There a woman was down at a fence and men stopped to help her. There a riderless horse went by, mane tossing, stirrups flying. Now a groan4, now a curse. The country-side flew by as in a motion picture. Patch of brown, patch of green, patch of gray, like a crazy-quilt. The crack of hunting crops, the ppk of spurs. "Tally5-ho, boys! tally-ho! On hounds! On!"
Morgan with certainty crept ahead of the field, not a hundred yards behind master and huntsman. Beneath him the great gray moved like a steam-engine. A little steadying forward, a rush and a thud, and they were over. Now a ditch was taken with a clatter6, now a fence cleared nicely, now through a blackthorn hedge, Morgan's arm up to protect his eyes. Five minutes! Seven. Eight minutes! Nine. Ten, by the Lord Harry7! And suddenly they were at Kyle na Maroo—Dead Men's Wood. And the hounds were sniffing8, wailing9, at check.
An old earth-stopper, wizened10, purple-lipped, like a grave-digger of "Hamlet," appeared like a troll.
"Into the wood he went, your Honor," he addressed the master. "Into the wood the Red One went, your Honor, like a man diving into his own house."
"Are all the holes stopped, Mickey Dan?"
"Stopped is it, your Honor. Sure they 're stopped as if they were the burrows11 of the devil himself and the saints to be out hunting him on the judgment-day. Stopped is it? Sure, a worm itself could n't get in or out of them the way I 'm after stopping them with interest and grand care—"
"All right, Mickey Dan!" The master interrupted. "Hoick in!" He ordered the huntsmen.
Morgan pulled up his hunter and turned around to watch the field come up, no longer bunched, but straggling now. The burst to check had been too much for them. His horse was still fresh, his seat easy. He had done a notable thing, following so closely on the master's mount—the great racer that had won the Grand National—and the huntsman's mare, fleet as a greyhound, with so little weight up. Morgan desired a word of commendation, even a look of envy. But they took no notice of him. He might have been some old fox-hunter, invisible, long dead, riding a specter horse, over some well-remembered run, for all the attention they paid him. To them he was n't there; he did n't exist.
And because of Reynardine.
And what had he done to Reynardine? It was n't his fault. It was hers. She was in love with him, and then she turned and was not. Was it his fault that a woman was fickle13?
Yes, she was in love with him. He could even yet see her dark murmuring eyes in the golden light of the candles, as she set there in her white frock and sang to him, her beautifully cut ivory hands plucking haunting melody from a pianoforte as from some old-time clavichord14.
"Sun and dark I followed her,
Her eyes did brightly shine:
She took me o'er the mountains,
Did my sweet Reynardine.
If by chance you look for me
Perhaps you'll not me find—"
Oh, damn! What did she ever come into his life for, anyway! She didn't want a man. She wanted a poet. Crazy! That's what she was, crazy as a coot. He supposed her daughter—their daughter—was as crazy as she!
First of all there 'd been the trouble about the hunting. She never said a word about it, but her face had blanched15 the first morning he saddled up for the Lonth. She had expected him, he laughed, to have the same crazy notions as her family. And her face had been drawn16 with pain when he came back in the evening. And she had said nothing. Too proud. Too damn crazy and too proud!
That evening he had asked her to play "Reynardine"—not that he liked the tune17; he'd rather have had something popular, something with body to it, none of your blasted wailing folk-songs. But he just thought it might please her to have him ask. She shook her head, and plunged18 into Chopin.
"I don't think I could play—'Reynardine'—to-night," she said.
And she had never played or sung "Reynardine" to him again.
She and her folk had such darn queer notions. They thought more of a horse under them than themselves. They went to infinite pains and immense time to train a green horse or break in a dog where another person with a flick19 of spurs or, a crack of the whip could do it in half the time. True, they did it well. But, after all, you did n't make human friendships with animals. You made them do what you wanted to; or if they did n't— That was a man's way.
But people are queer, some of them. One man is proud that his horse whinnies in the stall when he hears the beloved footstep. And some men give friendship to dogs they never give to women, and their hearts break when a hound dies. And to some folk the birds of the air will come and eat out of their hand, so confident are the birds. And the death of a rabbit is a great tragedy to children. There is a virgin20 glade21 in nearly all folks' hearts where neither blood nor marriage wander, but the love of animals possesses. It is some mystic link in the chain of creation.
But he never had it. Never could understand it, Morgan thought. After all, man is the lord of creation, Morgan decided—that's true isn't it?—and all living things were for him to use. He had all rights over them, even to life and death. That was how some folks looked at it—not crazy people like the Fitzpauls.
And Reynardine did n't like the way he broke horses. Reynardine did n't like the way he shot pheasants. She was a queer girl, but—God!—she was very beautiful!
Well, that was the whole story of it; they did n't get on. There grew a gulf22 between them, and was that his fault? he asked. Was it his fault he was n't insane? Was it his fault he was too much of a man for her?
And when she was to have a child, she expected so much of him. She never asked of course—oh, no! She would never ask for anything, but she followed him with dumb eyes. What did she expect, anyhow? It was no man's job to hang around a gravid woman all the time, holding her hand. A million women in the world were bearing children. What was there to it, after all? Every one did it.
And then she had run home. Let her run. Crazy coot!
And when she was dying and sent for him, did he refuse to go and see her, as many a man would have done? No, he went. He remembered well the soft April twilight23; the dim white figure in the great bed, with the haunting eyes. And her four big brothers standing24 around with set, grim faces.
"My husband," she had said, "for anything I did to you here, for any way I hurt, will you please forgive me?"
"That's all right, Reynardine," he said. "We were just not suited. And I forgive you." Then, awkwardly: "I'm sorry to see you this way, Reynardine."
A light had gone out of her face:
"Then—good-by!" Her hand unclasped from his.
"Good-by!" he had said uncomfortably, and turned to go. He noticed three of the brothers look at the senior, Gilchrist, meaningly. Gilchrist turned to go after him. A cold shiver had gone down Morgan's spine25. His knees trembled. And then came the very soft voice:
"Gilchrist, and brothers dear, in a minute maybe I 'll have gone with the twilight, and I shall not be able to talk to you again, ever again, with these human lips. And I 'm going to ask you just one more favor, brothers dear, my brothers. Please do it for your sister. Let my—let this man go!"
Then Gilchrist threw open the door.
"This is no place for you," he had said. "Go!"
A crazy breed! He had never heard from them again. Never had they asked him to see or support his daughter. He had even forgotten her name. But he did n't want to see her. He wanted to see no more of the Fitzpaul blood. She was living in the old place, he understood, which was hers now.
Well, let her—
But—funny! He could never get out of his mind's eye the vision of his wife sitting by the great piano, plucking out the ancient melody:
"If by chance you look for me
Perhaps you 'll not me find,
For I 'll be in my castle—"
The hounds shifted, grew keen. "Ay! Ay!" came the tongue of the finder. Scent26 was picked up again. "Ay! Ay! Ay!" went the pack, heads up, tails straight. There was a red flash ahead in the grassy27 field.
"Ay! Ay! Ay!" They were off. "Ay! Ay! Ay!" Seventy hounds and forty horsemen. "Ay! Ay! Ay!" And one red fox running for his life. "Ay! Ay!" A dead fox or a broken neck! "Ay! Ay! Ay!"
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收听单词发音
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1
puckered
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| v.（使某物）起褶子或皱纹( pucker的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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2
mare
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| n.母马，母驴 | |
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3
plowed
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| v.耕( plow的过去式和过去分词 )；犁耕；费力穿过 | |
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4
groan
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| vi./n.呻吟，抱怨；(发出)呻吟般的声音 | |
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5
tally
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| n.计数器，记分，一致，测量；vt.计算，记录，使一致；vi.计算，记分，一致 | |
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6
clatter
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| v./n.(使)发出连续而清脆的撞击声 | |
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7
harry
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| vt.掠夺，蹂躏，使苦恼 | |
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8
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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9
wailing
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| v.哭叫，哀号( wail的现在分词 )；沱 | |
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10
wizened
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| adj.凋谢的；枯槁的 | |
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11
burrows
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| n.地洞( burrow的名词复数 )v.挖掘（洞穴），挖洞( burrow的第三人称单数 )；翻寻 | |
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12
ranger
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| n.国家公园管理员，护林员；骑兵巡逻队员 | |
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13
fickle
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| adj.(爱情或友谊上)易变的，不坚定的 | |
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14
clavichord
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| n.（敲弦）古钢琴 | |
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15
blanched
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| v.使变白( blanch的过去式 )；使（植物）不见阳光而变白；酸洗（金属）使有光泽；用沸水烫（杏仁等）以便去皮 | |
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16
drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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17
tune
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| n.调子；和谐，协调；v.调音，调节，调整 | |
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18
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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19
flick
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| n.快速的轻打，轻打声，弹开；v.轻弹，轻轻拂去，忽然摇动 | |
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20
virgin
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| n.处女，未婚女子；adj.未经使用的；未经开发的 | |
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21
glade
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| n.林间空地，一片表面有草的沼泽低地 | |
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22
gulf
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| n.海湾；深渊，鸿沟；分歧，隔阂 | |
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23
twilight
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| n.暮光，黄昏；暮年，晚期，衰落时期 | |
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24
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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25
spine
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| n.脊柱，脊椎；(动植物的)刺；书脊 | |
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26
scent
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| n.气味，香味，香水，线索，嗅觉；v.嗅，发觉 | |
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27
grassy
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| adj.盖满草的；长满草的 | |
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onward
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| adj.向前的，前进的；adv.向前，前进，在先 | |
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