Even so, during the sea voyage, Jim unconsciously buried the bewildering thought of Monimé. He was a careless fellow, very reprehensible2, having no actual harm in him, yet bearing a record pock-marked, so to speak, with the sins of omission3. He was one of the world’s tramps by nature; and now once more he was out upon the high road, and the lights of the city wherein he had slept had faded behind him as he wandered onwards into another sunrise. It is true that he wrote her a long and intense letter upon the day after his departure, and that he posted this upon his arrival at Marseilles; but his brain, by then full of other things, conjured4 up no clear vision of her, and his heart sent forth5 no impassioned message with the written word. He had been deeply stirred by her, but also he had been baffled; and, as in the case of a dream, he made no effort to retain the sweetness of the memory.
[59]
On the morning of his arrival he called at the office of the solicitors6 who had inserted the advertisement, and was not a little startled to find himself greeted with that kind of obsequiousness8 which he had supposed to have vanished from Lincoln’s Inn fifty years ago.
The little pink-and-white man who was the senior partner, and whose name was Beadle, rubbed his hands together as though he were washing them, and actually walked backwards9 for some paces in front of his visitor, bowing him into a shabby leather chair which stood beside the large, imposing10 desk.
“I hope,” he crooned, when Jim had established his identity, “that we may still have the duty, and pleasure, of serving you, sir, as we have served your uncle and your grandfather.”
“I hope so,” replied Jim. “I suppose you know all the ins and outs of the family affairs.”
Mr. Beadle smilingly directed the young man’s attention to a number of black tin boxes stacked in the corner of the room. “The Tundering-West documents for the last two hundred years,” he declared, blowing his breath through his teeth, an action which served him for laughter.
Jim had a vision of legal formalities and lawyers’ rigmaroles—things which he had always detested11; and the passing thought contributed to the growing dislike he felt for the harmless, but sycophantic12, Mr. Beadle.
“Well, first of all,” he said, “tell me what my inheritance consists of, and what sort of income I’ve got.”
Mr. Beadle explained that the little property[60] comprised some two hundred acres, most of which were rented; the score of houses and cottages which constituted the tiny little village; the small but comfortable manor13-house; and twenty thousand pounds of invested capital. This was better than Jim had expected, and his pleasure was manifest by the broad smile upon his tanned face.
“You see, you will have quite a comfortable income in a small way,” the solicitor7 told him. “I do not think that your duties will embarrass you. You will find your tenants14 very respectful and deferential15 country-people, who will give you little bother; and your obligations as landlord will be very easily discharged.”
“They’re a bit behind the times, eh?” suggested Jim.
“Ah, my dear sir,” said Mr. Beadle, “I am thankful to say that there are still some parts of the English countryside where a gentleman may live in comfort, and where the people keep their place.”
Jim was astonished by the remark, for he had believed such sentiments to be entombed in the novels of long ago. “Poor old England!” he murmured. “We’re a comic race, aren’t we, Mr. Beetle16?”
“‘Beadle,’” the little old man corrected him; and “Sorry!” said Jim.
They spoke17 later of the tragedies which had thus brought the inheritance out of the direct line, and hereat came the conventional sighs from Mr. Beadle, as forced as his laughter. Jim was told how his cousin, Mark, had died in India of pneumonia18, and how his uncle and the remaining son, James, having gone to the Lakes that the old gentleman[61] might recover his equanimity19, were both drowned in a sudden squall while sailing at a considerable distance from the shore. The bodies were recovered and brought to Eversfield for burial; and very solemnly the solicitor produced a photograph of the memorial tablet which had been set up in the church.
“Some day, I trust a very long time hence, your own mural tablet will be set up there,” he said, after Jim had handed back the photograph in silence. “‘Nihil enim semper floret; ?tas succedit ?tati,’ as the good Cicero says.”
“Quite so,” said Jim.
“It has all been a terrible blow to me,” sighed Mr. Beadle. “The late Mr. Tundering-West treated me quite as a personal friend.”
“Did he really?” Jim was going to be rude, but checked himself. He felt an extraordinary hostility20 to this well-meaning but servile little personage. “I shall go down there to-morrow,” he remarked, as he rose to take his departure, “and I’ll probably have the house thoroughly21 renovated22 before I go into it.”
“I don’t think you will find much that requires alteration,” Mr. Beadle assured him, his hand raised in a gesture of deprecation. “Hasty changes are always undesirable23; and, when you have grown into the spirit of the place I think you will find that you have a duty to the past.” He checked himself, and bowed. “I trust you will not mind an old man giving you that advice,” he murmured, as they shook hands. He bowed so low that it appeared to be a complete physical collapse24.
[62]
On the following day Jim motored to Eversfield in a hired open car. He could with greater ease have gone by train to Oxford25, and could have driven over in a fly; but he wanted to have the pleasure of spending some of his new money, and, moreover, a fifty-mile drive through the fair lands of Berkshire and Oxfordshire in the radiance of a summer’s day appealed to his imagination. Nor was he disappointed. He acknowledged the beauties of the land of his birth with whole-hearted pleasure; and his eyes, weary with long gazing upon leaden skies and burning sands, were soothed26 in a manner beyond scope of words by the green fields, the soft foliage27 of the trees, and grey skies of a hot, hazy28 morning. It is true that the roads were extremely dusty, and that his face and clothes were soon thickly powdered; but, as the chauffeur29 had provided him with a pair of motoring glasses, he was not troubled in this respect.
The little hamlet of Eversfield lay seemingly asleep in its hollow amidst the richly timbered hills, as, at midday, he drove up to the grey stone gates of his future home. Here was the narrow village green just as he had last seen it when he was a boy: on one side of the lane which opened on to it were these imposing gates; on the other side were the little church and moss-covered gravestones leaning at all angles, as though the dead were whispering together deferentially30 at the entrance of the manor. Upon the green were the old stocks, and the stump31 and worn steps of the ancient cross; and behind them stood the thatched cottages backed by the stately elms.
[63]
“I suppose in years to come,” he thought, “I shall be walking through these gates to the church on Sundays, followed by the lady of my choice and half-a-dozen children; and the villagers will nudge one another and say ‘Here comes Squire32 and all his little squirrels.’ ... Good Lord!”
The exclamation33 was due to the sudden feeling that he had walked into a trap, that he had been caught by immemorial society, and would soon be forced to conform to its ways; and, as the car passed in at the gates of the manor, he had, for a moment, a desire to jump out and run for his life.
A short, straight drive, flanked by clipped box-trees, led to the main door of the timbered Tudor house; and here the new owner, dusty, and somewhat untidily dressed, was received by the gardener and his buxom34 wife, who had both grown grey in his uncle’s service. The man held his cap in his hand, and touched his wrinkled forehead with his finger a number of times, painfully anxious to find favour; while his wife curtseyed to him at least thrice.
“Are you the gardener?—what is your name?” Jim asked briskly, feeling almost as awkward as the man he addressed, but determined36 to go through the ordeal37 with honour.
“Peter, sir,” said the gardener. “Peter Longarm, sir. I rec’lect you, sir, when you was no more’n so ’igh, I do.”
“Why, of course,” Jim replied. “I remember you now. You’re the fellow who told my uncle when I broke the glass of the forcing frame.”
[64]
The old man looked sheepish. “I ’ad to do my dooty, sir,” he said. “I ask your pardon.”
“Duty,” Jim thought to himself. “I’m beginning to know that word. I wonder what it really means.” He turned to the woman. “Now, please go and open the doors of all the rooms, and then leave me to walk through the house by myself.” He wanted to be alone to realize his new possession and to dream his dream of future ease. Mrs. Longarm eyed him nervously38 for a moment before obeying his instructions; she told her husband afterwards, with tears in her eyes, that she felt as though she were surrendering the house to a cut-throat foreigner.
As he wandered, presently, from room to room he was at first overpowered by the feeling that he was intruding39 upon the privacy of some sort of family life which he did not understand. His uncle’s wife had been dead for three or four years, but there were still many traces of her influence: the drawing-room, for example, was furnished in a style which called to his mind faded pictures of feminine tea-parties. Here was the old piano upon which the good lady must have tinkled40 the songs of which the music still lay in the cabinet near by—songs such as My Mother Bids Me Bind41 My Hair, and Ah, Welladay my Poor Heart. And here was the little sewing-table where had doubtless rested the silks and needles for her embroidery42. Perhaps it was she who had chosen the gilt-framed engravings upon the walls—the depressed43 picture of “Hagar and Ishmael in the Wilderness;” a youthful portrait of Alexandra, Princess of Wales; “Jacob weeping[65] over Joseph’s coat;” the sprightly44 “Hawking Party,” and so forth.
Looking around, he experienced a sensation of mingled45 mirth and awe46, and he hoped that the ghost of his aunt would not haunt him when he laid sacrilegious and violent hands upon these things, as at first he intended to do. The chintzes appeared to be of more recent date; but these, too, would have to go, for, as a pattern, he detested sprays of red roses tied with blue ribbons.
The dining-room, hall and staircase, being panelled and hung with family portraits, were impressive in their conveyance47 of a sense of many generations; and the hereditary48 library, if sombre, was interesting. Jim was very fond of old books, and he stood there for some time taking the calf-bound volumes from the shelves, and turning over the ancient pages. But, the morning-room, with its red-covered chairs, its mahogany sideboard, and its sham49 Chinese vases, was distressing50. Yet here, as in the drawing-room, there was a chaste51 and awful solemnity, from which he shrank, as a conscientious52 Don Juan might shrink at a lady’s prie-Dieu.
The larger bedrooms upstairs, with their mahogany wardrobes and heavy chests of drawers full of clothes, and cupboards full of boots and hats, were startling in their association with their late tenants. On a table beside his uncle’s bed there lay a recent novel, which Jim himself had also just read: it constituted a gruesome link between the living and the dead. He glanced about him and through the window, down the drive, almost expecting to see the apparitions53 of his relatives stalking up from the[66] family vault54 in the churchyard to see what he was about. His uncle would probably think him a dreadful scallawag, for the old gentleman had been an accredited55 pillar of Church and State, with, so the cupboards testified, a mania56 for collecting the top hats he had worn on Sundays or when in town. He had been a model of propriety57, and the monumental stone, the photograph of which he had seen at the solicitors, stated that he had “nobly upheld the traditions of his race.”
Jim felt depressed, and presently went out into the garden which was ablaze58 with flowers; and here, after a late meal of sandwiches, eaten upon an ornamental59 stone bench, his spirits revived, for the manor and its setting formed a very beautiful picture. If only he could get rid of all those hats and clothes and old photographs!
A sudden idea occurred to him: he would go and find the padre, and tell him to take these things for the poor of the parish. They must be got rid of at once, even though every man in the village be obliged to wear a top hat. They must all be gone before he came here again, or he would never bring himself to live in the house at all! He hurried down the drive, asked Peter Longarm at the lodge60 to point out the vicarage to him, and thereafter hastened on his errand.
Near the church, however, and at a point where a gap in the trees revealed a distant view of the dreaming, huddled61 spires62 of Oxford, flanked by the lonely tower of Magdalen College, he met with a white-bearded clergyman whom he presumed to be the vicar, and at once accosted63 him.
[67]
“Excuse me,” he said, ingratiatingly, barring his way. “Would you care to have some old hats?—I mean of course, would your flock like to wear them?—Top hats, you know, and old boots, too, if you want them.”
The elderly gentleman was annoyed, and, with a curt35 “No thank you, not to-day,” proceeded on his way. Jim, however, called after him, coaxingly64: “They are quite good hats really; they only want brushing.”
At this the man of God stopped and turned, looking at Jim’s somewhat dusty figure with wonderment. “Do I understand that you are selling old hats?” he asked, endeavouring to speak politely.
Jim rushed feverishly65 into explanation. “No, I want to get rid of them,” he gabbled; “I want to get rid of all sorts of things—hats, coats, trousers, dressing-gowns, shirts, vests, boots, slippers66, old photographs, umbrellas ...” He paused for breath, inwardly laughing.
Very slowly and deliberately67 the clergyman adjusted his eyeglasses low down upon his nose, and stared at Jim. “Young man,” he said, “is this a jest at my expense?”
“Good Lord, no!” Jim answered. “I’m in deadly earnest. I can’t possibly live in the house with all these things. You will help me, won’t you? How would it be if you came over to-morrow and cleared them all out, and then had a meeting or something, and gave them as prizes to the regular church-goers?”
“I don’t know what you are talking about,” the[68] clergyman responded, gently but firmly pushing him aside. “Good-day!”
Jim stared at him as he walked. “You are the vicar, aren’t you?” he asked.
“No, I’m not,” the other replied somewhat sharply, over his shoulder; “I’m the President of Magdalen.”
Jim uttered an exclamation of impatience68, and hastened on to the Vicarage.
The servant who appeared in response to his knock, was about to ask him his name, when the vicar, an old man with a clean-shaven, kindly69 face, and grey hair, happened to cross the hall.
“Are you the vicar?” Jim asked, beginning more cautiously.
“I am,” the other responded.
“You really are? Well I want to ask you about some old clothes. I....”
The vicar held up his hand. “No, I have none to sell you,” he said smiling sadly. “I wear mine out.”
Jim laughed aloud. “First I’m thought to be selling them, and now you think I’m buying them,” he exclaimed. “We certainly are a nation of shop-keepers.”
The vicar was puzzled. “I don’t understand. What is it you want?”
“I have a lot of hats and old clothes I want to get rid of. I thought you might like them.”
The clergyman bowed stiffly. “It is very kind of you,” he said frigidly71. “My stipend72, I admit, is[69] small, but I am not yet reduced to the necessity of wearing a stranger’s cast-off clothing.”
“Oh, I didn’t mean that,” Jim hastily explained. “And they’re not mine: they belonged to my late relatives. I am just coming to live at the manor, and I thought the poor of the parish would....”
The vicar interrupted him. “I beg your pardon. Are you ...?” He hesitated, incredulous.
“Yes, I’m the new Tundering-West,” Jim told him.
The other held out his hands. “Well, well!” he cried. “And I thought you were....” He hesitated.
“The old clothes man,” laughed Jim.
“Oh, very droll73!” the vicar smiled, shaking him warmly by the hand. “How ridiculous of me! Do come in, my dear sir!”
Jim followed him into the drawing-room, and here he found a little old lady, who was introduced to him as Miss Proudfoote, and a florid, middle-aged74 man with a waxed moustache, who looked like a sergeant-major, and proved to be Dr. Spooner, the local medical man. They had evidently been lunching at the Vicarage, and were now drinking the post-prandial concoction75 which the English believe to be coffee. They both greeted him with a sort of deference76, which however, did not conceal77 their curiosity.
During the next ten minutes Jim heard a great deal of his “poor dear uncle” and his unfortunate cousins. The tragedy of their deaths, it seemed, had cast the profoundest gloom over the village; but it was a case of “the King is dead; long live[70] the King!” and all three of his new acquaintances appeared to be anxious to pay him every respect.
Dr. Spooner asked him from what part of England he had just come, and the news that he had been living abroad and had not visited the land of his birth for many years caused a sensation. The thought occurred to him that he ought not to mention Egypt, or any other land which had recently known him as Jim Easton; for any such revelations might bring discredit78 upon him, and he wished to start his life at Eversfield without any handicap. He therefore spoke only of California, referring to it casually79 as a country where he had resided.
Miss Proudfoote turned to the vicar. “Is it not extraordinary,” she said, “how many of our young men shoulder what Mr. Kipling calls ‘the white man’s burden’ and go forth to live amongst the heathen?” Her geography was evidently at fault, but out of consideration for her years and her sex, no correction was forthcoming. “I suppose,” she proceeded, “you met with our missionaries80 out there? It is wonderful what a great work the Church Missionary81 Society is doing all over the world.”
The Doctor here had the hardihood to interpose. “Oh, but California is a part of the United States of America ...” he ventured.
“How foolish of me!—of course,” smiled the old lady. “The Americans are quite an educated people. I met an American traveller once in Oxford: a pleasant spoken young man he seemed, so far as I could understand what he said.”
“Yes,” remarked the vicar, “America can no[71] longer be called ‘the common sewer82 of England,’ as it was when I was a boy.”
Jim stared from one to the other in amazement83. “But America is the largest and most progressive part of the Anglo-Saxon race,” he protested. “They are already ahead of us in many ways.”
Miss Proudfoote was shocked, and she showed it. “It is evident that you do not know England,” she replied, coldly.
“I mean,” he emphasized, “it always seems to me a fine thought that England can never die, because she will live again over there; and then she’ll have another lease of life in Australia; and so on. This England here may die, but the English will go on for ever and ever, it seems to me. And wherever their home may be,” he added, laughing, “they’ll always think it ‘God’s own country,’ and think themselves the chosen people.”
Miss Proudfoote looked anxiously at him, hoping that there was some good in him. “I trust,” she said, “that it is now your intention to settle down?”
“Yes,” he replied. “I fancy my wanderings are over.”
“Heaven has placed you in a very responsible position,” she said, gazing earnestly at him. “I am sure our best wishes will be with you in your duties.”
“Yes, indeed,” sighed the vicar, whose name, as Jim had just ascertained84, was Glenning. “Are you a married man, may I ask?”
“Oh no,” Jim replied.
Miss Proudfoote patted his arm. “We shall have to find you a wife,” she smiled.
[72]
Jim was aghast, and hastily changed the subject. “Now about the old clothes,” he began.
Mr. Glenning coloured, slightly. “What an absurd error for me to have made,” he said. “Now, tell me, what is it you wish me to do?”
“I’m going back to London to-day,” Jim explained, “and I want you, while I am away, to go through all my uncle’s things, and give away to the poor everything you think I shall not want. Just use your own judgment85.”
“It will be a melancholy86 duty,” he replied.
“I’m sure it will,” the new Squire answered, “but, I tell you frankly87, anything useless I find here when I return I shall burn.”
The vicar raised his hands; the doctor sniffed88; and Miss Proudfoote looked at the stranger indignantly.
“That is rather hasty, is it not?” she asked, tremulously.
Jim felt awkward. He had made a bad impression, and he knew it. “You see,” he tried to explain, “my uncle died so suddenly and the place is littered with his things. All I want to keep is the furniture, and the silver, and the books, and that sort of thing, but I will see to that myself.”
Miss Proudfoote turned away suddenly and Jim, to his horror, saw her raise a handkerchief to her eyes. He could have kicked himself. He wished the floor would open and engulf89 him. He looked in despair at the two men.
“He was our very dear friend,” said Mr. Glenning.
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1
unearth
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| v.发掘，掘出，从洞中赶出 | |
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reprehensible
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| adj.该受责备的 | |
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omission
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| n.省略，删节；遗漏或省略的事物，冗长 | |
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conjured
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| 用魔术变出( conjure的过去式和过去分词 )； 祈求，恳求； 变戏法； （变魔术般地） 使…出现 | |
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forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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solicitors
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| 初级律师( solicitor的名词复数 ) | |
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solicitor
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| n.初级律师，事务律师 | |
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obsequiousness
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| 媚骨 | |
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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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imposing
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| adj.使人难忘的，壮丽的，堂皇的，雄伟的 | |
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detested
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| v.憎恶，嫌恶，痛恨( detest的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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sycophantic
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manor
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tenants
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| n.房客( tenant的名词复数 )；佃户；占用者；占有者 | |
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deferential
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| adj. 敬意的，恭敬的 | |
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beetle
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| n.甲虫，近视眼的人 | |
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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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pneumonia
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equanimity
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hostility
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thoroughly
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renovated
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| 翻新，修复，整修( renovate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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undesirable
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collapse
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Oxford
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soothed
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foliage
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hazy
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chauffeur
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deferentially
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stump
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squire
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exclamation
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buxom
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curt
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determined
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ordeal
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nervously
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intruding
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tinkled
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| （使）发出丁当声，（使）发铃铃声( tinkle的过去式和过去分词 )； 叮当响着发出，铃铃响着报出 | |
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bind
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| vt.捆，包扎；装订；约束；使凝固；vi.变硬 | |
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embroidery
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depressed
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| adj.沮丧的，抑郁的，不景气的，萧条的 | |
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sprightly
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| adj.愉快的，活泼的 | |
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mingled
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| 混合，混入( mingle的过去式和过去分词 )； 混进，与…交往[联系] | |
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awe
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| n.敬畏，惊惧；vt.使敬畏，使惊惧 | |
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conveyance
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| n.(不动产等的)转让，让与；转让证书；传送；运送；表达；（正）运输工具 | |
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hereditary
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| adj.遗传的，遗传性的，可继承的，世袭的 | |
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sham
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| n./adj.假冒(的)，虚伪(的) | |
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distressing
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| a.使人痛苦的 | |
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chaste
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| adj.贞洁的；有道德的；善良的；简朴的 | |
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conscientious
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| adj.审慎正直的，认真的，本着良心的 | |
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apparitions
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| n.特异景象( apparition的名词复数 )；幽灵；鬼；（特异景象等的）出现 | |
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vault
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| n.拱形圆顶，地窖，地下室 | |
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accredited
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| adj.可接受的；可信任的；公认的；质量合格的v.相信( accredit的过去式和过去分词 )；委托；委任；把…归结于 | |
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mania
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| n.疯狂；躁狂症，狂热，癖好 | |
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propriety
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| n.正当行为；正当；适当 | |
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ablaze
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| adj.着火的，燃烧的；闪耀的，灯火辉煌的 | |
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ornamental
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| adj.装饰的；作装饰用的；n.装饰品；观赏植物 | |
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lodge
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| v.临时住宿，寄宿，寄存，容纳；n.传达室，小旅馆 | |
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huddled
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| 挤在一起（huddle的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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spires
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| n.（教堂的） 塔尖，尖顶( spire的名词复数 ) | |
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accosted
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| v.走过去跟…讲话( accost的过去式和过去分词 )；跟…搭讪；（乞丐等）上前向…乞讨；（妓女等）勾搭 | |
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coaxingly
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| adv. 以巧言诱哄，以甘言哄骗 | |
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feverishly
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| adv. 兴奋地 | |
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slippers
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| n. 拖鞋 | |
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deliberately
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| adv.审慎地；蓄意地；故意地 | |
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impatience
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| n.不耐烦，急躁 | |
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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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retired
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| adj.隐退的，退休的，退役的 | |
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frigidly
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| adv.寒冷地；冷漠地；冷淡地；呆板地 | |
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stipend
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| n.薪贴；奖学金；养老金 | |
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droll
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| adj.古怪的，好笑的 | |
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middle-aged
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| adj.中年的 | |
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concoction
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| n.调配(物)；谎言 | |
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deference
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| n.尊重，顺从；敬意 | |
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conceal
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| v.隐藏，隐瞒，隐蔽 | |
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discredit
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| vt.使不可置信；n.丧失信义；不信，怀疑 | |
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casually
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| adv.漠不关心地，无动于衷地，不负责任地 | |
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missionaries
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| n.传教士( missionary的名词复数 ) | |
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missionary
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| adj.教会的，传教(士)的；n.传教士 | |
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sewer
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| n.排水沟，下水道 | |
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amazement
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| n.惊奇，惊讶 | |
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ascertained
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| v.弄清，确定，查明( ascertain的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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judgment
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| n.审判；判断力，识别力，看法，意见 | |
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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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frankly
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| adv.坦白地，直率地；坦率地说 | |
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88
sniffed
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| v.以鼻吸气，嗅，闻( sniff的过去式和过去分词 )；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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engulf
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| vt.吞没，吞食 | |
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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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