On September the 20th practically the whole factory went out on strike, and Sir John nearly had apoplexy in his wrath4.
“My mills! The mills my father had before me! The men I’ve employed regularly in good times and bad! It’s outrageous5. Parliament ought to deal with such things. The country is at the mercy of the Labour party.”
[361]
“I always was against this general education,” cried Lady Currey, examining a new piece of Sèvres she had just acquired. “Why, one of Robson’s children is a school-teacher.”
Robson was the ringleader in the strike, and a few months before had come to loggerheads with Sir John. One of his daughters—not the school-teacher—had gone away from the village some four years previously6, and had recently returned with two children and no husband, and Sir John had refused her application for an empty cottage or to take her back again in the mill. Sir John said, “One must uphold the principle of the thing.” But as Claudia gradually learned, Sir John had never been popular, and though Robson’s grievance7 had inflamed8 the workmen, they had been in a state of ferment9 for some time—partly because they had become infected with the strike fever, and partly because Sir John refused to replace some old machinery10 with the modern which is used in most big paper mills. He was a strictly11 just employer and landlord, but he did not err12 on the side of leniency13.
“I won’t give way. I won’t be intimidated14 by these scoundrels. You agree with me, don’t you, Gilbert?”
“Yes.” Gilbert’s lower lip protruded15 pugnaciously16. “Give way now, and you’ll have no more peace. After all, you can afford to shut down for a time; then they’ll come to their senses.”
This went on every day in different forms, explanations to visitors all sympathetic to the Curreys, accounts in the daily papers, until Claudia was glad to go over to Rockingham and see Fay and her strange guests.
For they were very strange, according to Rockingham ideas. Fay had asked them indiscriminately, the only qualification being that they needed a holiday and could not afford one. Old Joey Robins17 was there, watching over Fay like a grotesque18 old clown in a wonderful[362] medley19 of garments that he imagined were suitable to the country. He had obtained from somewhere a pair of white flannel20 trousers, very much shrunk and yellow through washing, a brown velvet21 coat and a grey Trilby hat much too large for him. There was often a little mishap22 with the glazed23 white front which would pop out of the black waistcoat, but his celluloid collar was always spotless. A girl who did sand-dancing and had broken down in health, a once famous comedienne who had lost her popularity, an acrobat24 who had injured his foot, and a woman with a young baby, who had been deserted25 by her husband, were her other guests on this particular morning when Claudia went over. Fay, who was getting very thin and hollow-eyed, gave them of her best, for she had insisted on paying for the venture herself, and had, for that purpose, sold all her much-loved jewellery. “I shall never want it again,” she had said to Claudia, biting her lips to keep back the tears.
Claudia had helped her to furnish the big old house with simple, comfortable furniture, and had procured26 a staff of servants to run it. And because of their liking27 and pity for their odd little mistress with her extraordinary ideas the servants stayed, though the vagaries28 of the guests, the conflicting orders of Polly—“head cook and bottle-washer,” Fay called her—and the nurses nearly sent them distracted occasionally. When things got in too much of a tangle29 Claudia’s presence was urgently demanded.
On this particular morning Fay was lying out under one of the big trees, the comedienne, a stout30 woman in her sixties, with the most obvious toupée Claudia had ever seen, sitting beside her doing “a bit of crochy.” A little way off was the dancer, a thin, white-cheeked girl, engaged in making a pink muslin blouse from a pattern out of a penny journal, and snipping31 the bits over the lawn. The acrobat, in full view of them all, was doing[363] amazing stunts32 on the grass for their amusement.
Claudia had met them all before. Behind her back she was voted “a perfect lady, such high class, don’t you know.” More than that, they liked and admired her.
“Madam, welcome!” cried the acrobat, coming towards her performing the most extraordinary double-somersaults. “I bow to you! I go down on the ground before you! Hail!”
There was a chorus of laughs from the group under the trees. Claudia never failed to marvel34 at the ease with which they were amused.
“You’re too funny to live,” cried the dancer shrilly35, who was by way of having a flirtation36 with him. “I don’t believe you’re no man at all. Your mother made a mistake. You’re a piece of indiarubber.”
“My mother was a highly respectable lady,” returned the acrobat, with his hand on his heart, “and her portrait is here. It wasn’t her fault she had a genius for a son. I say, is that a pocky-hanky for me you’re making?”
“No, silly, it ain’t. It’s a blawse. Do behave yourself while Mrs. Currey’s here, or I don’t know what she’ll think of us.... Oh! there goes the old muffin-bell for dinner. Funny how my pecker keeps up here. I get a hole in my bread-basket long before it’s time to feed.”
“Well, my dear, you take all you want or can pocket,” called out Fay hospitably37. “No charge for a second helping38 here, and the meat isn’t all gristle and bone, like the chops the landladies39 get you.” There was a chorus of assent40. “If there’s anything you want, you’ve only got to mention it.”
“You’re an ainjool, that’s what you are,” said the girl emphatically. “It’s like ’Eaven to be here. It ain’t ’alf doing me good, not much! I can pinch a bit up on my arm now. Talk about State Insurance; you give me Fay’s insurance.”
[364]
“I can see you didn’t have a good night,” said Claudia solicitously43.
“No, I got the jim-jams a bit. How sweet you look in that frock; and yet, really, it’s awfully44 plain, isn’t it? Hardly anything on it except the lace collar. It’s only really handsome people who can wear them plain things. I always have—had to have—lots of fluff.... I say, is it true you’re going back to town next week?”
“Crikey! whatever will I do? I wish you could have stopped here.”
What a little face it was now under the big white chiffon hat that Madame Rose had sent her as suitable for the country; her idea of country being apparently46 drawn47 from the “sets” at the halls.
“I’ll come down quite often, dear. Then you think of stopping on here?” It had only been started for the summer months.
“Well, it’s perfectly48 amazing what a lot of people want a holiday—no bunkum either; and somehow”—she looked round the neglected old garden; it had only been superficially tidied up, but it was full of flowers—“I don’t want to leave here, now I’ve come. It’s awful sweet, isn’t it? I used to think I hated the country and that it was beastly slow and tame, but I like to smell the flowers—different somehow to those you have in vases—and I like to see the birds jigging49 about so mighty50 busy over nothing. Wouldn’t my old pals51 laugh at me! Fancy me watching the birds! The only bird I ever thought of was the one the gallery gives you sometimes. Not that the boys ever gave me the bird. Once I had a little trouble with some young fool that started to hiss52 in the middle of my song. It made me that mad! I stopped right dead and I looked[365] up and said, ‘Well, come down here, my boy, and sing something better.’ Ah, I got him! They started clapping me till you couldn’t hear yourself speak. Ah, well!”
“And I think I’d like to be buried in the country; it’s so clean and nice. Such a lot of smuts in town. Ever been in Kensal Green? My mother’s there. They subscribed54 and bought her a grave. But I can’t stand Kensal Green; gives you the bloomingest of humps. No, I’d like a nice, clean tombstone with bits of ivy55 and things. It would be such a trouble to bring me down from town.... I don’t feel I want to be moved much more, only from the house to the garden while it’s summer.”
A rush of tears blinded Claudia, for Fay said it in such a natural, unaffected way that it was inexpressibly pathetic.
“My dear! Don’t!”
“Oh! I am a beast to make you miserable56. I didn’t mean to, darling. Between ourselves, I shan’t be sorry when it’s finished now. I’m ashamed of all the trouble I am to the nurses, though they don’t complain—me, that used to be so nippy on my feet and do everything for myself. I’m more trouble than a baby.... Well, you never know what you’ll come to, do you? My mother used to say, ‘You’re born, but you’re not buried.’ She had a bad time before she turned up her toes, poor old thing. I might be in a worse place than this. I might have been in one of those hospitals. Got a horror of hospitals myself.... I told them you’d have lunch out here with me. Here it comes.”
She waited until the servant had gone, then she leaned towards Claudia and said earnestly, “I want you to promise me something, Claudia.”
“Yes, Fay, what is it?”
“When I do the shuffle57, you see that there are pars58. in[366] all the papers, with my photograph. You’re soon forgotten, but that’ll wake ’em up. The Girlie Girl’s got to have her farewell performance. I know I can trust you. I say, these peas remind me that Polly wants to see you about the kitchen-garden. She says the gardener is cheating us on the peas. Never seen anyone as sharp as she is now. She’ll count the pods every day soon. She loves it here.”
Claudia spent the day there, getting glimpses into strange ideas and modes of living, and arrived back at Wynnstay about six. Directly she got inside the house Lady Currey came out of the drawing-room in a very—for her—excited state.
“Oh, Claudia! what do you think? We’ve just heard that the strikers have become violent, and they are stoning the windows of the mills and the police are powerless to keep order. Poor John is nearly beside himself. I do hope he’ll take care, with the stones flying about.”
Claudia gave an exclamation59 of surprise.
“You don’t mean he has gone over to Langton?”
“Yes, he would go. He thought if he talked to them he might calm them. I’m sure I don’t know. It’s all very dreadful, something like the French Revolution. Oh, dear! Oh, dear!”
Claudia from where she stood could see through the open door of the library where Gilbert usually sat in one of the big chairs. But the room was empty.
“Gilbert—where is he?”
“He’s gone too. He promised to look after John and keep him calm.”
“What! You ought not to have let him go. When did they start?”
“About four o’clock. I wanted them to wait for tea, but they wouldn’t. It takes three-quarters of an hour to drive over. I don’t know what the world is coming to. I’ve always sent them a lot of things for their rummage[367] sale, and last winter the blankets that I sent would——”
“Gilbert ought not to have gone. Why didn’t you stop him? You know what Dr. Neeburg said. He isn’t fit to go into a scene of excitement like that. He is just as furious about the whole thing as his father. He is not strong yet. How could you let him go?”
“He says he feels quite well now,” stammered60 Lady Currey, not liking the look in her daughter-in-law’s eye. “I told him he wasn’t to try and address the men.”
“I should think not.”
“They ought to be back soon,” concluded Lady Currey. “Oh, dear! I feel so faint and queer.”
Claudia thought the situation over rapidly, but there was nothing she could do. It would be no good going over to Langton. Probably they would be returning by now. If only Gilbert would believe other people occasionally! Neeburg, when he had come down and given Gilbert permission to go back to town, had told him emphatically that he would still have to take things very quietly for another year or two. And he had gone with his father to face an infuriated rabble61 of strikers!
“Stones are so dangerous,” feebly remarked Lady Currey, “but after all, men know best. I’ve never interfered62 with my husband.”
Claudia said nothing more as she went to take off her hat. She wished she had been at home. Yet, after all, if Gilbert had made up his mind to go, would she have been able to prevent his going? The Curreys were not used to women “interfering,” and he was not a child.
It was nearly seven when she went downstairs, but the carriage had not returned. Sir John had refused to have the house put on the telephone, so they could get no news. She and Billie went into the library, and she tried to read, but it was only a pretence63. Her ears were listening for the sound of carriage-wheels. It was almost dark. Surely they ought to be home by now. Still, a horse-brougham[368] is not like a motor. The hills were rather worse coming back.
At half-past seven Lady Currey came in, carefully arrayed for dinner.
“Claudia, aren’t you going to dress? You’ll be late.” Though the heavens might fall, Lady Currey would punctually and carefully dress for dinner.
“I’m getting anxious,” said her daughter-in-law shortly. “They will be late too.”
“Yes, I’m afraid so, and there’s a fish soufflé. John does so dislike a heavy soufflé. But of course it can’t be helped. It is late. You don’t think any accident has happened?”
“I hope not.”
“Claudia, do you think it is healthy to nurse a dog on your lap? But there, he’s your dog! Oh, dear! Oh, dear!”
Another quarter of an hour elapsed, and Claudia was just getting up to do something—she hardly knew what—when at last she heard the sound of wheels. A growing sense of disaster lifted. The wheels had a homely64, encouraging sound. For once there was some irregularity in the Currey ménage. Claudia rushed to the door herself and opened it.
She peered out into the sweet-scented darkness, but the brougham was closed. That, at least, was wise of Gilbert, for the night was a little chilly65 now.
“We were getting so anxious,” she called out to two white, blurred66 faces she saw within. “What a long time you have been away.”
Then a figure, unfamiliar67 to her, alighted. Surely there were only two people in the brougham. She heard Lady Currey behind her exclaim “Dr. Green!” in tones of surprise.
The man turned again to the brougham, and helped out a very old man. As Claudia saw the limpness and dejection of Sir John she turned sick. Something had happened.
[369]
The coachman shut the door.
Dr. Green and her father-in-law came up the steps, the doctor supporting the older man. Why did Sir John need support? He was usually quite hale and hearty for his age.
The coachman was making ready to drive away. Where was Gilbert?
Then the old man raised his eyes, as heavy and sombre as Gilbert’s and now dark with suffering.
“Gil——” Claudia tried to articulate, but something choked her.
“Where’s Gilbert?” said his mother behind her.
The eyes of the old man told her nothing, but the eyes of the doctor were full of pity for the two women. It was the same look as had been in the doctor’s eyes the night of Fay’s accident. As she saw it, Claudia instinctively69 put up her hand as if to ward33 off a blow.
The old man tried to explain.
“He would speak ... they’ve killed him ... wouldn’t listen to me ... thought he could.... God have mercy on us all!”
“Do you mean—he’s dead?” whispered Claudia.
The old man passed on heavily into the study. The doctor answered her very gently.
“It was too late when I got there.... Heart failure.... I’m told he knew. Mrs. Currey, I am dreadfully sorry.”
Claudia tried vainly to realize that what had been a few hours previously was not. There was no such person as Gilbert Currey. She, Claudia, was a widow.
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收听单词发音
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1
fray
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| v.争吵；打斗；磨损，磨破；n.吵架；打斗 | |
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ingratitude
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| n.忘恩负义 | |
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bigotry
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| n.偏见，偏执，持偏见的行为[态度]等 | |
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wrath
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| n.愤怒，愤慨，暴怒 | |
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outrageous
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| adj.无理的，令人不能容忍的 | |
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6
previously
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| adv.以前，先前（地） | |
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7
grievance
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| n.怨愤，气恼，委屈 | |
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8
inflamed
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| adj.发炎的，红肿的v.（使）变红，发怒，过热( inflame的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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9
ferment
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| vt.使发酵；n./vt.（使）激动，（使）动乱 | |
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machinery
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| n.(总称)机械，机器；机构 | |
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strictly
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| adv.严厉地，严格地；严密地 | |
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err
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| vi.犯错误，出差错 | |
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leniency
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| n.宽大（不严厉） | |
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14
intimidated
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| v.恐吓；威胁adj.害怕的；受到威胁的 | |
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15
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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pugnaciously
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17
robins
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| n.知更鸟，鸫( robin的名词复数 )；（签名者不分先后，以避免受责的）圆形签名抗议书（或请愿书） | |
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18
grotesque
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| adj.怪诞的，丑陋的；n.怪诞的图案，怪人（物） | |
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19
medley
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| n.混合 | |
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flannel
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| n.法兰绒；法兰绒衣服 | |
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velvet
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| n.丝绒，天鹅绒；adj.丝绒制的，柔软的 | |
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mishap
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| n.不幸的事，不幸；灾祸 | |
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glazed
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| adj.光滑的，像玻璃的；上过釉的；呆滞无神的v.装玻璃( glaze的过去式)；上釉于，上光；（目光）变得呆滞无神 | |
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acrobat
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| n.特技演员，杂技演员 | |
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deserted
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| adj.荒芜的，荒废的，无人的，被遗弃的 | |
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procured
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| v.（努力）取得， （设法）获得( procure的过去式和过去分词 )；拉皮条 | |
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27
liking
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| n.爱好；嗜好；喜欢 | |
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28
vagaries
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| n.奇想( vagary的名词复数 )；异想天开；异常行为；难以预测的情况 | |
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29
tangle
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| n.纠缠；缠结；混乱；v.(使)缠绕；变乱 | |
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snipping
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| n.碎片v.剪( snip的现在分词 ) | |
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32
stunts
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| n.惊人的表演( stunt的名词复数 )；（广告中）引人注目的花招；愚蠢行为；危险举动v.阻碍…发育[生长]，抑制，妨碍( stunt的第三人称单数 ) | |
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33
ward
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| n.守卫，监护，病房，行政区，由监护人或法院保护的人（尤指儿童）；vt.守护，躲开 | |
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34
marvel
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| vi.(at)惊叹vt.感到惊异；n.令人惊异的事 | |
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35
shrilly
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| 尖声的； 光亮的，耀眼的 | |
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flirtation
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| n.调情，调戏，挑逗 | |
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hospitably
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| 亲切地，招待周到地，善于款待地 | |
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helping
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| n.食物的一份&adj.帮助人的，辅助的 | |
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39
landladies
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| n.女房东，女店主，女地主( landlady的名词复数 ) | |
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40
assent
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| v.批准，认可；n.批准，认可 | |
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hearty
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| adj.热情友好的；衷心的；尽情的，纵情的 | |
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42
murmur
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| n.低语，低声的怨言；v.低语，低声而言 | |
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43
solicitously
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| adv.热心地，热切地 | |
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44
awfully
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| adv.可怕地，非常地，极端地 | |
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45
chambers
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| n.房间( chamber的名词复数 )；（议会的）议院；卧室；会议厅 | |
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46
apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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47
drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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48
perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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49
jigging
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| n.跳汰选，簸选v.（使）上下急动( jig的现在分词 ) | |
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50
mighty
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| adj.强有力的；巨大的 | |
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51
pals
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| n.朋友( pal的名词复数 )；老兄；小子；（对男子的不友好的称呼）家伙 | |
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52
hiss
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| v.发出嘶嘶声；发嘘声表示不满 | |
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53
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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54
subscribed
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| v.捐助( subscribe的过去式和过去分词 )；签署，题词；订阅；同意 | |
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55
ivy
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| n.常青藤，常春藤 | |
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56
miserable
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| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
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57
shuffle
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| n.拖著脚走，洗纸牌；v.拖曳，慢吞吞地走 | |
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58
pars
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| n.部，部分；平均( par的名词复数 )；平价；同等；（高尔夫球中的）标准杆数 | |
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59
exclamation
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| n.感叹号，惊呼，惊叹词 | |
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60
stammered
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| v.结巴地说出( stammer的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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61
rabble
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| n.乌合之众，暴民；下等人 | |
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62
interfered
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| v.干预( interfere的过去式和过去分词 )；调停；妨碍；干涉 | |
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63
pretence
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| n.假装，作假；借口，口实；虚伪；虚饰 | |
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64
homely
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| adj.家常的，简朴的；不漂亮的 | |
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65
chilly
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| adj.凉快的，寒冷的 | |
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66
blurred
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| v.（使）变模糊( blur的过去式和过去分词 )；（使）难以区分；模模糊糊；迷离 | |
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67
unfamiliar
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| adj.陌生的，不熟悉的 | |
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68
abreast
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| adv.并排地；跟上(时代)的步伐，与…并进地 | |
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69
instinctively
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| adv.本能地 | |
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