DANGERS AS WELL AS ITS REWARDS
Two days after the arrival of the Lesters Lady Gale1 arranged a picnic; a comprehensive, democratic picnic that was to include everybody. Her motives2 may be put down, if you will, to sociability3, even, and you involve a larger horizon, to philanthropy. “Everybody,” of course, was in reality only a few, but it included the Lesters, the Maradicks, and Mrs. Lawrence. It was to be a delightful4 picnic; they were to drive to the top of Pender Callon, where there was a wonderful view, then they were to have tea, and then drive back in the moonlight.
Dear Mrs. Maradick (the letter went)—
It would give me such pleasure if you and your husband could come with us for a little Picnic at Pender Callon to-morrow afternoon, weather permitting, of course. The wagonette will come round about two-thirty.
I do hope you will be able to come.
Yours sincerely,
Beatrice Gale.
Mrs. Maradick considered it a little haughtily5. She was sitting in the garden. Suddenly, as she turned the invitation over in her mind, she saw her husband coming towards her.
“Oh!” she said, as he came up to her, “I wanted to talk to you.”
He was looking as he always did—big, strong, red and brown. Oh! so healthy and stupid!
She did feel a new interest in him this morning, certainly. His avoiding her so consistently during the week was unlike him, was unusually strong. She even felt suddenly that she would like him to be rude and violent to her again, as he had been that other evening. Great creature! it was certainly his métier to be rude and violent. Perhaps he would be.
She held Lady Gale’s invitation towards him.
“A picnic.” she said coldly. “To-morrow; do you care to go?”
“Are you going?” he said, looking at her.
“I should think that scarcely matters,” she answered scornfully, “judging by the amount of interest you’ve taken in me and my doings during the last week.”
“I know,” he said, and he looked down at the ground, “I have been a brute6, a cad, all these days, treating you like that. I have come to apologise.”
Oh! the fool! She could have struck him with her hand! It was to be the same thing after all, then. The monotonous7 crawling back to her feet, the old routine of love and submission8, the momentary9 hope of strength and contradiction strangled as soon as born.
She laughed a little. “Oh, you needn’t apologise,” she said, “and, in any case, it’s a little late, isn’t it? Not that you need mind about me. I’ve had a very pleasant week, and so have the girls, even though their father hasn’t been near them.”
But he broke in upon her rapidly. “Oh! I’m ashamed of myself,” he said, “you don’t know how ashamed. I think the place had something to do with it, and then one was tired and nervy a bit, I suppose; not,” he hastily added, “that I want to make excuses, for there really aren’t any. I just leave it with you. I was a beast. I promise never to break out again.”
How could a man! she thought, looking at him, and then, how blind men were. Why couldn’t they see that it wasn’t the sugar and honey that women were continually wanting, or, at any rate, the right sort of woman!
She glanced at him angrily. “We’d better leave the thing there,” she said. “For heaven’s sake spare us any more scenes. You were rude—abominably—I’m glad you’ve had the grace at last to come and tell me so.”
She moved as though she would get up, but he put out his hand and stopped her.
“No, Emmy, please,” he said, “let’s talk for a moment. I’ve got things I want to say.” He cleared his throat, and stared down the white shining path. Mrs. Lawrence appeared coming towards them, then she saw them together and turned hurriedly back. “I’ve been thinking, all these days, about the muddle10 that we’ve made. My fault very largely, I know, but I have so awfully11 wanted to put it right again. And I thought if we talked——”
“What’s the use of talking?” she broke in hastily; “there’s nothing to say; it’s all as stale as anything could be. You’re so extraordinarily12 dull when you’re in the ‘picking up the pieces’ mood; not content with behaving like a second-rate bricklayer and then sulking for a week you add to it by a long recital13, ‘the virtues14 of an obedient wife’—a little tiresome15, don’t you think?”
Her nerves were all to pieces, she really wasn’t well, and the heat was terrible; the sight of him sitting there with that pathetic, ill-used look on his face, drove her nearly to madness. To think that she was tied for life to so feeble a creature.
“No, please,” he said, “I know that I’m tiresome and stupid. But really I’ve been seeing things differently these last few days. We might get along better. I’ll try; I know it’s been largely my fault, not seeing things and not trying——”
“Oh!” she broke in furiously, “for God’s sake stop it. Isn’t it bad enough and tiresome enough for me already without all this stuff! I’m sick of it, sick of it, I tell you. Sick of the whole thing. You spoke16 your mind the other night, I’ll speak mine now. You can take it or leave it.” She rose from her chair and stood looking out to sea, her hands clenched17 at her sides. “Oh! these years! these years! Always the same thing. You’ve never stuck up to anything, never fought anything, and it’s all been so tame. And now you want us to go over the same old ground again, to patch it up and go on as if we hadn’t had twenty long dreary18 years of it and would give a good deal not to have another.” She stopped and looked at him, smiling curiously19. “Oh! James! My poor dear, you’re such a bore. Try not to be so painfully good; you might even be a little amusing!”
She walked slowly away towards the girls. She passed, with them, down the path.
He picked up the broken pieces of his thoughts and tried to put them slowly together. His first thought of her and of the whole situation was that it was hopeless, perfectly20 hopeless. He had fancied, stupidly, blindly, that his having moved included her moving too, quite without reason, as he now thoroughly21 saw. She was just where they had both been a week ago, she was even, from his neglect of her during these last days, a little farther back; it was harder than ever for her to see in line. His discovery of this affected22 him very little. He was very slightly wounded by the things that she had said to him, and her rejection23 of his advances so finally and completely distressed24 him scarcely at all. As he sat and watched the colours steal mistily25 across the sea he knew that he was too happy at all the discoveries that he was making to mind anything else. He was setting out on an adventure, and if she would not come too it could simply not be helped; it did not in the least alter the adventure’s excitement.
It was even with a new sense of freedom that he went off, late that afternoon, to the town; he was like a boy just out of school. He had no very vivid intention of going anywhere; but lately the town had grown before him so that he loved to stand and watch it, its life and movement, its colour and romance.
He loved, above all, the market-place with its cobbled stones over which rattled26 innumerable little carts, its booths, its quaint27 and delightful chatter28, its old grey tower. It was one of the great features of his new view that places mattered, that, indeed, they were symbols of a great and visible importance; stocks and stones seemed to him now to be possessed29 of such vitality30 that they almost frightened him, they knew so much and had lived so long a time.
The evening light was over the market-place; the sun, peering through a pillar of cloudless blue, cut sharply between the straight walls of the Town Hall and a neighbouring chimney, flung itself full upon the tower.
It caught the stones and shot them with myriad31 lights; it played with the fruit on the stall at the tower’s foot until the apples were red as rubies32 and the oranges shone like gold. It bathed it, caressed33 it, enfolded it, and showed the modern things on every side that old friends were, after all, the best, and that fine feathers did not always make the finest birds.
The rest of the market-place was in shadow, purple in the corners and crevices34, the faintest blue in the higher air, a haze35 of golden-grey in the central square. It was full of people standing36, for the most part, discussing the events of the day; in the corner by the tower there was a Punch and Judy show, and Maradick could hear the shrill37 cries of Mr. Punch rising above the general chatter. Over everything there was a delicious scent38 of all the best things in the world—ripe orchards39, flowering lanes, and the sharp pungent40 breath of the sea; in the golden haze of the evening everything seemed to be waiting, breathlessly, in spite of the noise of voices, for some great moment.
He passed across to the Punch and Judy show, and stood in a corner by the fruit stall under the tower and watched Mr. Punch. That gentleman was in a very bad temper to-night, and he banged with his stick at everything that he could see; poor Judy was in for a bad time, and sank repeatedly beneath the blows which should have slain42 an ox. Toby looked on very indifferently until it was his turn, when he bit furiously at Mr. Punch’s trousers and showed his teeth, and choked in his frill and behaved like a most ferocious43 animal. Then there came the policeman, and Mr. Punch was carried, swearing and cursing, off to prison, but in a moment he was back again, as perky as before, and committing murders at the rate of two a minute.
There was a fat baby, held aloft in its mother’s arms, who watched the proceedings44 with the closest attention; it was intensely serious, its thumb in its mouth, its double chin wrinkling with excitement. Then a smile crept out of its ears and across its cheeks; its mouth opened, and suddenly there came a gurgle of laughter. It crowed with delight, its head fell back on its nurse’s shoulder and its eyes closed with ecstasy45; then, with the coming of Jack46 Ketch and his horrible gallows47, it was solemn once more, and it watched the villain’s miserable48 end with stern approval. There were other babies in the crowd, and bottles had to be swiftly produced in order to stay the cries that came from so sudden an ending. The dying sun danced on Punch’s execution; he dangled49 frantically50 in mid-air, Toby barked furiously, and down came the curtain.
The old lady at the fruit stall had watched the performance with great excitement. She was remarkable51 to look at, and had been in the same place behind the same stall for so many years that people had grown to take her as part of the tower. She wore a red peaked hat, a red skirt, a man’s coat of black velvet52, and black mittens53; her enormous chin pointed54 towards her nose, which was hooked like an eagle; nose and chin so nearly met that it was a miracle how she ever opened her mouth at all. She nodded at Maradick and smiled, whilst her hands clicked her needles together, and a bit of grey stocking grew visibly before his eyes.
“It’s a fine show,” she said, “a fine show, and very true to human nature.” Then suddenly looking past him, she screamed in a voice like the whistle of a train: “A-pples and O-ranges—fine ripe grapes!”
Her voice was so close to his ear that it startled him, but he answered her.
“It is good for the children,” he said, shadowing his eyes with his hand, for the sun was beating in his face.
She leaned towards him and waved a skinny finger. “I ought to know,” she said, “I’ve buried ten, but they always loved the Punch . . . and that’s many a year back.”
How old was she, he wondered? He seemed, in this town, to be continually meeting people who had this quality of youth; Tony, Morelli, Punch, this old woman, they gave one the impression that they would gaily55 go on for ever.
“People live to a good old age here,” he said.
“Ah! it’s a wonderful town,” she said. “There’s nothing like it. . . . Many’s the things I’ve seen, the tower and I.”
“The tower!” said Maradick, looking up at its grey solemnity now flushing with the red light of the sun.
“I’ve been near it since I was a bit of a child,” she said, leaning towards him so that her beak56 of a nose nearly touched his cheek and her red hat towered over him. “We lived by it once, and then I moved under it. We’ve been friends, good friends, but it wants some considering.”
“What wants considering mother?” said a voice, and Maradick turned round; Punch was at his elbow. His show was packed up and leant against the wall; by his side was Toby, evidently pleased with the world in general, for every part of his body was wagging.
“Good evening, sir,” said Punch, smiling from ear to ear. “It’s a beautiful evening—the sea’s like a pome—what wants considering mother? and I think I’ll have an apple, if you don’t mind—one of your rosiest57.”
She chose for him an enormous red one, which with one squeeze of the hand he broke into half. Toby cocked an ear and raised his eyes; he was soon munching58 for his life. “What wants considering mother?” he said again.
“Many things,” she answered him shortly, “and it’ll be tuppence, please.” Her voice rose into a shrill scream—“A-pples and O-ranges and fine ripe grapes.” She sat back in her chair and bent59 over her knitting, she had nothing more to say.
“I’ve been watching your show,” Maradick said, “and enjoyed it more than many a play I’ve seen in town.”
“Yes, it went well to-night,” Punch said, “and there was a new baby. It’s surprisin’ what difference a new baby makes, even Toby notices it.”
“A new baby?” asked Maradick.
“Yes. A baby, you know, that ’asn’t seen the show before, leastways in this world. You can always tell by the way they take it.” Then he added politely, “And I hope you like this town, sir.”
“Enormously,” Maradick answered. “I think it has some quality, something that makes it utterly60 different from anywhere else that I know. There is a feeling——”
He looked across the market-place, and, through the cleft61 between the ebony black of the towering walls, there shone the bluest of evening skies, and across the space floated a pink cushion of a cloud; towards the bend of the green hill on the horizon the sky where the sun was setting was a bed of primroses63. “It is a wonderful place.”
“Ah, I tell you sir,” said Punch, stroking one of Toby’s ears, “there’s no place like it. . . . I’ve been in every town in this kingdom, and some of them are good enough. But this!”
He looked at Maradick a moment and then he said, “Forgive my mentioning it, sir, but you’ve got the feeling of the place; you’ve caught the spirit, as one might say. We watch, folks down here, you strangers up there at the ‘Man at Arms.’ For the most part they miss it altogether. They come for the summer with their boxes and their bags, they bathe in the sea, they drive on the hill, and they’re gone. Lord love you, why they might have been sleepin’.” He spat64 contemptuously.
“But you think that I have it?” said Maradick.
“You’ve got it right enough,” said Punch. “But then you’re a friend of young Mr. Gale’s, and so you couldn’t help having it; ’e’s got it more than anyone I ever knew.”
“And what exactly is—It?” asked Maradick.
“Well, sir,” said Punch, “it’s not exactly easy to put it into words, me bein’ no scholar.” He looked at the old woman, but she was intent over her knitting. The light of the sun had faded from the tower and left it cold and grey against the primrose62 sky. “It’s a kind of Youth; seeing things, you know, all freshly and with a new colour, always caring about things as if you’d met ’em for the first time. It doesn’t come of the asking, and there are places as well as people that ’ave got it. But when a place or a person’s got it, it’s like a match that they go round lighting65 other people’s candles with.” He waved his arm in a comprehensive sweep. “It’s all here, you know, sir, and Mr. Gale’s got it like that . . . ’e’s lit your candle, so to speak, sir, if it isn’t familiar, and now you’ve got to take the consequences.”
“The consequences?” said Maradick.
“Oh, it’s got its dangers,” said Punch, “specially when you take it suddenly; it’s like a fever, you know. And when it comes to a gentleman of your age of life and settled habits, well, it needs watchin’. Oh, there’s the bad and good of it.”
Maradick stared in front of him.
“Well, sir, I must be going,” said Punch. “Excuse me, but I always must be talking. Good night, sir.”
“Good night,” said Maradick. He watched the square, stumpy figure pass, followed by the dog, across the misty66 twilight67 of the market-place. Violet shadows lingered and swept like mysterious creeping figures over the square. He said good night to the old woman and struck up the hill to the hotel.
“Consequence? Good and bad of it?” Anyhow, the man hadn’t expressed it badly. That was his new view, that strange new lightness of vision as though his pack had suddenly been rolled from off his back. He was suddenly enjoying every minute of his life, his candle had been lighted. For a moment there floated across his mind his talk with his wife that afternoon. Well, it could not be helped. If she would not join him he must have his fun alone.
At the top of the hill he met Mrs. Lester. He had seen something of her during the last two days and liked her. She was amusing and vivacious68; she had something of Tony’s quality.
“Hullo, Mr. Maradick,” she cried, “hurrying back like me to dinner? Isn’t it wicked the way that we leave the most beautiful anything for our food?”
“Well, I must confess,” he answered, laughing, “that I never thought of dinner at all. I just turned back because things had, as it were, come to an end. The sun set, you know.”
“I heard it strike seven,” she answered him, “and I said Dinner. Although I was down on the beach watching the most wonderful sea you ever saw, nothing could stop me, and so back I came.”
“Have you been down here before?” he asked her. “To stay, I mean.”
“Oh yes. Fred likes it as well as anywhere else, and I like it a good deal better than most. He doesn’t mind so very much, you know, where he is. He’s always living in his books, and so real places don’t count.” She gave a little sigh. “But they do count with me.”
“I’m enjoying it enormously,” he said, “it’s flinging the years off from me.”
“Oh, I know,” she answered, “but I’m almost afraid of it for that very reason. It’s so very—what shall I say—champagney, that one doesn’t know what one will do next. Sometimes one’s spirits are so high that one positively69 longs to be depressed70. Why, you’d be amazed at some of the things people, quite ordinary respectable people, do when they are down here.”
As they turned in at the gate she stopped and laughed.
“Take care, Mr. Maradick,” she said, “I can see that you are caught in the toils71; it’s very dangerous for us, you know, at our time of life.”
And she left him, laughing.
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收听单词发音
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1
gale
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| n.大风，强风，一阵闹声（尤指笑声等） | |
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motives
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| n.动机，目的( motive的名词复数 ) | |
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sociability
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| n.好交际，社交性，善于交际 | |
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delightful
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| adj.令人高兴的，使人快乐的 | |
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haughtily
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| adv. 傲慢地, 高傲地 | |
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brute
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| n.野兽，兽性 | |
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monotonous
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| adj.单调的，一成不变的，使人厌倦的 | |
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submission
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| n.服从，投降；温顺，谦虚；提出 | |
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momentary
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| adj.片刻的，瞬息的；短暂的 | |
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muddle
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| n.困惑，混浊状态；vt.使混乱，使糊涂，使惊呆；vi.胡乱应付，混乱 | |
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awfully
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| adv.可怕地，非常地，极端地 | |
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extraordinarily
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| adv.格外地；极端地 | |
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recital
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| n.朗诵，独奏会，独唱会 | |
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virtues
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| 美德( virtue的名词复数 )； 德行； 优点； 长处 | |
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tiresome
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| adj.令人疲劳的，令人厌倦的 | |
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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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clenched
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| v.紧握，抓紧，咬紧( clench的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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dreary
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| adj.令人沮丧的，沉闷的，单调乏味的 | |
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curiously
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| adv.有求知欲地；好问地；奇特地 | |
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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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thoroughly
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| adv.完全地，彻底地，十足地 | |
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affected
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| adj.不自然的，假装的 | |
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rejection
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| n.拒绝，被拒，抛弃，被弃 | |
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distressed
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| 痛苦的 | |
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mistily
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| adv.有雾地，朦胧地，不清楚地 | |
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rattled
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| 慌乱的，恼火的 | |
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quaint
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| adj.古雅的，离奇有趣的，奇怪的 | |
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chatter
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| vi.／n.喋喋不休；短促尖叫；(牙齿)打战 | |
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possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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vitality
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| n.活力，生命力，效力 | |
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myriad
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| adj.无数的；n.无数，极大数量 | |
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rubies
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| 红宝石( ruby的名词复数 )； 红宝石色，深红色 | |
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caressed
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| 爱抚或抚摸…( caress的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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crevices
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| n.（尤指岩石的）裂缝，缺口( crevice的名词复数 ) | |
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haze
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| n.霾，烟雾；懵懂，迷糊；vi.(over)变模糊 | |
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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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shrill
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| adj.尖声的；刺耳的；v尖叫 | |
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scent
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| n.气味，香味，香水，线索，嗅觉；v.嗅，发觉 | |
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orchards
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| （通常指围起来的）果园( orchard的名词复数 ) | |
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pungent
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| adj.（气味、味道）刺激性的，辛辣的；尖锐的 | |
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tune
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| n.调子；和谐，协调；v.调音，调节，调整 | |
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slain
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| 杀死，宰杀，杀戮( slay的过去分词 )； (slay的过去分词) | |
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ferocious
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| adj.凶猛的，残暴的，极度的，十分强烈的 | |
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proceedings
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| n.进程，过程，议程；诉讼(程序)；公报 | |
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ecstasy
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| n.狂喜，心醉神怡，入迷 | |
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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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47
gallows
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| n.绞刑架，绞台 | |
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miserable
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| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
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49
dangled
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| 悬吊着( dangle的过去式和过去分词 )； 摆动不定； 用某事物诱惑…； 吊胃口 | |
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frantically
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| ad.发狂地, 发疯地 | |
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51
remarkable
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| adj.显著的，异常的，非凡的，值得注意的 | |
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velvet
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| n.丝绒，天鹅绒；adj.丝绒制的，柔软的 | |
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mittens
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| 不分指手套 | |
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pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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gaily
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| adv.欢乐地，高兴地 | |
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beak
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| n.鸟嘴，茶壶嘴，钩形鼻 | |
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rosiest
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| adj.玫瑰色的( rosy的最高级 )；愉快的；乐观的；一切都称心如意 | |
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munching
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| v.用力咀嚼（某物），大嚼( munch的现在分词 ) | |
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bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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cleft
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| n.裂缝；adj.裂开的 | |
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primrose
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| n.樱草，最佳部分， | |
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primroses
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| n.报春花( primrose的名词复数 )；淡黄色；追求享乐（招至恶果） | |
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spat
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| n.口角，掌击；v.发出呼噜呼噜声 | |
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lighting
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| n.照明，光线的明暗，舞台灯光 | |
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misty
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| adj.雾蒙蒙的，有雾的 | |
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twilight
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| n.暮光，黄昏；暮年，晚期，衰落时期 | |
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vivacious
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| adj.活泼的，快活的 | |
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positively
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| adv.明确地，断然，坚决地；实在，确实 | |
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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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toils
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| 网 | |
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| 欢迎访问英文小说网 |