使着迷 | |
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54
impartially
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| adv.公平地，无私地 | |
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55
magisterial
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| adj.威风的，有权威的；adv.威严地 | |
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56
treacherous
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| adj.不可靠的，有暗藏的危险的；adj.背叛的，背信弃义的 | |
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57
forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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58
virtue
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| n.德行，美德；贞操；优点；功效，效力 | |
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59
eldest
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| adj.最年长的，最年老的 | |
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60
entangled
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| adj.卷入的；陷入的；被缠住的；缠在一起的v.使某人（某物/自己）缠绕，纠缠于（某物中），使某人（自己）陷入（困难或复杂的环境中）( entangle的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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61
misery
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| n.痛苦，苦恼，苦难；悲惨的境遇，贫苦 | |
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62
wrench
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| v.猛拧；挣脱；使扭伤；n.扳手；痛苦，难受 | |
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63
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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64
inevitable
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| adj.不可避免的，必然发生的 | |
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65
kindly
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| adj.和蔼的，温和的，爽快的；adv.温和地，亲切地 | |
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66
haggle
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| vi.讨价还价，争论不休 | |
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