“Where now?” Antonia asked, wheeling her chestnut1 mare2, as they turned up High Street, Oxford3 City. “I won't go back the same way, Dick!”
“We could have a gallop4 on Port Meadow, cross the Upper River twice, and get home that way; but you 'll be tired.”
Antonia shook her head. Aslant5 her cheek the brim of a straw hat threw a curve of shade, her ear glowed transparent6 in the sun.
A difference had come in their relations since that kiss; outwardly she was the same good comrade, cool and quick. But as before a change one feels the subtle difference in the temper of the wind, so Shelton was affected7 by the inner change in her. He had made a blot8 upon her candour; he had tried to rub it out again, but there was left a mark, and it was ineffaceable. Antonia belonged to the most civilised division of the race most civilised in all the world, whose creed9 is “Let us love and hate, let us work and marry, but let us never give ourselves away; to give ourselves away is to leave a mark, and that is past forgive ness. Let our lives be like our faces, free from every kind of wrinkle, even those of laughter; in this way alone can we be really civilised.”
He felt that she was ruffled10 by a vague discomfort11. That he should give himself away was natural, perhaps, and only made her wonder, but that he should give her the feeling that she had given herself away was a very different thing.
“Do you mind if I just ask at the Bishop's Head for letters?” he said, as they passed the old hotel.
A dirty and thin envelope was brought to him, addressed “Mr. Richard Shelton, Esq.,” in handwriting that was passionately12 clear, as though the writer had put his soul into securing delivery of the letter. It was dated three days back, and, as they rode away, Shelton read as follows:
IMPERIAL PEACOCK HOTEL, FOLKESTONE. MON CHER MONSIEUR SHELTON,
This is already the third time I have taken up pen to write to you, but, having nothing but misfortune to recount, I hesitated, awaiting better days. Indeed, I have been so profoundly discouraged that if I had not thought it my duty to let you know of my fortunes I know not even now if I should have found the necessary spirit. 'Les choses vont de mal en mal'. From what I hear there has never been so bad a season here. Nothing going on. All the same, I am tormented13 by a mob of little matters which bring me not sufficient to support my life. I know not what to do; one thing is certain, in no case shall I return here another year. The patron of this hotel, my good employer, is one of those innumerable specimens14 who do not forge or steal because they have no need, and if they had would lack the courage; who observe the marriage laws because they have been brought up to believe in them, and know that breaking them brings risk and loss of reputation; who do not gamble because they dare not; do not drink because it disagrees with them; go to church because their neighbours go, and to procure15 an appetite for the mid-day meal; commit no murder because, not transgressing16 in any other fashion, they are not obliged. What is there to respect in persons of this sort? Yet they are highly esteemed17, and form three quarters of Society. The rule with these good gentlemen is to shut their eyes, never use their thinking powers, and close the door on all the dogs of life for fear they should get bitten.
Shelton paused, conscious of Antonia's eyes fixed18 on him with the inquiring look that he had come to dread19. In that chilly20 questioning she seemed to say: “I am waiting. I am prepared to be told things—that is, useful things—things that help one to believe without the risk of too much thinking.”
“It's from that young foreigner,” he said; and went on reading to himself.
I have eyes, and here I am; I have a nose 'pour, flairer le humbug21'. I see that amongst the value of things nothing is the equal of “free thought.” Everything else they can take from me, 'on ne pent pas m'oter cela'. I see no future for me here, and certainly should have departed long ago if I had had the money, but, as I have already told you, all that I can do barely suffices to procure me 'de quoi vivre'. 'Je me sens ecceuye'. Do not pay too much attention to my Jeremiads; you know what a pessimist22 I am. 'Je ne perds pas courage'.
LOUIS FERRAND.
He rode with the letter open in his hand, frowning at the curious turmoil25 which Ferrand excited in his heart. It was as though this foreign vagrant26 twanged within him a neglected string, which gave forth27 moans of a mutiny.
“What does he say?” Antonia asked.
Should he show it to her? If he might not, what should he do when they were married?
“I don't quite know,” he said at last; “it 's not particularly cheering.”
“What is he like, Dick—I mean, to look at? Like a gentleman, or what?”
“He looks very well in a frock-coat,” he replied; “his father was a wine merchant.”
“Of course,” she murmured, “I don't want to hear if there's anything I ought not.”
But instead of soothing30 Shelton, these words had just the opposite effect. His conception of the ideal wife was not that of one from whom the half of life must be excluded.
Shelton bit his lips. It was not his fault that half the world was dark. He knew her words were loosed against himself, and, as always at a sign of her displeasure, was afraid. He galloped34 after her on the scorched35 turf.
“What is it?” he said. “You 're angry with me!”
“Oh no!”
“Darling, I can't help it if things are n't cheerful. We have eyes,” he added, quoting from the letter.
Antonia did not look at him; but touched her horse again.
“Well, I don't want to see the gloomy side,” she said, “and I can't see why YOU should. It's wicked to be discontented;” and she galloped off.
It was not his fault if there were a thousand different kinds of men, a thousand different points of view, outside the fence of her experience! “What business,” he thought, digging in his dummy36 spurs, “has our class to patronise? We 're the only people who have n't an idea of what life really means.” Chips of dried turf and dust came flying back, stinging his face. He gained on her, drew almost within reach, then, as though she had been playing with him, was left hopelessly behind.
She stooped under the far hedge, fanning her flushed face with dock-leaves:
“Aha, Dick! I knew you'd never catch me” and she patted the chestnut mare, who turned her blowing muzzle37 with contemptuous humour towards Shelton's steed, while her flanks heaved rapturously, gradually darkening with sweat.
“We'd better take them steadily,” grunted38 Shelton, getting off and loosening his girths, “if we mean to get home at all.”
“Don't be cross, Dick!”
“We oughtn't to have galloped them like this; they 're not in condition. We'd better go home the way we came.”
“There 's no fun in that,” she said. “Out and back again; I hate a dog's walk.”
“Very well,” said Shelton; he would have her longer to himself!
The road led up and up a hill, and from the top a vision of Saxonia lay disclosed in waves of wood and pasture. Their way branched down a gateless glade40, and Shelton sidled closer till his knee touched the mare's off-flank.
Antonia's profile conjured41 up visions. She was youth itself; her eyes so brilliant, and so innocent, her cheeks so glowing, and her brow unruffled; but in her smile and in the setting of her jaw42 lurked43 something resolute44 and mischievous45. Shelton put his hand out to the mare's mane.
“What made you promise to marry me?” he said.
She smiled.
“Well, what made you?”
“I?” cried Shelton.
She slipped her hand over his hand.
“Oh, Dick!” she said.
“I want,” he stammered, “to be everything to you. Do you think I shall?”
“Of course!”
Of course! The words seemed very much or very little.
She looked down at the river, gleaming below the glade in a curving silver line. “Dick, there are such a lot of splendid things that we might do.”
Did she mean, amongst those splendid things, that they might understand each other; or were they fated to pretend to only, in the old time-honoured way?
They crossed the river by a ferry, and rode a long time in silence, while the twilight46 slowly fell behind the aspens. And all the beauty of the evening, with its restless leaves, its grave young moon, and lighted campion flowers, was but a part of her; the scents47, the witchery and shadows, the quaint48 field noises, the yokels49' whistling, and the splash of water-fowl, each seemed to him enchanted50. The flighting bats, the forms of the dim hayricks, and sweet-brier perfume-she summed them all up in herself. The fingermarks had deepened underneath51 her eyes, a languor52 came upon her; it made her the more sweet and youthful. Her shoulders seemed to bear on them the very image of our land—grave and aspiring53, eager yet contained—before there came upon that land the grin of greed, the folds of wealth, the simper of content. Fair, unconscious, free!
And he was silent, with a beating heart.
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1
chestnut
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| n.栗树，栗子 | |
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mare
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| n.母马，母驴 | |
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Oxford
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| n.牛津（英国城市） | |
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gallop
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| v./n.(马或骑马等)飞奔；飞速发展 | |
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aslant
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| adv.倾斜地；adj.斜的 | |
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transparent
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| adj.明显的，无疑的；透明的 | |
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7
affected
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| adj.不自然的，假装的 | |
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8
blot
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| vt.弄脏（用吸墨纸）吸干；n.污点，污渍 | |
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9
creed
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| n.信条；信念，纲领 | |
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ruffled
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| adj. 有褶饰边的, 起皱的 动词ruffle的过去式和过去分词 | |
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discomfort
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| n.不舒服，不安，难过，困难，不方便 | |
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passionately
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| ad.热烈地，激烈地 | |
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tormented
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| 饱受折磨的 | |
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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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procure
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| vt.获得，取得，促成；vi.拉皮条 | |
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transgressing
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| v.超越( transgress的现在分词 )；越过；违反；违背 | |
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esteemed
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| adj.受人尊敬的v.尊敬( esteem的过去式和过去分词 )；敬重；认为；以为 | |
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fixed
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| adj.固定的，不变的，准备好的；(计算机)固定的 | |
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dread
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| vt.担忧，忧虑；惧怕，不敢；n.担忧，畏惧 | |
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chilly
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| adj.凉快的，寒冷的 | |
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humbug
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| n.花招，谎话，欺骗 | |
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pessimist
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| n.悲观者；悲观主义者；厌世 | |
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subscribe
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| vi.(to)订阅，订购；同意；vt.捐助，赞助 | |
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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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turmoil
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| n.骚乱，混乱，动乱 | |
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vagrant
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| n.流浪者，游民；adj.流浪的，漂泊不定的 | |
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forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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stifled
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| （使）窒息， （使）窒闷( stifle的过去式和过去分词 )； 镇压，遏制； 堵 | |
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29
flicked
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| （尤指用手指或手快速地）轻击( flick的过去式和过去分词 )； （用…）轻挥； （快速地）按开关； 向…笑了一下（或瞥了一眼等） | |
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soothing
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| adj.慰藉的；使人宽心的；镇静的 | |
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31
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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touching
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| adj.动人的，使人感伤的 | |
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dismal
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| adj.阴沉的，凄凉的，令人忧郁的，差劲的 | |
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galloped
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| （使马）飞奔，奔驰( gallop的过去式和过去分词 )； 快速做[说]某事 | |
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scorched
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| 烧焦，烤焦( scorch的过去式和过去分词 )； 使（植物）枯萎，把…晒枯； 高速行驶； 枯焦 | |
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dummy
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| n.假的东西；(哄婴儿的)橡皮奶头 | |
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muzzle
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| n.鼻口部；口套；枪(炮)口；vt.使缄默 | |
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38
grunted
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| （猪等）作呼噜声( grunt的过去式和过去分词 )； （指人）发出类似的哼声； 咕哝着说 | |
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reins
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| 感情，激情； 缰( rein的名词复数 )； 控制手段； 掌管； （成人带着幼儿走路以防其走失时用的）保护带 | |
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40
glade
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| n.林间空地，一片表面有草的沼泽低地 | |
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41
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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42
jaw
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| n.颚，颌，说教，流言蜚语；v.喋喋不休，教训 | |
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43
lurked
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| vi.潜伏，埋伏（lurk的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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44
resolute
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| adj.坚决的，果敢的 | |
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45
mischievous
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| adj.调皮的，恶作剧的，有害的，伤人的 | |
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46
twilight
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| n.暮光，黄昏；暮年，晚期，衰落时期 | |
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47
scents
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| n.香水( scent的名词复数 )；气味；（动物的）臭迹；（尤指狗的）嗅觉 | |
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48
quaint
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| adj.古雅的，离奇有趣的，奇怪的 | |
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49
yokels
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| n.乡下佬，土包子( yokel的名词复数 ) | |
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50
enchanted
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| adj. 被施魔法的，陶醉的，入迷的 动词enchant的过去式和过去分词 | |
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51
underneath
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| adj.在...下面，在...底下；adv.在下面 | |
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52
languor
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| n.无精力，倦怠 | |
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53
aspiring
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| adj.有志气的；有抱负的；高耸的v.渴望；追求 | |
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