That evening she saw her father, and he corroborated2 her husband's statement. "It is all over now," he said,—"that scheme of his of going to superintend the mines. The mines don't want him, and won't have him. I can't say that I wonder at it."
"What are we to do, papa?"
"Ah;—that I cannot say. I suppose he will condescend3 still to honour me with his company. I do not know why he should wish to go to Guatemala or elsewhere. He has everything here that he can want."
"You know, papa, that that is impossible."
"I cannot say what with him is possible or impossible. He is bound by none of the ordinary rules of mankind."
That evening Lopez returned to his dinner in Manchester Square, which was still regularly served for him and his wife, though the servants who attended upon him did so under silent and oft-repeated protest. He said not a word more as to Arthur Fletcher, nor did he seek any ground of quarrel with his wife. But that her continued melancholy4 and dejection made anything like good-humour impossible, even on his part, he would have been good-humoured. When they were alone she asked him as to their future destiny. "Papa tells me you are not going," she began by saying.
"Did I not tell you so this morning?"
"Yes;—you said so. But I did not know you were earnest. Is it all over?"
"All over,—I suppose."
"I should have thought that you would have told me with more—more seriousness."
"I don't know what you would have. I was serious enough. The fact is, that your father has delayed so long the payment of the promised money that the thing has fallen through of necessity. I do not know that I can blame the Company."
Then there was a pause. "And now," she said, "what do you mean to do?"
"Upon my word I cannot say. I am quite as much in the dark as you can be."
"That is nonsense, Ferdinand."
"Thank you! Let it be nonsense if you will. It seems to me that there is a great deal of nonsense going on in the world; but very little of it as true as what I say now."
"But it is your duty to know. Of course you cannot stay here."
"Nor you, I suppose,—without me."
"I am not speaking of myself. If you choose, I can remain here."
"And—just throw me overboard altogether."
"If you provide another home for me, I will go to it. However poor it may be I will go to it, if you bid me. But for you,—of course you cannot stay here."
"Has your father told you to say so to me?"
"No;—but I can say so without his telling me. You are banishing5 him from his own house. He has put up with it while he thought that you were going to this foreign country; but there must be an end of that now. You must have some scheme of life?"
"Upon my soul I have none."
"You must have some intentions for the future?"
"None in the least. I have had intentions, and they have failed;—from want of that support which I had a right to expect. I have struggled and I have failed, and now I have got no intentions. What are yours?"
"It is not my duty to have any purpose, as what I do must depend on your commands." Then again there was a silence, during which he lit a cigar, although he was sitting in the drawing-room. This was a profanation6 of the room on which even he had never ventured before, but at the present moment she was unable to notice it by any words. "I must tell papa," she said after a while, "what our plans are."
"You can tell him what you please. I have literally7 nothing to say to him. If he will settle an adequate income on us, payable8 of course to me, I will go and live elsewhere. If he turns me into the street without provision, he must turn you too. That is all that I have got to say. It will come better from you than from me. I am sorry, of course, that things have gone wrong with me. When I found myself the son-in-law of a very rich man I thought that I might spread my wings a bit. But my rich father-in-law threw me over, and now I am helpless. You are not very cheerful, my dear, and I think I'll go down to the club."
He went out of the house and did go down to the Progress. The committee which was to be held with the view of judging whether he was or was not a proper person to remain a member of that assemblage had not yet been held, and there was nothing to impede9 his entrance to the club, or the execution of the command which he gave for tea and buttered toast. But no one spoke10 to him; nor, though he affected11 a look of comfort, did he find himself much at his ease. Among the members of the club there was a much divided opinion whether he should be expelled or not. There was a strong party who declared that his conduct socially, morally, and politically, had been so bad that nothing short of expulsion would meet the case. But there were others who said that no act had been proved against him which the club ought to notice. He had, no doubt, shown himself to be a blackguard, a man without a spark of honour or honesty. But then,—as they said who thought his position in the club to be unassailable,—what had the club to do with that? "If you turn out all the blackguards and all the dishonourable men, where will the club be?" was a question asked with a great deal of vigour12 by one middle-aged13 gentleman who was supposed to know the club-world very thoroughly14. He had committed no offence which the law could recognise and punish, nor had he sinned against the club rules. "He is not required to be a man of honour by any regulation of which I am aware," said the middle-aged gentleman. The general opinion seemed to be that he should be asked to go, and that, if he declined, no one should speak to him. This penalty was already inflicted15 on him, for on the evening in question no one did speak to him.
He drank his tea and ate his toast and read a magazine, striving to look as comfortable and as much at his ease as men at their clubs generally are. He was not a bad actor, and those who saw him and made reports as to his conduct on the following day declared that he had apparently16 been quite indifferent to the disagreeable incidents of his position. But his indifference17 had been mere18 acting19. His careless manner with his wife had been all assumed. Selfish as he was, void as he was of all principle, utterly unmanly and even unconscious of the worth of manliness20, still he was alive to the opinions of others. He thought that the world was wrong to condemn21 him,—that the world did not understand the facts of his case, and that the world generally would have done as he had done in similar circumstances. He did not know that there was such a quality as honesty, nor did he understand what the word meant. But he did know that some men, an unfortunate class, became subject to evil report from others who were more successful, and he was aware that he had become one of those unfortunates. Nor could he see any remedy for his position. It was all blank and black before him. It may be doubted whether he got much instruction or amusement from the pages of the magazine which he turned.
At about twelve o'clock he left the club and took his way homewards. But he did not go straight home. It was a nasty cold March night, with a catching22 wind, and occasional short showers of something between snow and rain,—as disagreeable a night for a gentleman to walk in as one could well conceive. But he went round by Trafalgar Square, and along the Strand23, and up some dirty streets by the small theatres, and so on to Holborn and by Bloomsbury Square up to Tottenham Court Road, then through some unused street into Portland Place, along the Marylebone Road, and back to Manchester Square by Baker24 Street. He had more than doubled the distance,—apparently without any object. He had been spoken to frequently by unfortunates of both sexes, but had answered a word to no one. He had trudged25 on and on with his umbrella over his head, but almost unconscious of the cold and wet. And yet he was a man sedulously26 attentive27 to his own personal comfort and health, who had at any rate shown this virtue28 in his mode of living, that he had never subjected himself to danger by imprudence. But now the working of his mind kept him warm, and, if not dry, at least indifferent to the damp. He had thrown aside with affected nonchalance29 those questions which his wife had asked him, but still it was necessary that he should answer them. He did not suppose that he could continue to live in Manchester Square in his present condition. Nor, if it was necessary that he should wander forth30 into the world, could he force his wife to wander with him. If he would consent to leave her, his father-in-law would probably give him something,—some allowance on which he might exist. But then of what sort would be his life?
He did not fail to remind himself over and over again that he had nearly succeeded. He had been the guest of the Prime Minister, and had been the nominee31 chosen by a Duchess to represent her husband's borough32 in Parliament. He had been intimate with Mills Happerton who was fast becoming a millionaire. He had married much above himself in every way. He had achieved a certain popularity and was conscious of intellect. But at the present moment two or three sovereigns in his pocket were the extent of his worldly wealth and his character was utterly ruined. He regarded his fate as does a card-player who day after day holds sixes and sevens when other men have the aces33 and kings. Fate was against him. He saw no reason why he should not have had the aces and kings continually, especially as fate had given him perhaps more than his share of them at first. He had, however, lost rubber after rubber,—not paying his stakes for some of the last rubbers lost,—till the players would play with him no longer. The misfortune might have happened to any man;—but it had happened to him. There was no beginning again. A possible small allowance and some very retired34 and solitary35 life, in which there would be no show of honour, no flattery coming to him, was all that was left to him.
He let himself in at the house, and found his wife still awake. "I am wet to the skin," he said. "I made up my mind to walk, and I would do it;—but I am a fool for my pains." She made him some feeble answer, affecting to be half asleep, and merely turned in her bed. "I must be out early in the morning. Mind you make them dry my things. They never do anything for my telling."
"You don't want them dried to-night?"
"Not to-night, of course;—but after I am gone to-morrow. They'll leave them there without putting a hand to them, if you don't speak. I must be off before breakfast to-morrow."
"Where are you going? Do you want anything packed?"
"No; nothing. I shall be back to dinner. But I must go down to Birmingham, to see a friend of Happerton's on business. I will breakfast at the station. As you said to-day, something must be done. If it's to sweep a crossing, I must sweep it."
As she lay awake while he slept, she thought that those last words were the best she had heard him speak since they were married. There seemed to be some indication of a purpose in them. If he would only sweep a crossing as a man should sweep it, she would stand by him, and at any rate do her duty to him, in spite of all that had happened. Alas36! she was not old enough to have learned that a dishonest man cannot begin even to sweep a crossing honestly till he have in very truth repented37 of his former dishonesty. The lazy man may become lazy no longer, but there must have been first a process through his mind whereby laziness has become odious38 to him. And that process can hardly be the immediate39 result of misfortune arising from misconduct. Had Lopez found his crossing at Birmingham he would hardly have swept it well.
Early on the following morning he was up, and before he left his room he kissed his wife. "Good-bye, old girl," he said; "don't be down-hearted."
"If you have anything before you to do, I will not be down-hearted," she said.
"I shall have something to do before night, I think. Tell your father, when you see him, that I will not trouble him here much longer. But tell him, also, that I have no thanks to give him for his hospitality."
"I will not tell him that, Ferdinand."
"He shall know it, though. But I do not mean to be cross to you. Good-bye, love." Then he stooped over her and kissed her again;—and so he took his leave of her.
It was raining hard, and when he got into the street he looked about for a cab, but there was none to be found. In Baker Street he got an omnibus which took him down to the underground railway, and by that he went to Gower Street. Through the rain he walked up to the Euston Station, and there he ordered breakfast. Could he have a mutton chop and some tea? And he was very particular that the mutton chop should be well cooked. He was a good-looking man, of fashionable appearance, and the young lady who attended him noticed him and was courteous40 to him. He condescended41 even to have a little light conversation with her, and, on the whole, he seemed to enjoy his breakfast. "Upon my word, I should like to breakfast here every day of my life," he said. The young lady assured him that, as far as she could see, there was no objection to such an arrangement. "Only it's a bore, you know, coming out in the rain when there are no cabs," he said. Then there were various little jokes between them, till the young lady was quite impressed with the gentleman's pleasant affability.
After a while he went back into the hall and took a first-class return ticket, not for Birmingham, but for the Tenway Junction42. It is quite unnecessary to describe the Tenway Junction, as everybody knows it. From this spot, some six or seven miles distant from London, lines diverge43 east, west, and north, north-east, and north-west, round the metropolis44 in every direction, and with direct communication with every other line in and out of London. It is a marvellous place, quite unintelligible45 to the uninitiated, and yet daily used by thousands who only know that when they get there, they are to do what some one tells them. The space occupied by the convergent46 rails seems to be sufficient for a large farm. And these rails always run one into another with sloping points, and cross passages, and mysterious meandering47 sidings, till it seems to the thoughtful stranger to be impossible that the best trained engine should know its own line. Here and there and around there is ever a wilderness48 of waggons49, some loaded, some empty, some smoking with close-packed oxen, and others furlongs in length black with coals, which look as though they had been stranded50 there by chance, and were never destined51 to get again into the right path of traffic. Not a minute passes without a train going here or there, some rushing by without noticing Tenway in the least, crashing through like flashes of substantial lightning, and others stopping, disgorging and taking up passengers by the hundreds. Men and women,—especially the men, for the women knowing their ignorance are generally willing to trust to the pundits52 of the place,—look doubtful, uneasy, and bewildered. But they all do get properly placed and unplaced, so that the spectator at last acknowledges that over all this apparent chaos54 there is presiding a great genius of order. From dusky morn to dark night, and indeed almost throughout the night, the air is loaded with a succession of shrieks56. The theory goes that each separate shriek55,—if there can be any separation where the sound is so nearly continuous,—is a separate notice to separate ears of the coming or going of a separate train. The stranger, as he speculates on these pandemoniac noises, is able to realise the idea that were they discontinued the excitement necessary for the minds of the pundits might be lowered, and that activity might be lessened57, and evil results might follow. But he cannot bring himself to credit that theory of individual notices.
At Tenway Junction there are half-a-dozen long platforms, on which men and women and luggage are crowded. On one of these for a while Ferdinand Lopez walked backwards58 and forwards as though waiting for the coming of some especial train. The crowd is ever so great that a man might be supposed to walk there from morning to night without exciting special notice. But the pundits are very clever, and have much experience in men and women. A well-taught pundit53, who has exercised authority for a year or two at such a station as that of Tenway, will know within a minute of the appearance of each stranger what is his purpose there,—whether he be going or has just come, whether he is himself on the way or waiting for others, whether he should be treated with civility or with some curt59 command,—so that if his purport60 be honest all necessary assistance may be rendered him. As Lopez was walking up and down, with smiling face and leisurely61 pace, now reading an advertisement and now watching the contortions62 of some amazed passenger, a certain pundit asked him his business. He was waiting, he said, for a train from Liverpool, intending, when his friend arrived, to go with him to Dulwich by a train which went round the west of London. It was all feasible, and the pundit told him that the stopping train from Liverpool was due there in six minutes, but that the express from the north would pass first. Lopez thanked the pundit and gave him sixpence,—which made the pundit suspicious. A pundit hopes to be paid when he handles luggage, but has no such expectation when he merely gives information.
The pundit still had his eye on our friend when the shriek and the whirr of the express from the north was heard. Lopez walked quickly up towards the edge of the platform, when the pundit followed him, telling him that this was not his train. Lopez then ran a few yards along the platform, not noticing the man, reaching a spot that was unoccupied;—and there he stood fixed63. And as he stood the express flashed by. "I am fond of seeing them pass like that," said Lopez to the man who had followed him.
"But you shouldn't do it, sir," said the suspicious pundit. "No one isn't allowed to stand near like that. The very hair of it might take you off your legs when you're not used to it."
"All right, old fellow," said Lopez, retreating. The next train was the Liverpool train; and it seemed that our friend's friend had not come, for when the Liverpool passengers had cleared themselves off, he was still walking up and down the platform. "He'll come by the next," said Lopez to the pundit, who now followed him about and kept an eye on him.
"There ain't another from Liverpool stopping here till the 2.20," said the pundit. "You had better come again if you mean to meet him by that."
"He has come on part of the way, and will reach this by some other train," said Lopez.
"There ain't nothing he can come by," said the pundit. "Gentlemen can't wait here all day, sir. The horders is against waiting on the platform."
"All right," said Lopez, moving away as though to make his exit through the station.
Now Tenway Junction is so big a place, and so scattered64, that it is impossible that all the pundits should by any combined activity maintain to the letter that order of which our special pundit had spoken. Lopez, departing from the platform which he had hitherto occupied, was soon to be seen on another, walking up and down, and again waiting. But the old pundit had had his eye upon him, and had followed him round. At that moment there came a shriek louder than all the other shrieks, and the morning express down from Euston to Inverness was seen coming round the curve at a thousand miles an hour. Lopez turned round and looked at it, and again walked towards the edge of the platform. But now it was not exactly the edge that he neared, but a descent to a pathway,—an inclined plane leading down to the level of the rails, and made there for certain purposes of traffic. As he did so the pundit called to him, and then made a rush at him,—for our friend's back was turned to the coming train. But Lopez heeded65 not the call, and the rush was too late. With quick, but still with gentle and apparently unhurried steps, he walked down before the flying engine—and in a moment had been knocked into bloody66 atoms.
点击
收听单词发音
收听单词发音 |
1
utterly
|
|
| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
2
corroborated
|
|
| v.证实，支持（某种说法、信仰、理论等）( corroborate的过去式 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
3
condescend
|
|
| v.俯就，屈尊；堕落，丢丑 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
4
melancholy
|
|
| n.忧郁，愁思；adj.令人感伤（沮丧）的，忧郁的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
5
banishing
|
|
| v.放逐，驱逐( banish的现在分词 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
6
profanation
|
|
| n.亵渎 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
7
literally
|
|
| adv.照字面意义，逐字地；确实 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
8
payable
|
|
| adj.可付的，应付的，有利益的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
9
impede
|
|
| v.妨碍，阻碍，阻止 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
10
spoke
|
|
| 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 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
11
affected
|
|
| adj.不自然的，假装的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
12
vigour
|
|
| （=vigor）n.智力，体力，精力 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
13
middle-aged
|
|
| adj.中年的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
14
thoroughly
|
|
| adv.完全地，彻底地，十足地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
15
inflicted
|
|
| 把…强加给，使承受，遭受( inflict的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
16
apparently
|
|
| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
17
indifference
|
|
| n.不感兴趣，不关心，冷淡，不在乎 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
18
mere
|
|
| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
19
acting
|
|
| n.演戏，行为，假装；adj.代理的，临时的，演出用的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
20
manliness
|
|
| 刚毅 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
21
condemn
|
|
| vt.谴责，指责；宣判(罪犯)，判刑 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
22
catching
|
|
| adj.易传染的，有魅力的，迷人的，接住 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
23
strand
|
|
| vt.使（船）搁浅，使（某人）困于（某地） | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
24
baker
|
|
| n.面包师 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
25
trudged
|
|
| vt.& vi.跋涉，吃力地走（trudge的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
26
sedulously
|
|
| ad.孜孜不倦地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
27
attentive
|
|
| adj.注意的，专心的；关心(别人)的，殷勤的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
28
virtue
|
|
| n.德行，美德；贞操；优点；功效，效力 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
29
nonchalance
|
|
| n.冷淡，漠不关心 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
30
forth
|
|
| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
31
nominee
|
|
| n.被提名者；被任命者；被推荐者 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
32
borough
|
|
| n.享有自治权的市镇；(英)自治市镇 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
33
aces
|
|
| abbr.adjustable convertible-rate equity security (units) 可调节的股本证券兑换率；aircraft ejection seat 飞机弹射座椅；automatic control evaluation simulator 自动控制评估模拟器n.擅长…的人( ace的名词复数 )；精于…的人；（ 网球 ）（对手接不到发球的）发球得分；爱司球 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
34
retired
|
|
| adj.隐退的，退休的，退役的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
35
solitary
|
|
| adj.孤独的，独立的，荒凉的；n.隐士 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
36
alas
|
|
| int.唉(表示悲伤、忧愁、恐惧等) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
37
repented
|
|
| 对（自己的所为）感到懊悔或忏悔( repent的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
38
odious
|
|
| adj.可憎的，讨厌的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
39
immediate
|
|
| adj.立即的；直接的，最接近的；紧靠的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
40
courteous
|
|
| adj.彬彬有礼的，客气的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
41
condescended
|
|
| 屈尊，俯就( condescend的过去式和过去分词 )； 故意表示和蔼可亲 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
42
junction
|
|
| n.连接，接合；交叉点，接合处，枢纽站 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
43
diverge
|
|
| v.分叉，分歧，离题，使...岔开，使转向 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
44
metropolis
|
|
| n.首府；大城市 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
45
unintelligible
|
|
| adj.无法了解的，难解的，莫明其妙的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
46
convergent
|
|
| adj.会聚的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
47
meandering
|
|
| 蜿蜒的河流，漫步，聊天 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
48
wilderness
|
|
| n.杳无人烟的一片陆地、水等，荒漠 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
49
waggons
|
|
| 四轮的运货马车( waggon的名词复数 )； 铁路货车； 小手推车 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
50
stranded
|
|
| a.搁浅的，进退两难的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
51
destined
|
|
| adj.命中注定的；(for)以…为目的地的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
52
pundits
|
|
| n.某一学科的权威，专家( pundit的名词复数 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
53
pundit
|
|
| n.博学之人；权威 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
54
chaos
|
|
| n.混乱，无秩序 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
55
shriek
|
|
| v./n.尖叫，叫喊 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
56
shrieks
|
|
| n.尖叫声( shriek的名词复数 )v.尖叫( shriek的第三人称单数 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
57
lessened
|
|
| 减少的，减弱的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
58
backwards
|
|
| adv.往回地，向原处，倒，相反，前后倒置地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
59
curt
|
|
| adj.简短的，草率的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
60
purport
|
|
| n.意义，要旨，大要；v.意味著，做为...要旨，要领是... | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
61
leisurely
|
|
| adj.悠闲的；从容的，慢慢的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
62
contortions
|
|
| n.扭歪，弯曲；扭曲，弄歪，歪曲( contortion的名词复数 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
63
fixed
|
|
| adj.固定的，不变的，准备好的；(计算机)固定的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
64
scattered
|
|
| adj.分散的，稀疏的；散步的；疏疏落落的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
65
heeded
|
|
| v.听某人的劝告，听从( heed的过去式和过去分词 )；变平，使（某物）变平( flatten的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
66
bloody
|
|
| adj.非常的的；流血的；残忍的；adv.很；vt.血染 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
| 欢迎访问英文小说网 |