First door on the right after passing into New Court, Trinity College, Cambridge, by the river door. It is a small door, leading directly on to a narrow, winding3 stone staircase. For some reason, known possibly to the architect responsible for New Court (may his bones know no rest!), the ground-floor rooms have a door of their own within the archway.
On the first floor Arthur Agar, to use the affected4 phraseology of an affected generation, “kept” in the days with which we have to deal. What he kept transpireth not. There were many things which he did not keep, the first among these being his money. In these rooms he dispensed5 an open-handed, carefully considered hospitality which earned for him a certain bubble popularity.
There are, one finds, always plenty of men (and women too) ready to lick the blacking off one's boots provided always that that doubtful fare be varied7 by champagne8 or truffles at appropriate intervals9. Men came to Arthur Agar's rooms, and brought their friends. Mark well the last item. They brought their friends. There is more in that than meets the eye. There is a subtle difference between the invitation for “Mr. Jones” and the invitation for “Mr. Jones and friends”—a difference which he who runs the social race may read. If Jones is worth his salt he will discern the difference in a week.
“Oh, come to Agar's,” one man (save the mark) would say to another. “Ripping coffee, topping cigarettes.”
So they went; they drank the ripping coffee, smoked the topping cigarette, and if they happened to be men of stomach ventured on a clinking cigar. Moreover, they were made welcome. Agar was like a vain woman who loved to see a full saloon. And he paid for his pleasure in more honourable10 coin than many a vain woman has laid down since daughters of Eve commenced drawing fops around them—namely, the adjectived items of hospitality above mentioned.
It did not matter much who the guests were, provided that they filled the diminutive11 room in those spaces left vacant by bric-a-brac and furniture of the spindle-legged description. So the men came. There were freshmen12 who fell over the footstools and bumped their heads against the painted sabots on the wall containing ever-fresh flowers, as per florist13's bill; who were rather over-powered by the profusion14 of painted photograph frames, fans, and fal-lals. There was the man who sang a comic song and dined out on it at least twice a week. There was the calculating son of a poor North-country parson, who liked coffee after dinner and knew the value of sixpence. There was the man who came to play his own valse, and he who came to hear his own voice, und so weiter. Do we not know them all? Have we not run against them in after-life, despite many attempts to pass by on the other side? The habitual15 acceptors of hospitality have no objection to crossing the road through the thickest mud.
“By their rooms ye shall know them,” might well, if profanely16, be written large over any college gate. Arthur Agar's rooms were worthy17 of the man. There was, even on the little stone staircase, a faint odour of pastille or scent18 spray, or something of feminine suggestion. The unwary visitor would as likely as not catch some part of his person against a silk hanging or a lurking19 portière on crossing the threshold; and the impression which struck (as all rooms do strike) from the threshold was one of oppressive drapery. A man, by the way, should never know anything about drapery or draping. Such knowledge undermines his virility20. This is an age of undermining knowledge. We all, from the lowest to the highest, learn many things of which we were better ignorant. The school-board infant acquires French; Arthur Agar and his like bring away from Cambridge a pretty knack21 of draping chair-backs.
There were little screens in the room, with shelves specially22 constructed to hold little gimcracks, which in their turn were specially shaped to stand upon the little shelves. There was a portentous23 standing-lamp, six feet high in its bare feet, with a shade like a crinoline. There were settees and poufs and des prie-Dieu, and strange things hanging on the wall without rhyme, reason, or beauty. And nowhere a pipe, or a tennis racket, or even a pair of boots—not so much as a single manly24 indiscretion in the way of a cricket-bat in the corner, or a sporting novel on the table.
In the midst of this the temporary proprietor25 of the rooms sat disconsolately26 at an inlaid writing-table with his face buried in his arms—weeping.
The outer door was shut. Arthur Agar had sported his rare oak, not to work but to weep. It sometimes does happen to men, this shedding of the idle tear, even to Englishmen, even to Cambridge men. Moreover, it was infinitely27 to the credit of Arthur Agar that he should bury his face in the sleeve of his perfectly-fitting coat thus and sob28, for he was weeping (quietly and to himself) the advent29 of three thousand pounds per annum.
At his elbow lay a telegram—that flimsy pink paper which, with all our progress, all our knowledge, the bravest of us fear still.
“Jem killed in India; come home at once.—AGAR.”
Honour to whom honour. Arthur Agar's only thought had been one of sudden horror. He had read the telegram over twice before going out to close his outer door. Then he came back and sat weakly down at the table where he had written more scented30 notes than noted31 themes, deliberately32, womanlike, to cry.
To his credit be it noted that he never thought of Stagholme, which was now his. He only thought of Jem—his no longer—Jem the open-handed, elder brother who tolerated much and said little. Having had everything that he wanted since childhood, Arthur Agar had never been in the habit of thinking about money matters. His florist's bills (and Cambridge horticulturists seem to water their flowers with Chateau33 Lafitte), his confectioner's account, and his tailor's little note had always been paid without a murmur34. Thus, want of money—the chief incentive35 to crime and criminal thought—had never come within measurable distance of this gentle undergraduate.
Truth to tell, he had never devoted36 much thought to the future. He had always vaguely37 concluded that his mother and Jem would “do something”; and in the meantime there were important matters requiring his attention. There was the menu to prepare for an approaching little dinner. There was always an approaching dinner, and always a menu in execrable French on a satin-faced card with the college arms in a coat of many colours. There was the florist to be interviewed and the arrangement of the table to be superintended; the finishing touch to be given to the floral decoration thereof by the master-hand.
Jem's death seemed to knock away one of the supports of the future, and Arthur Agar even in his grief was conscious of the impending38 necessity of having to act for himself some day.
At length he lifted his head, and through the intricate pattern of the very newest design in art muslins the daylight fell on his face. It was a face which in France is called chiffonné; but the term is never applied39 to the visage masculine. A diminutive and slightly retrousse nose, gentle grey eyes of the drowning-fly description, and a sensitive mouth scarcely hidden by a fair moustache of downward tendency.
Here was a man made to be ruled all his life—probably by a woman. With a little more strength it might have been a melancholy40 face; as it stood, it was suggestive of nothing stronger than fretfulness. There was a vague distress41 in the eyes and in the whole countenance42 which mistaken and practical souls would probably put down to a defective43 digestion44 or a feeble vitality45. More than one enthusiastic disciple46 of Aesculapius studying at Caius professed47 to have discovered the evidence of some internal disease in Arthur Agar's distressed48 eyes; but his complaint was not of the body at all.
Presently the necessity for action forced itself upon his understanding, and he rose with a jerk. It is worth noting that his first thought was connected with dress. He passed into the inner room and there exchanged his elegant morning suit for a black one, replacing a delicate heliotrope49 necktie by another of sombre hue50. He mentally reviewed his mourning wardrobe while doing so, and gathered much spiritual repose51 from the diversion.
In the meantime the Rector of Stagholme, having breakfasted, proceeded to light a cigarette and open the Times with the leisurely52 sense of enjoyment53 of one who takes an interest in all things without being keenly concerned in any.
“God help us!” he exclaimed suddenly; and Mrs. Glynde, who alone happened to be present, dropped a handful of housekeeping money on the floor.
“There,” was the answer; “read that. 'Disaster in Northern India.' Not there—higher up!”
In her eagerness Mrs. Glynde had plunged55 headlong into the consumption of Wesleyan missionaries56 in the Sandwich Islands. Then she had to find her glasses, and considerable delay was incurred57 by putting them on upside down. All this while the Rector sat glaring at her as if in some occult way she were responsible for the disaster in Northern India.
At last she read the short article, and was about to give a sigh of relief when her eyes travelled to a diminutive list of names appended.
“What!” she exclaimed. “What! Jem! Oh, Tom, dear, this can't be true!”
“I have no reason,” answered the Rector grimly, “to suppose that it is untrue.”
Mrs. Glynde was one of those unfortunate persons who seem only to have the power of aggravating58 at a crisis. In their way they are useful as serving to divert the mind; but they usually come in for more than their need of abuse.
The poor little woman laid the newspaper gently down by her husband's elbow, and looked at him with a certain air of grandeur59 and strength. The instinct that arouses the mother wren60 to peck at the schoolboy's hand at her nest was strong in this subdued61 little old lady.
“Something,” she said, “must be done. How are we going to tell Dora?”
The Rector was a man who never went straight at the fence, before him. He invariably pulled up and rode alongside the obstacle before leaping, and when going for it he braced62 himself mentally with the reflection that he was an English gentleman, and as such had obligations. But these obligations, like those of many English gentlemen, ceased at his own fireside. He, like many of us, was apt to forget that wife, sister, and daughter are nevertheless ladies to whom deference63 is due.
“Oh—Dora,” he answered; “she will have to bear it like the rest of us. But here am I with fresh legal complications laid upon me. I foresee endless trouble with the lawyers and that woman. Why the Squire64 made me his executor I can't tell. Parsons know nothing of these matters.”
With a patient sigh Mrs. Glynde turned away and went to the window, where she stood with her back to him. Even to the duller masculine mind the wonder sometimes presents itself that our women-folk take us so patiently as we are. If Mrs. Glynde had turned upon her husband (who was not so selfish as he would appear), presenting him forthwith in the plainest language at her command with a piece of her mind, the treatment would have been surprising at first, and infinitely beneficial afterwards.
The Reverend Thomas sat staring into the fire—a luxury which he allowed himself all through the year—with troubled eyes. There was a fence in front of him, but he could not bring himself up to it. In his mistaken contempt for women he had never taken his wife fully6 into his confidence in those things—great or small, according to the capacity of the producing machine—which are essentially65 a personal property—namely his thoughts.
All else he told her openly and at once, as behoved an English gentleman.
Should he tell all that he had hoped and thought and rethought respecting Jem Agar and Dora? Should he; should he not? And the loving little woman stood there almost daring to break the great silence herself; but not quite. Strong as was her mother's heart, the habit of submission66 was stronger. She longed, she yearned67 to hear the deeper, graver tone of voice which had been used once or twice towards her—once or twice in moments of unusual confidence. The Reverend Thomas Glynde was silent, and the voice that they both heard was Dora's, singing as she came downstairs towards them. It was only a matter of moments, and when we have no more than that wherein to act we usually take the wrong turning.
At the same instant the door opened and Dora entered, singing as she came.
“What is the matter?” she exclaimed. “You both look depressed69. Stocks down, or something else has gone up? I know! Papa has been made a bishop70!”
With a cheery laugh she went to the table and took up the newspaper.
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1
gathering
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| n.集会，聚会，聚集 | |
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pebbles
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| [复数]鹅卵石； 沙砾； 卵石，小圆石( pebble的名词复数 ) | |
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winding
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| n.绕，缠，绕组，线圈 | |
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affected
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| adj.不自然的，假装的 | |
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dispensed
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| v.分配( dispense的过去式和过去分词 )；施与；配（药） | |
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fully
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| adv.完全地，全部地，彻底地；充分地 | |
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7
varied
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| adj.多样的，多变化的 | |
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champagne
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| n.香槟酒；微黄色 | |
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intervals
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| n.[军事]间隔( interval的名词复数 )；间隔时间；[数学]区间；（戏剧、电影或音乐会的）幕间休息 | |
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10
honourable
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| adj.可敬的；荣誉的，光荣的 | |
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11
diminutive
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| adj.小巧可爱的，小的 | |
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12
freshmen
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| n.（中学或大学的）一年级学生( freshman的名词复数 ) | |
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florist
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| n.花商；种花者 | |
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profusion
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| n.挥霍；丰富 | |
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habitual
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| adj.习惯性的；通常的，惯常的 | |
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profanely
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| adv.渎神地，凡俗地 | |
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worthy
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| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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18
scent
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| n.气味，香味，香水，线索，嗅觉；v.嗅，发觉 | |
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19
lurking
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| 潜在 | |
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virility
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| n.雄劲，丈夫气 | |
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knack
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| n.诀窍，做事情的灵巧的，便利的方法 | |
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specially
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| adv.特定地；特殊地；明确地 | |
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23
portentous
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| adj.不祥的，可怕的，装腔作势的 | |
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manly
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| adj.有男子气概的；adv.男子般地，果断地 | |
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proprietor
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| n.所有人；业主；经营者 | |
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disconsolately
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| adv.悲伤地，愁闷地；哭丧着脸 | |
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infinitely
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| adv.无限地，无穷地 | |
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sob
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| n.空间轨道的轰炸机；呜咽，哭泣 | |
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advent
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| n.(重要事件等的)到来，来临 | |
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30
scented
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| adj.有香味的；洒香水的；有气味的v.嗅到(scent的过去分词) | |
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31
noted
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| adj.著名的，知名的 | |
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deliberately
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| adv.审慎地；蓄意地；故意地 | |
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chateau
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| n.城堡，别墅 | |
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murmur
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| n.低语，低声的怨言；v.低语，低声而言 | |
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incentive
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| n.刺激；动力；鼓励；诱因；动机 | |
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devoted
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| adj.忠诚的，忠实的，热心的，献身于...的 | |
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vaguely
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| adv.含糊地，暖昧地 | |
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impending
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| a.imminent, about to come or happen | |
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applied
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| adj.应用的；v.应用，适用 | |
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melancholy
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| n.忧郁，愁思；adj.令人感伤（沮丧）的，忧郁的 | |
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distress
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| n.苦恼，痛苦，不舒适；不幸；vt.使悲痛 | |
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countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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defective
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| adj.有毛病的，有问题的，有瑕疵的 | |
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digestion
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| n.消化，吸收 | |
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vitality
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| n.活力，生命力，效力 | |
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disciple
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| n.信徒，门徒，追随者 | |
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47
professed
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| 公开声称的，伪称的，已立誓信教的 | |
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48
distressed
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| 痛苦的 | |
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49
heliotrope
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| n.天芥菜；淡紫色 | |
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50
hue
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| n.色度；色调；样子 | |
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51
repose
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| v.(使)休息；n.安息 | |
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52
leisurely
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| adj.悠闲的；从容的，慢慢的 | |
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53
enjoyment
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| n.乐趣；享有；享用 | |
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54
gasped
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| v.喘气( gasp的过去式和过去分词 )；喘息；倒抽气；很想要 | |
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55
plunged
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| v.颠簸( plunge的过去式和过去分词 )；暴跌；骤降；突降 | |
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56
missionaries
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| n.传教士( missionary的名词复数 ) | |
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57
incurred
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| [医]招致的，遭受的； incur的过去式 | |
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aggravating
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| adj.恼人的，讨厌的 | |
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grandeur
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| n.伟大，崇高，宏伟，庄严，豪华 | |
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wren
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| n.鹪鹩；英国皇家海军女子服务队成员 | |
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61
subdued
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| adj. 屈服的，柔和的，减弱的 动词subdue的过去式和过去分词 | |
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62
braced
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| adj.拉牢的v.支住( brace的过去式和过去分词 )；撑牢；使自己站稳；振作起来 | |
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deference
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| n.尊重，顺从；敬意 | |
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squire
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| n.护卫, 侍从, 乡绅 | |
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essentially
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| adv.本质上，实质上，基本上 | |
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submission
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| n.服从，投降；温顺，谦虚；提出 | |
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67
yearned
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| 渴望，切盼，向往( yearn的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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imploring
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| 恳求的，哀求的 | |
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69
depressed
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| adj.沮丧的，抑郁的，不景气的，萧条的 | |
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bishop
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| n.主教，（国际象棋）象 | |
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