“Christian3!” she exclaimed, “I am sorry I did not know you.” They shook hands, and Molly hastened to introduce her sister's companion.
“Mr. Farrar,” she said; “Mr. Vellacott.”
The two men shook hands, and Christian was disappointed. The grip of Farrar's fingers was limp and almost nerveless, in striking contradiction to the promise of his honest face and well-set person.
“Tea is ready,” said Molly somewhat hastily; “let us go in.”
Hilda and her companion passed on in front while Molly and Christian followed them. The latter purposely lagged behind, and his companion found herself compelled to wait for him.
“Look at the effect of the sunlight through the trees upon that water,” said he in a conversational4 way; “it is quite green, and almost transparent5.”
“Yes,” replied Molly, moving away tentatively, “we see most peculiar effects over the moat. The water is so very still and deep.”
He raised his quiet eyes to her face, upon which the ready smile still lingered. As she met his gaze she raised her hand and pushed back a few truant6 wisps of hair which, curling forward like tendrils, tickled7 her cheek. It was a movement he soon learned to know.
“Yes,” he said absently. He was wondering in an analytical8 way whether the action was habitual9 with her, or significant of embarrassment10. At length he turned to follow her, but Molly had failed in her object; the others had passed out of earshot.
“Tell me,” said Christian in a lowered voice, “who is he?”
“He is the squire11 of St. Mary Eastern, six miles from here,” she replied; “very well off; very good to his mother, and in every way nice.”
Christian tore off a small branch which would have touched his forehead had he walked on without stooping. He broke it into small pieces, and continued throwing up at intervals12 into the air a tiny stick, hitting it with his hand as they walked on.
“And,” he said suggestively, “and—”
“Yes, Christian,” she replied decisively, “they are engaged. Come, let us hurry; I always pour out the tea. I told you before, if you remember, that I was the only person in the house who did any work.”
When Christian opened his eyes the following morning, the soft hum of insects fell on his ear instead of the roar of London traffic. Through the open window the southern air blew upon his face. Above the sound of busy wings the distant sea sang its low dirge13. It was a living perspective of sound. The least rustle14 near at hand overpowered it, and yet it was always there—an unceasing throb15 to be felt as much as heard. Some acoustic16 formation of the land carried the noise, for the sea was eight miles away. It was very peaceful; for utter stillness is not peace. A room wherein an old clock ticks is infinitely17 more soothing18 than a noiseless chamber19.
Nevertheless the feeling that forced itself into Christian Vellacott's waking thoughts was not peaceful. It was a sense of discomfort20. Town-people expect too much from the country—that is the truth of it. They quite overlook the fact that where human beings are there can be no peace.
This sudden sense of restlessness annoyed him. He knew it so well. It had hovered21 over his waking head almost daily during the last two years, and here, in the depths of the country, he had expected to be without it. Moreover, he was conscious that he had not brought the cause with him. He had found it, waiting.
There were many things—indeed there was almost everything—to make his life happy and pleasant at St. Mary Western. But in his mind, as he woke up on this first morning, none of these things found place. He came to his senses thinking of the one little item which could be described as untoward—thinking of Hilda, and Hilda engaged to be married to Fred Farrar. It was not that he was in love with Hilda Carew himself. He had scarcely remembered her existence during the last two years. But this engagement jarred, and Farrar jarred. It was something more than the very natural shock which comes with the news that a companion of our youth is about to be married—shock which seems to shake the memory of that youth; to confuse the background of our life. It is by means of such shocks as these that Fate endeavours vainly to make us realise that the past is irrevocable—that we are passing on, and that that which has been can never be again. And at the same time we learn something else: namely, that the past is not by any means unchangeable. So potential is To-day that it not only holds To-morrow in the hollow of its hand, but it can alter Yesterday.
Christian Vellacott lay upon his bed in unwonted idleness, gazing vaguely22 at the flying clouds. The window was open, and the song of the distant sea rose and fell with a rhythm full of peace. But in this man's mind there was no peace. In all probability there never would be complete peace there, because Ambition had set its hold upon him. He wanted to do more than there was time for. Like many of us, he began by thinking that Life is longer than it is. Its whole length is in those “long, long thoughts” of Youth. When those are left behind, we settle down to work, and the rest of the story is nothing but labour. Vellacott resented this engagement because he felt that Hilda Carew had stepped out of that picture which formed what was probably destined23 to be the happiest time of his life—his Youth. For the unhappiness of Youth is preferable to the resignation of Age. He felt that she had willingly resigned something which he would on no account have given up. Above all, he felt that it was a mistake. This was, of course, at the bottom of it. He probably felt that it was a pity. We usually feel so on hearing that a pretty and charming girl is engaged to be married. We think that she might have done so much better for herself, and we grow pensive24 or possibly sentimental25 over her lost opportunity when contemplating26 him in the mirror as he shaves. Like all so-called happy events, an engagement is not usually a matter of universal rejoicing. Some one is, in all probability, left to think twice about it. But Christian Vellacott was not prepared to admit that he was in that position.
He was naturally of an observant habit—his father had been one of the keenest-sighted men of his day—and he had graduated at the subtlest school in the world. He unwittingly fell to studying his fellow-men whenever the opportunity presented itself, and the result of this habit was a certain classification of detail. He picked up little scraps27 of evidence here and there, and these were methodically pigeon-holed away, as a lawyer stores up the correspondence of his clients.
With regard to Frederick Farrar, Vellacott had only made one note. The squire of St. Mary Eastern was apparently28 very similar to his fellows. He was an ordinary young British squire with a knowledge of horses and a highly-developed fancy for smart riding-breeches and long boots. He had probably received a fair education, but this had ceased when he closed his last school-book. The seeds of knowledge had been sown, but they lacked moisture and had failed to grow. He was good-natured, plucky29 in a hard-headed British way, and gentlemanly. In all this there was nothing exceptional—nothing to take note of—and Vellacott only remembered the limpness of Frederick Farrar's grasp. He thought of this too persistently30 and magnified it. And this being the only mental note made, was rather hard on the young squire of St. Mary Eastern.
Vellacott thought of these things while he dressed, he thought of them intermittently31 during the unsettled, noisy, country breakfast, and when he found himself walking beside the moat with Hilda later on he was still thinking of them.
They had not yet gathered into their hands the threads which had been broken years before. At times they hit upon a topic of some slight common interest, but something hovered in the air between them. Hilda was gay, as she had always been, in a gentle, almost purring way; but a certain constrained32 silence made itself felt at times, and they were both intensely conscious of it.
Vellacott was fully33 aware that there was something to be got over, and so instead of skipping round it, as a woman might have done, he went blundering on to the top of it.
“Hilda,” he said suddenly, “I have never congratulated you.”
“I can only wish you all happiness,” he continued rather vaguely.
Again she made that mystic little motion of the head, but did not look towards him, and never offered the assistance of smile or word.
“A long life, a happy one, and your own will,” he added more lightly, looking down into the green water of the moat.
And then there followed an awkward pause. It was Vellacott who finally broke the silence in the only way left to him.
“I like Farrar,” he said. “I am sure he will make you happy. He—is a lucky fellow.”
At the end of the walk that ran the whole length of that part of the moat which had been allowed to remain intact, she made a little movement as if to turn aside beneath the hazel trees and towards the house. But he would not let her go. He turned deliberately36 upon his heel and waited for her. There was nothing else to do but acquiesce37. They retraced38 their steps with that slow reflectiveness which comes when one walks backwards39 and forwards over the same ground.
There is something eminently40 conversational in the practice of walking to and fro. For that purpose it is better than an arm-chair and a pipe, or a piece of knitting.
Occasionally Vellacott dropped a pace behind, apparently with a purpose; for when he did so he raised his eyes instantly. He seemed to be slowly detailing the maiden41, and he frowned a little. She was exactly what she had promised to be. The singularly golden hair which he had last seen flowing freely over her slight young shoulders had acquired a decorousness of curve, although the hue42 was unchanged. The shoulders were exactly the same in contour, on a slightly larger scale; and the manner of carrying her head—a manner peculiarly her own, and suggestive of a certain gentle wilfulness—was unaltered.
And yet there was a change: that subtle change which seems to come to girls suddenly, in the space of a week—of one night. And this man was watching her with his analytical eyes, wondering what the change might be.
He was more or less a bookworm, and he possibly thought that this subject—this pleasant young subject walking beside him in a blue cotton dress—was one which might easily be grasped and understood if only one gave one's mind to it. Hence the little frown. It denoted the gift of his mind. It was the frown that settled over his eyes when he cut the pages of a deep book and glanced at the point of his pencil.
He had read many books, and he knew a number of things. But there is one subject of which very little can be learnt in books—precisely the subject that walked in a blue cotton dress by Christian Vellacott's side at the edge of the moat. If any one thinks that book-learning can aid this study, let him read the ignorance of Gibbon, comparing it with the learning of that cheery old ignoramus Montaigne. And Vellacott was nearer to Gibbon in his learning than to Montaigne in his careless ignorance of those things that are written in books.
He glanced at her; he frowned and brought his whole attention to bear upon her, and he could not even find out whether she was pleased to listen to his congratulations, or angry, or merely indifferent. It was rather a humiliating position for a clever man—for a critic who knew himself to be capable of understanding most things, of catching43 the drift of most thoughts, however imperfectly expressed. He was vaguely conscious of defeat. He felt that he was nonplussed44 by a pair of soft round eyes like the eyes of a kitten, and the dignified45 repose of a pair of demure46 red lips. Both eyes and lips, as well as shoulders and golden hair, were strangely familiar and strangely strange by turns.
With one finger he twisted the left side of his moustache into his mouth, and, dragging at it with his teeth, distorted his face in an unbecoming if reflective manner, which was habitually47 indicative of the deepest attention.
While reflecting, he forgot to be conversational, and Hilda seemed to be content with silence. So they walked the length of the moat twice without speaking, and might have accomplished48 it a third time, had little Stanley Carew not appeared upon the scene with the impulsive49 energy of his thirteen years, begging Christian to bowl him some really swift overhands.
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1
peculiar
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| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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repose
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| v.(使)休息；n.安息 | |
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Christian
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| adj.基督教徒的；n.基督教徒 | |
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conversational
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| adj.对话的，会话的 | |
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transparent
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| adj.明显的，无疑的；透明的 | |
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truant
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| n.懒惰鬼，旷课者；adj.偷懒的，旷课的，游荡的；v.偷懒，旷课 | |
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7
tickled
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| （使）发痒( tickle的过去式和过去分词 )； （使）愉快，逗乐 | |
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8
analytical
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| adj.分析的；用分析法的 | |
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habitual
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| adj.习惯性的；通常的，惯常的 | |
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embarrassment
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| n.尴尬；使人为难的人(事物)；障碍；窘迫 | |
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squire
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| n.护卫, 侍从, 乡绅 | |
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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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13
dirge
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| n.哀乐，挽歌，庄重悲哀的乐曲 | |
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rustle
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| v.沙沙作响；偷盗(牛、马等)；n.沙沙声声 | |
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15
throb
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| v.震颤，颤动；(急速强烈地)跳动，搏动 | |
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acoustic
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| adj.听觉的，声音的；(乐器)原声的 | |
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infinitely
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| adv.无限地，无穷地 | |
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soothing
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| adj.慰藉的；使人宽心的；镇静的 | |
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chamber
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| n.房间，寝室；会议厅；议院；会所 | |
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discomfort
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| n.不舒服，不安，难过，困难，不方便 | |
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hovered
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| 鸟( hover的过去式和过去分词 )； 靠近（某事物）； （人）徘徊； 犹豫 | |
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vaguely
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| adv.含糊地，暖昧地 | |
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destined
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| adj.命中注定的；(for)以…为目的地的 | |
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pensive
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| a.沉思的,哀思的,忧沉的 | |
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sentimental
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| adj.多愁善感的，感伤的 | |
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contemplating
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| 深思，细想，仔细考虑( contemplate的现在分词 )； 注视，凝视； 考虑接受（发生某事的可能性）； 深思熟虑，沉思，苦思冥想 | |
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scraps
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| 油渣 | |
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apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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plucky
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| adj.勇敢的 | |
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persistently
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| ad.坚持地；固执地 | |
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intermittently
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| adv.间歇地；断断续续 | |
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constrained
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| adj.束缚的,节制的 | |
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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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bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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deliberately
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| adv.审慎地；蓄意地；故意地 | |
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acquiesce
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| vi.默许，顺从，同意 | |
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retraced
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| v.折回( retrace的过去式和过去分词 )；回忆；回顾；追溯 | |
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backwards
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| adv.往回地，向原处，倒，相反，前后倒置地 | |
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eminently
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| adv.突出地；显著地；不寻常地 | |
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41
maiden
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| n.少女，处女；adj.未婚的，纯洁的，无经验的 | |
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42
hue
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| n.色度；色调；样子 | |
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43
catching
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| adj.易传染的，有魅力的，迷人的，接住 | |
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44
nonplussed
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| adj.不知所措的，陷于窘境的v.使迷惑( nonplus的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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45
dignified
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| a.可敬的，高贵的 | |
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46
demure
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| adj.严肃的；端庄的 | |
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47
habitually
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| ad.习惯地，通常地 | |
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48
accomplished
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| adj.有才艺的；有造诣的；达到了的 | |
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49
impulsive
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| adj.冲动的，刺激的；有推动力的 | |
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