He was not mistaken in the purport6 of these things. Glasgow felt a pain about his throat as he saw the old horse walk into his stall again. He had not thought he would have minded so much. He stood by in the silence that characterizes horse-dealing7, while the chestnut underwent examination, and looked round the yard at the miscellaneous collection of wreckage8 from his railway contract—the broken pumping-engine, the automatic crossing-gates that would not work, the corrugated9 iron hut that the men would not sleep in—and said to himself that the luck had been against him. It did not occur to him that he had shouldered his competitors out of the contract by a tender that left no margin10 for mistakes. Mr. Glasgow never made mistakes, but he had based his brilliant and minute calculations on the theory that the cheap Irish labour would accomplish as much in the day as the costly11 English, and{122} the fact that it had not done so was obviously beyond the sphere of rational calculation. In the long stable at the other side of the yard a heavy hoof12 was dealing sledge-hammer kicks to the stall, and Glasgow, as he heard it, estimated what price the creditors13 would get for the big dray-horses that he had brought over from England for the railway work. When he thought of the value of the plant that he was going to leave behind, he scarcely felt like a defaulter: there would be more than enough realized to pay the men, and the Railway Company could afford to lose. There remained to him his private means, the Argentine Republic, his own considerable gifts as a civil engineer, and—— Would Lady Susan remain? He felt little doubt about that part of his future.
Mr. Andrew Murphy was offering him, in the accents of Tipperary, a hundred pounds for the two horses—seventy for the chestnut and thirty for old Solomon—and he was holding out for a hundred and{123} twenty with his usual decision. If there were a weakness in his business dealings, it lay in his determination to be decisive at all points. The small and deliberate methods of expediency14 were intolerable to him; he would rather do without bread than accept the half-loaf. Now, even while each trivial episode was tinged15 with the reflected light of his future, and all were converging16 towards an immediate17 crisis, he held to his point, and had not Mr. Murphy known of an immediate customer for Solomon, the bargain might have ended untimely. As it was, the two horses changed hands at Mr. Glasgow’s price, with the understanding that both could be hunted next day by their former owner. Mr. Glasgow insisted on this point, and took all risks.
When it was all over, and Mr. Murphy and the vet. had had whiskies-and-sodas and gone away, Glasgow went back to his office and took up again his task of burning and sorting papers. Being habitually{124} orderly in his habits, the work went steadily19, and, to all appearance, without effort; yet, as the time went on, his pale face became jaded20 and grey, and the lines about his mouth deepened.
The terrace at French’s Court witnessed that afternoon the least dignified21 of earthly sights—the struggles of a lady-beginner on a bicycle. It was somewhat of a descent from the heroics of forty miles an hour on an engine, yet as Slaney, flushed and dishevelled, wobbled to her one-and-twentieth overthrow22, the past and future were forgotten in the ignoble23 excitements of the moment. Major Bunbury, himself in no mean condition of heat, picked her up out of a holly-bush and started her again; he had been doing the same thing for half-an-hour, but it had not seemed to pall24. When the two-and-twentieth collapse25 had been safely accomplished26, Slaney confessed to feeling somewhat shattered, and returning to the hall, sank into a chair, with aching knees and hands seamed with gravel27.{125}
“It’s nothing to what you’ll feel like to-morrow,” said Major Bunbury, encouragingly. “You rode into the pillar of the gate so very hard last time.” He looked down at her from his position on the hearthrug, and then glanced across to the dusky, comfortable corner where the piano was. “I wonder if you remember that you said you were too tired this morning to play that Impromptu28?”
“My hands were, and are, permanently29 hooked from holding on to the rail on the engine,” said Slaney, whose spirits had risen as surprisingly as her colour with her first experience on the bicycle, “and no one with a proper sense of how things ought to be would have expected me to do anything but lie on the sofa and faint. Instead of which, I am asked to sit on a music-stool and humiliate30 myself by playing things that I don’t know.”
“I think Susan looks more knocked out of time than you do,” remarked Bunbury, after one of those comfortable pauses that{126} mark intimacy31, “and they really had not so near a shave as we had. They weren’t going anything like our pace when they saw that the cutting had fallen in.” Another pause. “By the way, did you—did you understand that I thought we should have to jump, that time that I—that I put my arm round you?”
“Oh, perfectly,” said Slaney distantly, and blushed with fervour. “Mr. Glasgow did not seem to mind missing his train, after all,” she went on, speeding into the topic she most wished to avoid, as is frequently the fate of those who talk for the sake of changing the conversation.
“I believe that was all a mistake. Glasgow hadn’t the slightest idea of going; he only wanted to see one of the directors who was travelling up by the mail,” said Bunbury elaborately.
“Susan waited for us at the station till she was frozen,” continued Slaney, taking her share in the apology. “She would have come on our engine only{127} that it would have spoiled her box cloth coat.”
“Do you know where she is now?” asked Bunbury, after another silence.
“She said something about going to look for daffodils. I saw her going up the backway towards the woods some time ago.”
“Are you too tired to walk up to meet her? You may choose between that and playing the Impromptu.”
They went up the hill at the back of the house by a seldom-used avenue, where cart-wheels had made deep brown ruts in the grass, and the bordering oaks hung their branches low and unpruned; pale winter pastures spread on either side, and the cattle were already moving downwards32 towards their night’s lodging33. Yet the hint of coming spring was in the lengthened34 afternoon; stiff-necked daffodil buds were beginning to bend their heads and show the hoarded35 gold through the jealous green, and thrushes were twining a net of song in the shrubberies below. It is in the days of{128} February that the Irish air begins again to breathe suggestion—no longer mere36 food for the lungs, it invades the heart, and bewilders the brain with griefs and hopes. Even to the dimming of the eye that smell of the fields entered into Slaney; with a new and strong understanding of herself she could have wept for the guileless egoist who had been Slaney Morris when last the February winds blew sweet.
“Have you written that letter to say that you are not going home to-morrow?” said Bunbury, as he held open the gate that admitted them into the wood.
He had realized during his walk up across the pastures that days in which Slaney had no share would be strangely meaningless. Not being introspective the discovery was sudden enough to set his blood beating and his heart instinctively37 aching. He knew that she could look forward to days without him as unconcernedly as she would look back to days with him; she was self-sufficing, as the ideal ever seems to be the{129} idealizer, and such as he had no portion beyond the opening of gates for her to pass through. Major Bunbury’s elder sister must have faithfully fulfilled the mission of elder sisters, or else his natural estimation of himself was low.
“No,” replied Slaney, with her eyes on the ground, “after all, I made up my mind not to write.”
“Your mind was made up the other way when you talked about it after breakfast,” said Bunbury, looking down at her as she flicked38 a fir-cone aside with her stick. “Do you generally change it every few hours?”
“Emerson says that consistency39 is the hobgoblin of small minds,” replied Slaney, with a little sententious air that Bunbury found exasperatingly40 charming.
“Does Emerson say that Uncle Charles is a hobgoblin for small minds, and could very well look after himself for another week?” There was a resentment41 in Major Bunbury’s voice that he did not try to conceal42.{130}
“He says nothing of the sort. He might have said Uncle Charles was a Diocesan Nominator, only he forgot to,” said Slaney, still preoccupied43 with the carpet of pine-needles on which they were walking. “But as you’re not an Irishman,” she went on, “I suppose you don’t even know what that is?”
“It seems to be a thing that requires a great deal of unnecessary attention, and can’t take care of itself,” said Bunbury gloomily.
“Well, you’re quite wrong,” replied Slaney, looking up with a laugh that was shy and friendly, and a little conscious. She was not accustomed to finding that her comings and goings were of importance to people like Major Bunbury. “It’s a most self-sufficing and useful thing. It goes away at intervals44 to elect clergymen for the Irish Church, and it sent over a note this afternoon to say I was not to go home for two or three days.”
Bunbury was quite silent for a few{131} moments; then, while the pine-needle carpet seemed to rise up under his feet, he took her ungloved right hand, and raised it, stick and all, to meet his face as he bent45 over it, like a man stooping to drink. He kissed it, hurriedly and awkwardly, but in an instant the fine and slender fingers had escaped from his lips, and he stood by her, speechless and dizzy. In that moment of silence his heart opened and let in her dearness like a flood; before the next could dawn with its possibilities, a woman’s voice broke out of the wood, through twilight46 barred with tree stems. It was so near, it was so whetted47 with agony, so flung about with gusts48 of passion, that, for the moment, oblivious49 of what had just passed, they stared at each other for the space of a long-held breath, and were carried on towards it with that instinct that drags every human being towards suffering. A smell of wood-smoke drifted lightly in the air; it strengthened as a bend of the path straightened before them, till they saw{132} among the trees a group of men, a fire of fir-branches crackling in a bed of red ember and white ash, and down at the left side of the path a pond that glimmered50 darkly in a pale setting of sedgy grass. There was a punt on the pond, and boat-hooks and ropes were flung about. Glasgow was standing18 by, why or how it did not occur to Slaney to inquire. There were several countrymen whom she recognized, and all seemed silently intent on some central catastrophe51.
The woman’s voice was unintelligible52 now, half-smothered and near the ground, as if her mouth were laid against the grass. Two men stooped and tried to pull her to her feet. A red head appeared, swaying, as when, a month before, Maria Quin staggered through the drunken crowd while they closed her father’s coffin53. Slaney saw now what it was that lay on the ground beside her; the fixed54 sprawl55 of the limbs in the soaked clothing, the discoloured cheek, torn by boat-hooks; it expressed{133} with terrific completeness the hunted life, the lonely act of death that had attained56 such peace as this stillness might betoken57.
Tom Quin’s black-and-grey dog moved restlessly round the body of his master, sniffing58 closely at the face, trying to turn over with his nose the rigid59 hand that still clutched a fragment of sodden60 reed, in that dumb distress61 and fear of death that animals must bear uncomforted. Slaney dragged her eyes from the engrossing62 horror of it, and in doing so met those of Lady Susan at the far side of the group; but nothing seemed strange to her now, not even the white fixity of Lady Susan’s face, that told of a plucky63 woman strongly moved.
At that instant Maria Quin broke out of the group and confronted Glasgow, eyes and face and voice beyond all control or desire of it, and repellent as human frenzy64 must inevitably65 be.
“If it wasn’t for the way you had him persecuted,” she yelled, “he wouldn’t be thrown out there on the grass undher yer{134} feet. ’Twas you refused him the money back and dhrew the curse on him till ye had him wandhering the counthry night and day like a wild goose. Couldn’t annyone know the crayture’s heart was broke whin he threw the scafflin’ off him and left it on the stone by the brink66? Oh, God and His Mother! He knew he couldn’t dhrown if that was on him”—she held up the scapulary that Quin, like most Irish Roman Catholics, wore round his neck, and shook it in Glasgow’s face—“and you to come walkin’ through the woods with yer lover, so quiet! That yersel’s may be lookin’ for a place to die and be threw in a grave that won’t be blessed!”
“The Cross of Christ be between us and harm!” One of the French’s Court workmen caught at Maria Quin’s arm as if to silence her; another pulled him away, telling him in Irish that the curse might fall on any one who interfered69 with her.{135}
Lady Susan passed quickly round the outside of the group and came straight to Bunbury, her figure in its brilliant modernity accentuating70 the sombreness of a tragedy of this archaic71 kind.
“I’m going home,” she said indistinctly, and walked past him; “I feel rather queer from seeing that——” Her voice failed her, and she put her hand to her eyes. Bunbury followed her without a word. It came home with a pang72 to Slaney’s heart that Lady Susan had turned to him, expecting no quarter from the girl.
She turned to follow them, but she had not gone more than a few yards when she heard a step behind her. Glasgow overtook her, and without speaking began to walk beside her; he looked straight in front of him, and something about his movement and the carriage of his head told her that he was entirely73 absorbed in hot white anger.
“I hope you are gratified at the result of encouraging superstition,” he said at last,{136} in a voice that told of the inward pressure of feeling.
“It seems to have been more the result of discouraging it,” she replied, without attempting to keep out of her voice the antagonism74 that was in her heart.
“It would be simpler if you said at once that honest or sane75 people had better give up having any dealings with the Irish,” he returned hotly.
Slaney felt quite cool, and Glasgow wondered how he had ever found her attractive.
“As you are a friend of these Quins,” he said, holding his temper back, but not his imperiousness, “I think it would be as well if you advised that woman to take care about what she says of me, as she may get herself into trouble.”
He forgot for the moment the trouble that lay ahead of him; yet the strong nervous{137} excitement that fed his anger was due to the imminence77 of that trouble, forgotten or no.
“I think advice would be rather thrown away on her just now,” replied Slaney, thinking of what lay by the pool, and of the wet torn face that the dog smelt78 at; “even Irish people feel things sometimes.”
She suddenly became aware of the spring of tears that lies at the back of a shock, and she bit her lip and drove her stick hard into the ground as she walked.
“I can only suppose then,” he said, “that you don’t object to hearing your friends publicly libelled.”
He held the gate of the wood open for her, and she walked through as stiff as a dart79. She knew quite well what sentence of Maria Quin’s it was that was foremost on his ear, and it was intolerable that he should take his stand beside Lady Susan. Her distrust of him had become so invincible80 that she felt Lady Susan to be a bird in the snare81 of the fowler; she could not think of her as a confederate.{138}
“Can’t you realize,” she said, at last, “that nothing I could say would do any good now?”
“I see,” he sneered82, while he sought among his cast-iron theories of women for something that should fit this abnormal one. “You mean that it is no use to hope that a woman will hold her tongue, whether it be to her own advantage or not!”
The long-pent anger suddenly stirred in her, and with it the resolution that had long lain dormant83.
“Would it surprise you to hear,” she began, with the sensation of coming into the open, under fire, “that a woman has held her tongue about you for some time past?”
He half turned and looked hard at her. “I have ceased to be surprised at anything a woman may do, but I should certainly like to hear the particulars of such a piece of self-sacrifice.”
Slaney hesitated. It was nearly impossible to say it. The twilight was falling and{139} the thrushes in the shrubberies below were piercing it with long shafts84 of rhapsody. Lady Susan and Bunbury were walking under the bare and drooping85 branches some distance in front.
“You lent me a book last month—the Fortnightly Review—and I found a letter to you in it, a letter that you had forgotten was there.”
“May I ask who it was from?”
“A woman.”
“You read it?”
“I could hardly help reading it, it was all on the first sheet.{140}”
She looked at him with the courage of an honourable90 nature owning to what it would self-righteously have despised in another, and he saw the moistness in her eyes.
“Oh yes, I understand that quite well,” he replied, with a quickness that did honour both to him and to her.
There was a pause.
“I burned it at once,” she added.
“Oh!” There was no shade of feeling in the monosyllable. “I remember the letter you speak of,” he went on very quietly; “what I cannot understand is why you have told me of it? I can hardly think it was for the sake of saying something unpleasant.”
“It was because I am fond of Lady Susan,” she said desperately91.
In the silence that followed it seemed to her as though she had thrown a heavy stone into deep water, without hope of result beyond the broken mirror and the flagging ripple92.
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1
trotted
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| 小跑，急走( trot的过去分词 )； 匆匆忙忙地走 | |
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knowledgeable
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| adj.知识渊博的；有见识的 | |
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vet
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| n.兽医，退役军人；vt.检查 | |
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chilly
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| adj.凉快的，寒冷的 | |
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chestnut
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| n.栗树，栗子 | |
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purport
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| n.意义，要旨，大要；v.意味著，做为...要旨，要领是... | |
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dealing
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| n.经商方法，待人态度 | |
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wreckage
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| n.（失事飞机等的）残骸，破坏，毁坏 | |
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corrugated
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| adj.波纹的；缩成皱纹的；波纹面的；波纹状的v.（使某物）起皱褶(corrugate的过去式和过去分词) | |
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margin
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| n.页边空白；差额；余地，余裕；边，边缘 | |
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costly
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| adj.昂贵的，价值高的，豪华的 | |
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hoof
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| n.(马，牛等的)蹄 | |
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creditors
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| n.债权人，债主( creditor的名词复数 ) | |
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expediency
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| n.适宜；方便；合算；利己 | |
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tinged
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| v.（使）发丁丁声( ting的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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converging
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| adj.收敛[缩]的，会聚的，趋同的v.（线条、运动的物体等）会于一点( converge的现在分词 )；（趋于）相似或相同；人或车辆汇集；聚集 | |
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17
immediate
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| adj.立即的；直接的，最接近的；紧靠的 | |
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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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steadily
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| adv.稳定地；不变地；持续地 | |
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jaded
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| adj.精疲力竭的；厌倦的；（因过饱或过多而）腻烦的；迟钝的 | |
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dignified
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| a.可敬的，高贵的 | |
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overthrow
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| v.推翻，打倒，颠覆；n.推翻，瓦解，颠覆 | |
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23
ignoble
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| adj.不光彩的，卑鄙的；可耻的 | |
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pall
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| v.覆盖，使平淡无味；n.柩衣，棺罩；棺材；帷幕 | |
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collapse
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| vi.累倒；昏倒；倒塌；塌陷 | |
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accomplished
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| adj.有才艺的；有造诣的；达到了的 | |
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gravel
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| n.砂跞；砂砾层；结石 | |
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impromptu
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| adj.即席的，即兴的；adv.即兴的(地)，无准备的(地) | |
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permanently
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| adv.永恒地，永久地，固定不变地 | |
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humiliate
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| v.使羞辱，使丢脸[同]disgrace | |
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intimacy
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| n.熟悉，亲密，密切关系，亲昵的言行 | |
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downwards
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| adj./adv.向下的（地），下行的（地） | |
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lodging
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| n.寄宿，住所；(大学生的)校外宿舍 | |
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lengthened
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| （时间或空间）延长，伸长( lengthen的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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hoarded
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| v.积蓄并储藏（某物）( hoard的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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instinctively
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| adv.本能地 | |
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38
flicked
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| （尤指用手指或手快速地）轻击( flick的过去式和过去分词 )； （用…）轻挥； （快速地）按开关； 向…笑了一下（或瞥了一眼等） | |
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39
consistency
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| n.一贯性，前后一致，稳定性；(液体的)浓度 | |
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exasperatingly
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resentment
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| n.怨愤，忿恨 | |
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42
conceal
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| v.隐藏，隐瞒，隐蔽 | |
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preoccupied
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| adj.全神贯注的，入神的；被抢先占有的；心事重重的v.占据（某人）思想，使对…全神贯注，使专心于( preoccupy的过去式) | |
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44
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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45
bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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46
twilight
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| n.暮光，黄昏；暮年，晚期，衰落时期 | |
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47
whetted
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| v.（在石头上）磨（刀、斧等）( whet的过去式和过去分词 )；引起，刺激（食欲、欲望、兴趣等） | |
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48
gusts
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| 一阵强风( gust的名词复数 )； （怒、笑等的）爆发； （感情的）迸发； 发作 | |
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49
oblivious
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| adj.易忘的，遗忘的，忘却的，健忘的 | |
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50
glimmered
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| v.发闪光，发微光( glimmer的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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51
catastrophe
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| n.大灾难，大祸 | |
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52
unintelligible
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| adj.无法了解的，难解的，莫明其妙的 | |
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53
coffin
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| n.棺材，灵柩 | |
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54
fixed
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| adj.固定的，不变的，准备好的；(计算机)固定的 | |
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55
sprawl
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| vi.躺卧，扩张，蔓延；vt.使蔓延；n.躺卧，蔓延 | |
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56
attained
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| （通常经过努力）实现( attain的过去式和过去分词 )； 达到； 获得； 达到（某年龄、水平、状况） | |
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betoken
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| v.预示 | |
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sniffing
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| n.探查法v.以鼻吸气，嗅，闻( sniff的现在分词 )；抽鼻子（尤指哭泣、患感冒等时出声地用鼻子吸气）；抱怨，不以为然地说 | |
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rigid
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| adj.严格的，死板的；刚硬的，僵硬的 | |
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sodden
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| adj.浑身湿透的；v.使浸透；使呆头呆脑 | |
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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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engrossing
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| adj.使人全神贯注的，引人入胜的v.使全神贯注( engross的现在分词 ) | |
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plucky
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| adj.勇敢的 | |
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frenzy
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| n.疯狂，狂热，极度的激动 | |
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inevitably
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| adv.不可避免地；必然发生地 | |
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brink
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| n.(悬崖、河流等的)边缘，边沿 | |
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stifled
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| （使）窒息， （使）窒闷( stifle的过去式和过去分词 )； 镇压，遏制； 堵 | |
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exclamation
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| n.感叹号，惊呼，惊叹词 | |
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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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accentuating
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| v.重读( accentuate的现在分词 )；使突出；使恶化；加重音符号于 | |
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archaic
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| adj.(语言、词汇等)古代的，已不通用的 | |
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pang
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| n.剧痛，悲痛，苦闷 | |
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73
entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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antagonism
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| n.对抗，敌对，对立 | |
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sane
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| adj.心智健全的，神志清醒的，明智的，稳健的 | |
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eminently
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| adv.突出地；显著地；不寻常地 | |
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imminence
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| n.急迫，危急 | |
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smelt
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| v.熔解，熔炼；n.银白鱼，胡瓜鱼 | |
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dart
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| v.猛冲，投掷；n.飞镖，猛冲 | |
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invincible
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| adj.不可征服的，难以制服的 | |
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81
snare
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| n.陷阱，诱惑，圈套；（去除息肉或者肿瘤的）勒除器；响弦，小军鼓；vt.以陷阱捕获，诱惑 | |
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82
sneered
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| 讥笑，冷笑( sneer的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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83
dormant
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| adj.暂停活动的；休眠的；潜伏的 | |
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shafts
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| n.轴( shaft的名词复数 )；（箭、高尔夫球棒等的）杆；通风井；一阵（疼痛、害怕等） | |
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drooping
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| adj. 下垂的，无力的 动词droop的现在分词 | |
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martyr
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| n.烈士，殉难者；vt.杀害，折磨，牺牲 | |
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throb
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| v.震颤，颤动；(急速强烈地)跳动，搏动 | |
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kindly
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| adj.和蔼的，温和的，爽快的；adv.温和地，亲切地 | |
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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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honourable
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| adj.可敬的；荣誉的，光荣的 | |
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desperately
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| adv.极度渴望地，绝望地，孤注一掷地 | |
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ripple
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| n.涟波，涟漪，波纹，粗钢梳；vt.使...起涟漪，使起波纹； vi.呈波浪状，起伏前进 | |
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