But the houses in St. Barnabas Square have each, built over what in other neighbourhoods is called "leads,"--a ghastly space where the cats creep stealthily about in the daytime, and whence at night they yowl with preternatural pertinacity,--a fine large room, devoted8 in most instances to the purposes of billiards9, but at Lord Beauport's given up entirely10 to Lord Caterham. It had been selected originally from its situation on the ground-floor giving the poor crippled lad easy means of exit and entrance, and preventing any necessity for his being carried--for walking was utterly11 impossible to him--up and down stairs. It was _his_ room; and there, and there alone, he was absolute master; there he was allowed to carry out what his mother spoke12 of as his "fads," what his father called "poor Caterham's odd ways." His brother, Lionel Brakespere, had been in the habit of dropping in there twice or three times a-week, smoking his cigar, turning over the "rum things" on the table, asking advice which he never took, and lounging round the room, reading the backs of the books which he did not understand, and criticising the pictures which he knew nothing about. It would have been impossible to tell to what manner of man the room belonged from a cursory13 survey of its contents. Three-fourths of the walls were covered with large bookcases filled with a heterogeneous14 assemblage of books. Here a row of poets, a big quarto Shakespeare in six volumes, followed by _Youatt on the Horse, Philip Van Artevelde_, and Stanhope's _Christian Martyr_. In the next shelf Voltaire, all the Tennysons, _Mr. Sponge's Sporting-Tour_, a work on Farriery, and _Blunt on the Pentateuch_. So the _mélange_ ran throughout the bookshelves; and on the fourth wall, where hung the pictures, it was not much better. For in the centre were Landseer's "Midsummer-Night's Dream," where that lovely Titania, unfairy-like if you please, but one of the most glorious specimens16 of pictured womanhood, pillows her fair face under the shadow of that magnificent ass's head; and Frith's "Coming of Age," and Delaroche's "Execution of Lady Jane Grey," and three or four splendid proof-engravings of untouchable Sir Joshua; and among them, dotted here and there, hunting-sketches by Alken, and coaching bits from Fores. Scattered17 about on tables were pieces of lava18 from Vesuvius, photographs from Pompeii, a collection of weeds and grasses from the Arctic regions (all duly labelled in the most precise handwriting), a horse's shoe specially19 adapted for ice-travelling, specimens of egg-shell china, a box of gleaming carpenter's tools, boxes of Tunbridge ware20, furs of Indian manufacture, caricature statuettes by Danton, a case of shells, and another of geological specimens. Here stood an easel bearing a half-finished picture, in one corner was a sheaf of walking-sticks, against the wall a rack of whips. Before the fire was a carved-oak writing-desk, and on it, beside the ordinary blotting21 and writing materials, wee an aneroid barometer22, a small skeleton clock, and a silver handbell. And at it sat Viscount Caterham, his head drooping23, his face pale, his hands idly clasped before him.
Not an unusual position this with him, not unusual by any means when he was alone. In such society as he forced himself to keep--for with him it was more than effort to determine occasionally to shake off his love of solitude24, to be present amongst his father's guests, and to receive some few special favourites in his own rooms--he was more than pleasant, he was brilliant and amusing. Big, heavy, good-natured guardsmen, who had contributed nothing to the "go" of the evening, and had nearly tugged25 off their tawny26 beards in the vain endeavour to extract something to say, would go away, and growl27 in deep bas voices over their cigars about "that strordinary fler Caterham. Knows a lot, you know, that f'ler, 'bout4 all sorts things. Can't 'ceive where picks it all up; and as jolly as old boots, by Jove!"
Old friends of Lord Beauport's, now gradually dropping into fogiedom, and clutching year by 672 year more tightly the conventional prejudices instilled28 into them in early life, listened with elevated eyebrows29 and dropping jaws30 to Lord Caterham's outspoken31 opinions, now clothed in brilliant tropes, now crackling with smart antithesis32, but always fresh, earnest, liberal, and vigorous; and when they talked him over in club-windows, these old boys would say that "there was something in that deformed33 fellow of Beauport's, but that he was all wrong; his mind as warped34 as his body, by George!" And women,--ah, that was the worst of all,--women would sit and listen to him on such rare occasions as he spoke before them, sit many of them steadfast-eyed and ear-attentive, and would give him smiles and encouraging glances, and then would float away and talk to their next dancing-partner of the strange little man who had such odd ideas, and spoke so--so unlike most people, you know.
He knew it all, this fragile, colourless, delicate cripple, bound for life to his wheelchair, dependent for mere35 motion on the assistance of others; a something apart and almost without parallel, helpless as a little child, and yet with the brain, the heart, the passions of a man. No keener observer of outward show, no clearer reader of character than he. From out his deep-set melancholy36 eyes he saw the stare of astonishment37, sometimes the look of disgust, which usually marked a first introduction to him; his quick ear caught the would-be compassionate38 inflection of the voice addressing him on the simplest matters; he knew what the old fogies were thinking of as they shifted uneasily in their chairs as he spoke; and he interpreted clearly enough the straying glances and occasional interjections of the women. He knew it all, and bore it--bore it as the cross is rarely borne.
Only three times in his life had there gone up from his lips a wail40 to the Father of mercies, a passionate39 outpouring of his heart, a wild inquiry41 as to why such affliction had been cast upon him. But three times, and the first of these was when he was a lad of eighteen. Lord Beauport had been educated at Charterhouse, where, as every one knows, Founder's Day is kept with annual rejoicings. To one of these celebrations Lord Beauport had gone, taking Lord Caterham with him. The speeches and recitations were over, and the crowd of spectators were filing out into the quadrangle, when Lord Caterham, whose chair was being wheeled by a servant close by his father's side, heard a cheery voice say, "What, Brakespere! Gad42, Lord Beauport, I mean! I forgot. Well, how are you, my dear fellow? I haven't seen you since we sat on the same form in that old place." Lord Caterham looked up and saw his father shaking hands with a jolly-looking middle-aged43 man, who rattled44 on--"Well, and you've been in luck and are a great gun! I'm delighted to hear it. You're just the fellow to bear your honours bravely. O yes, I'm wonderfully well, thank God. And I've got my boy here at the old shop, doing just as we used to do, Brakespere--Beauport, I mean. I'll introduce you. Here, Charley!" calling to him a fine handsome lad; "this is Lord Beauport, an old schoolfellow of mine. And you, Beauport,--you've got children, eh?"
"O yes," said Lord Beauport--"two boys."
"Ah! that's right. I wish they'd been here; I should have liked to have seen them." The man rattled on, but Lord Caterham heard no more. He had heard enough. He knew that his father was ashamed to acknowledge his maimed and crippled child--ashamed of a comparison between the stalwart son of his old schoolfellow and his own blighted45 lad; and that night Lord Caterham's pillow was wet with tears, and he prayed to God that his life might be taken from him.
Twice since then the same feelings had been violently excited; but the sense of his position, the knowledge that he was a perpetual grief and affliction to his parents, was ever present, and pervaded46 his very being. To tell truth, neither his father nor his mother ever outwardly manifested their disappointment or their sorrow at the hopeless physical state of their firstborn son; but Lord Caterham read his father's trouble in thousands of covert47 glances thrown towards the occupant of the wheeled chair, which the elder man thought were all unmarked, in short self-suppressed sighs, in sudden shiftings of the conversation when any subject involving a question of physical activity or muscular force happened to be touched upon, in the persistent48 way in which his father excluded him from those regular solemn festivities of the season, held at certain special times, and at which he by right should certainly have been present.
No man knew better than Lord Beauport the horrible injustice49 he was committing; he felt that he was mutely rebelling against the decrees of Providence50, and adding to the affliction already mysteriously dispensed51 to his unfortunate son by his treatment. He fought against it, but without avail; he could not bow his head and kiss the rod by which he had been smitten52. Had his heir been brainless, dissipated, even bad, he could have forgiven him. He did in his heart forgive his second son when he became all three; but that he, George Brakespere, handsome Brakespere, one of the best athletes of the day, should have to own that poor misshapen man as his son and heir!--it was too much. He tried to persuade himself that he loved his son; but he never looked at him without a shudder53, never spoke of him with unflushed cheeks.
As for Lady Beauport, from the time that the child's malady54 first was proclaimed incurable55, she never took the smallest interest in him, but devoted herself, as much as devotion was compatible with perpetual attendance at ball, concert, and theatre, to her second son. As a child, Lord Caterham had, by her express commands, been studiously kept out of her sight; and now that he was a man, she saw very much less of him than of many strangers. A dozen times in the year she would enter his room and remain a few minutes, asking for his taste in a matter of fancy-costume, or something of the kind; and then she would brush his forehead with her lips, and rustle56 away perfectly57 satisfied with her manner of discharging the duties of maternity58.
And Lord Caterham knew all this; read it as in a book; and suffered, and was strong. Who know most of life, discern character most readily, and read it most deeply? We who what we call "mix in the world," hurry hither and thither59, buffeting60 our way through friends and foes61, taking the rough and the smooth, smiling here, frowning there, but ever pushing onward62? Or the quiet ones, who lie by in the nooks and lanes, and look on at the strife63, and mark the quality and effect of the blows struck; who see not merely how, but why the battle has been undertaken; who can trace the strong and weak points of the attack and defence, see the skirmishers thrown out here, the feigned64 retreat there, the mine ready prepared in the far distance? How many years had that crippled man looked on at life, standing65 as it were at the gates and peering in at the antics and dalliances, the bowings and scrapings, the mad moppings and idiotic66 mowings of the puppets performing? And had he not arrived during this period at a perfect knowledge of how the wires were pulled, and what was the result?
Among them but not of them, in the midst of the whirl of London but as isolated67 as a hermit68, with keen analytical69 powers, and leisure and opportunity to give them full swing, Lord Caterham passed his life in studying the lives of other people, in taking off the padding and the drapery, the paint and the tinsel, in looking behind the grins, and studying the motives70 for the sneers71. Ah, what a life for a man to pass! situated72 as Lord Caterham was, he must under such circumstances have become either a Quilp or an angel. The natural tendency is to the former: but Providence had been kind in one instance to Lord Caterham, and he, like Mr. Disraeli, went in for the angel.
His flow of spirits was generally, to say the least of it, equable. When the dark hour was on him he suffered dreadfully; but this morning he was more than usually low, for he had been pondering over his brother's insane downfall, and it was with something like real pleasure that he heard his servant announce "Mr. Barford," and gave orders for that gentleman's admittance.
The Honourable73 Algernon Barford by prescriptive right, but "Algy Barford" to any one after two days' acquaintance with him, was one of those men whom it is impossible not to call by their Christian15 names; whom it is impossible not to like as an acquaintance; whom it is difficult to take into intimate friendship; but with whom no one ever quarrelled. A big, broad-chested, broad-faced, light-whiskered man, perfectly dressed, with an easy rolling walk, a pleasant presence, a way of enarming and "old boy-ing" you, without the least appearance of undue74 familiarity; on the contrary, with a sense of real delight in your society; with a voice which, without being in the least affected75, or in the remotest degree resembling the tone of the stage-nobleman, had the real swell76 ring and roll in it; a kindly77, sunny, chirpy, world-citizen, who, with what was supposed to be a very small income, lived in the best society, never borrowed or owed a sovereign, and was nearly always in good temper. Algy Barford was the very man to visit you when you were out of spirits. A glance at him was cheering; it revived one at once to look at his shiny bald forehead fringed with thin golden hair, at his saucy78 blue eyes, his big grinning mouth furnished with sparkling teeth; and when he spoke, his voice came ringing out with a cheery music of its own.
"Hallo, Caterham!" said he, coming up to the chair and placing one of his big hands on the occupant's small shoulder; "how goes it, my boy? Wanted to see you, and have a chat. How are you, old fellow, eh? Where does one put one's hat, by the way, dear old boy? Can't put it under my seat, you know, or I should think I was in church; and there's no place in this den1 of yours; and--ah, that'll do, on that lady's head. Who is it? O, Pallas Athené; ah, very well then, _non invita Minerva_, she'll support my castor for me. Fancy my recollecting79 Latin, eh? but I think I must have seen it on somebody's crest81. Well, and now, old boy, how are you?"
"Well, not very brilliant this morning, Algy. I--"
"Ah, like me, got rats, haven't you?"
"Rats?"
"Yes; whenever I'm out of spirits I think I've got rats--sometimes boiled rats. Oh, it's all very well for you to laugh, Caterham; but you know, though I'm generally pretty jolly, sometimes I have a regular file-gnawing time of it. I think I'll take a peg82, dear old boy--a sherry peg--just to keep me up."
"To be sure. Just ring for Stevens, will you? he'll--"
"Not at all; I recollect80 where the sherry is and where the glasses live. _Nourri dans le sérail, j'en connais les detours_. Here they are. Have a peg, Caterham?"
"No, thanks, Algy; the doctor forbids me that sort of thing. I take no exercise to carry it off, you know; but I thought some one told me you had turned teetotaller."
"Gad, how extraordinarily83 things get wind, don't you know! So I did, honour!--kept to it all strictly84, give you my word, for--ay, for a fortnight; but then I thought I might as well die a natural death, so I took to it again. This is the second peg I've had to-day--took number one at the Foreign Office, with my cousin Jack85 Lambert. You know Jack?--little fellow, short and dirty, like a winter's day."
"I know him," said Caterham, smiling; "a sharp fellow."
"O yes, deuced cute little dog--knows every thing. I wanted him to recommend me a new servant--obliged to send my man away--couldn't stand him any longer--always worrying me."
"I thought he was a capital servant?"
"Ye-es; knew too much though, and went to too many evening-parties--never would give me a chance of wearing my own black bags and dress-boots--kept 'em in constant requisition, by Jove! A greedy fellow too. I used to let him get just outside the door with the breakfast-things, and then suddenly call him back; and he never showed up without his mouth full of kidney, or whatever it was. And he always would read my letters--before I'd done with them, I mean. I'm shortsighted, you know, and obliged to get close to the light: he was in such a hurry to find out what they were about, that he used to peep in through the window, and read them over my shoulder. I found this out; and this morning I was ready for him with my fist neatly86 doubled-up in a thick towel. I saw his shadow come stealing across the paper, and then I turned round and let out at him slap through the glass. It was a gentle hint that I had spotted87 his game; and so he came in when he had got his face right, and begged me to suit myself in a month, as he had heard of a place which he thought he should like better. Now, can you tell me of any handy fellow, Caterham?"
"Not I; I'm all unlikely to know of such people. Stay, there was a man that--"
"Yes; and then you stop. Gad, you are like the rest of the world, old fellow: you have an _arrière pensée_ which prevents your telling a fellow a good thing."
"No, not that, Algy. I was going to say that there was a man who was Lionel's servant. I don't know whether he has got another place; but Lionel, you know--" and Lord Caterham stopped with a knot in his throat and burning cheeks.
"I know, dear old boy," said Algy Barford, rising from his seat and again placing his hand on Caterham's shoulder; "of course I know. You're too much a man of the world"--(Heaven help us! Caterham a man of the world! But this was Algy Barford's pleasant way of putting it)--"not to know that the clubs rang with the whole story last night. Don't shrink, old boy. It's a bad business; but I never heard such tremendous sympathy expressed for a--for a buffer--as for Lionel. Every body says he must have been no end cornered before he--before he--well, there's no use talking of it. But what I wanted to say to you is this,--and I'm deuced glad you mentioned Lionel's name, old fellow, for I've been thinking all the time I've been here how I could bring it in. Look here! he and I were no end chums, you know; I was much older than he; but we took to each other like any thing, and--and I got a letter from him from Liverpool with--with an enclosure for you, old boy."
Algy Barford unbuttoned his coat as he said these last words, took a long breath, and seemed immensely relieved, though he still looked anxiously towards his friend.
"An enclosure for me?" said Lord Caterham, turning deadly white; "no further trouble--no further misery88 for--"
"On my honour, Caterham, I don't know what it is," said Algy Barford; "he doesn't hint it in his letter to me. He simply says, 'Let the enclosed be given to Caterham, and given by your own hand.' He underlines that last sentence; and so I brought it on. I'm a bungling89 jackass, or I should have found means to explain it myself, by Jove! But as you have helped me, so much the better."
"Have you it with you?"
"O yes; brought it on purpose," said Algy, rising and taking his coat from a chair, and his hat from the head of Pallas Athené; "here it is. I don't suppose anything from poor Lionel can be very brilliant just now; but still, I know nothing. Goodby, Caterham, old fellow; can't help me to a servant-man, eh? See you next week; meantime,--and this earnest, old boy,--if there's anything I can do to help Lionel in any shape, you'll let me know, won't you, old fellow?"
And Algy Barford handed Lord Caterham the letter, kissed his hand, and departed in his usual airy, cheery fashion.
That night Lord Caterham did not appear at the dinner-table; and his servant, on being asked, said that his master "had been more than usual queer-like," and had gone to bed very early.
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1
den
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| n.兽穴；秘密地方；安静的小房间，私室 | |
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mendacious
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| adj.不真的，撒谎的 | |
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snug
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| adj.温暖舒适的，合身的，安全的；v.使整洁干净，舒适地依靠，紧贴；n.（英）酒吧里的私房 | |
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bout
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| n.侵袭，发作；一次(阵，回)；拳击等比赛 | |
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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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relegated
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| v.使降级( relegate的过去式和过去分词 )；使降职；转移；把…归类 | |
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bust
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| vt.打破；vi.爆裂；n.半身像；胸部 | |
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devoted
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| adj.忠诚的，忠实的，热心的，献身于...的 | |
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billiards
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| n.台球 | |
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entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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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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cursory
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| adj.粗略的；草率的；匆促的 | |
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heterogeneous
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| adj.庞杂的；异类的 | |
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Christian
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| adj.基督教徒的；n.基督教徒 | |
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specimens
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| n.样品( specimen的名词复数 )；范例；（化验的）抽样；某种类型的人 | |
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scattered
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| adj.分散的，稀疏的；散步的；疏疏落落的 | |
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lava
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| n.熔岩，火山岩 | |
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specially
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| adv.特定地；特殊地；明确地 | |
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ware
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| n.(常用复数)商品，货物 | |
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blotting
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| 吸墨水纸 | |
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barometer
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| n.气压表，睛雨表，反应指标 | |
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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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solitude
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| n. 孤独; 独居,荒僻之地,幽静的地方 | |
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tugged
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| v.用力拉，使劲拉，猛扯( tug的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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tawny
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| adj.茶色的，黄褐色的；n.黄褐色 | |
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growl
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| v.（狗等）嗥叫，（炮等）轰鸣；n.嗥叫，轰鸣 | |
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instilled
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| v.逐渐使某人获得（某种可取的品质），逐步灌输( instill的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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eyebrows
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| 眉毛( eyebrow的名词复数 ) | |
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jaws
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| n.口部；嘴 | |
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outspoken
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| adj.直言无讳的，坦率的，坦白无隐的 | |
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antithesis
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| n.对立；相对 | |
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deformed
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| adj.畸形的；变形的；丑的，破相了的 | |
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warped
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| adj.反常的；乖戾的；（变）弯曲的；变形的v.弄弯，变歪( warp的过去式和过去分词 )；使（行为等）不合情理，使乖戾， | |
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mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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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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astonishment
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| n.惊奇，惊异 | |
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compassionate
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| adj.有同情心的，表示同情的 | |
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passionate
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| adj.热情的，热烈的，激昂的，易动情的，易怒的，性情暴躁的 | |
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wail
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| vt./vi.大声哀号，恸哭；呼啸，尖啸 | |
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inquiry
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| n.打听，询问，调查，查问 | |
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gad
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| n.闲逛；v.闲逛 | |
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middle-aged
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| adj.中年的 | |
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rattled
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| 慌乱的，恼火的 | |
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blighted
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| adj.枯萎的，摧毁的 | |
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46
pervaded
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| v.遍及，弥漫( pervade的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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47
covert
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| adj.隐藏的；暗地里的 | |
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persistent
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| adj.坚持不懈的，执意的；持续的 | |
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injustice
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| n.非正义，不公正，不公平，侵犯（别人的）权利 | |
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providence
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| n.深谋远虑，天道，天意；远见；节约；上帝 | |
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dispensed
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| v.分配( dispense的过去式和过去分词 )；施与；配（药） | |
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smitten
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| 猛打，重击，打击( smite的过去分词 ) | |
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53
shudder
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| v.战粟，震动，剧烈地摇晃；n.战粟，抖动 | |
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malady
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| n.病，疾病(通常做比喻) | |
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incurable
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| adj.不能医治的，不能矫正的，无救的；n.不治的病人，无救的人 | |
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rustle
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| v.沙沙作响；偷盗(牛、马等)；n.沙沙声声 | |
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perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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maternity
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| n.母性，母道，妇产科病房；adj.孕妇的，母性的 | |
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thither
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| adv.向那里；adj.在那边的，对岸的 | |
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buffeting
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| 振动 | |
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foes
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| 敌人，仇敌( foe的名词复数 ) | |
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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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strife
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| n.争吵，冲突，倾轧，竞争 | |
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feigned
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| a.假装的，不真诚的 | |
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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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idiotic
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| adj.白痴的 | |
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isolated
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| adj.与世隔绝的 | |
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hermit
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| n.隐士，修道者；隐居 | |
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analytical
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| adj.分析的；用分析法的 | |
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motives
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| n.动机，目的( motive的名词复数 ) | |
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sneers
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| 讥笑的表情（言语）( sneer的名词复数 ) | |
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situated
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| adj.坐落在...的，处于某种境地的 | |
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honourable
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| adj.可敬的；荣誉的，光荣的 | |
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undue
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| adj.过分的；不适当的；未到期的 | |
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affected
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| adj.不自然的，假装的 | |
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76
swell
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| vi.膨胀，肿胀；增长，增强 | |
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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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saucy
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| adj.无礼的；俊俏的；活泼的 | |
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recollecting
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| v.记起，想起( recollect的现在分词 ) | |
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recollect
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| v.回忆，想起，记起，忆起，记得 | |
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crest
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| n.顶点；饰章；羽冠；vt.达到顶点；vi.形成浪尖 | |
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peg
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| n.木栓，木钉；vt.用木钉钉，用短桩固定 | |
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extraordinarily
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| adv.格外地；极端地 | |
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strictly
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| adv.严厉地，严格地；严密地 | |
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85
jack
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| n.插座，千斤顶，男人；v.抬起，提醒，扛举；n.（Jake）杰克 | |
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neatly
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| adv.整洁地，干净地，灵巧地，熟练地 | |
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spotted
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| adj.有斑点的，斑纹的，弄污了的 | |
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misery
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| n.痛苦，苦恼，苦难；悲惨的境遇，贫苦 | |
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bungling
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| adj.笨拙的，粗劣的v.搞糟，完不成( bungle的现在分词 )；笨手笨脚地做；失败；完不成 | |
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